the course of the morning, a bewildering collection of gowns was selected for Sophia. Isabella was glad she had taken pains to ensure that there was no mention whatever of price, for it was vital that Sophia’s feckless parents should not find out how much was being spent on their eldest daughter. What little they had was devoted to educating their five sons—and paying their debts. They did not seem to care that Sophia and her sisters were destined to become penniless old maids. As a spinster herself, Isabella had determined that Sophia, at least, should have the best possible chance of making a good match. And she was quite prepared to conceal the expense of the Season from Sophia’s stiff-necked parents, knowing that they would welcome a wealthy suitor with open arms.
‘And for you, Miss Winstanley,’ urged Madame, ‘I have just received the most beautiful jade-green silk shot with gold. With your colouring, it would make an exquisite ball-gown.’ With an imperious wave of the hand, she dispatched a hovering attendant to fetch the bolt of cloth.
The jade and gold silk was irresistible. ‘With a lighter green underdress, mademoiselle, in this aquamarine satin, to bring out the colour of the silk…and then a gold gauze scarf for your arms.’ Madame was sketching rapidly. ‘We will fashion a special ornament for your hair too, I think, to pick up the greens of the gown and of your eyes. It will look ravishing, I assure you.’
‘Isabella, it is too beautiful for words. You must have it, truly.’
Isabella yielded. She knew just how well the gown would become her. Partly as a result of Madame’s beautiful creations, Isabella Winstanley could hold her own among the best-dressed women in London. She was now wearing a carriage dress of emerald green, with a jaunty little hat of the same colour perched on top of her honey-gold curls. Even though Sophia’s dark colouring was the prevailing fashion, it was Isabella’s striking looks that had drawn every eye since their arrival in London.
Isabella was laughing gently with Sophia as they emerged to return to their carriage. Sophia, concentrating on their conversation, failed to notice a gentleman in her path and almost collided with him.
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ she began. ‘Why, it is Mr Lewiston! Oh!’ Her face was suffused with the deepest blush, and she began to stammer uncertainly, ‘I…I had not thought…to see you in London. I…’ Her voice trailed off; she was unable to utter another word.
Mr Lewiston saved her, at least for the moment. ‘Miss Winstanley, how delightful to meet you again. I cannot think how I was so remiss as to fail to ask you for your direction in London. I hope you will permit me to call?’
Sophia had no choice but to acquiesce. ‘I am staying in Hill Street with my godmother, Lady Wycham,’ she said. ‘I am sure she would be delighted to meet you.’
‘And would you do me the honour of making me known to your companion?’ asked Mr Lewiston, casting an appreciative glance at Isabella.
‘Com…companion?’ stuttered Sophia, suddenly ashen.
‘I do not think I have been introduced to this lady,’ said Mr Lewiston patiently, ignoring Sophia’s apparent want of wits.
Isabella intervened to save the situation. She extended her hand, noting with satisfaction how steady it was. ‘I am Isabella Winstanley, Mr Lewiston, a distant cousin of Sophia’s. Lady Wycham would welcome a chance to meet you, I am sure. We have heard about your chivalrous rescue of Sophia in the north.’
It was Mr Lewiston’s turn to stammer as they shook hands. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I…I did nothing more than any gentleman would have done for a lady in distress, I assure you.’ Recovering his composure, he continued gamely, addressing Sophia once more, ‘I shall call tomorrow, if I may?’
Sophia answered with a smile and a slight nod. She was still incapable of speech. With an elegant bow, Mr Lewiston handed them into the carriage and stood watching as they drove off.
Sophia sank into the cushions, as far as possible from the window. She had turned extremely pale. She sank her head into her hands, pushing her modish new bonnet askew in the process, and began to sob weakly.
Isabella, too, was a little pale, but she despised such missish behaviour. Her keen intellect was busy searching for a solution to their dilemma. Mr Lewiston had not recognised her, she was certain. If she was careful both in her appearance and her behaviour, she could continue to dupe him. She could not afford to fail.
‘Do not distress yourself, Sophia,’ she said firmly, grasping Sophia’s shoulder and giving her a tiny shake. ‘He did not know me. Nor will he, if we are careful. I shall continue to act as though he and I had just met, and so shall you. If he should ask after your “companion”—though I dare swear he will not so lower himself—you will say that she is with her family.’
‘Oh, I could not,’ protested Sophia, trying to dry her tears with a scrap of lace. ‘I have not your talent for acting a part. Pray do not ask me to, Winny.’ Her voice was quavering; the tears threatened once more.
‘But I require you to,’ replied Isabella resolutely, giving Sophia a stern look, which stopped the gathering tears immediately. ‘Remember, Sophia—what I am asking you to say is no more than the exact truth. “Winny” is with her family.’ Isabella softened her gaze with a slight smile as she continued. ‘However, you must now cease to call me by that name. It would certainly betray us.’
They did not have much time to reflect on the possible horrors of the forthcoming visit from Mr Lewiston, because they were preoccupied with the preparations for Sophia’s first party—Lady Bridge’s soirée—that very evening. Although London was as yet quite thin of company, Isabella had judged it wise to allow Sophia to make some acquaintances at a few small gatherings, before launching her into her first grand occasion.
For this first party, Sophia chose the prettiest of the evening gowns she had brought from Yorkshire. None of Madame Florette’s creations could arrive for some days yet, however many seamstresses she might set to work on them. But Sophia’s home-made gown would by no means disgrace her, since she possessed real skill both in cutting and in stitching.
‘Thank you so much for lending me your pearls,’ said Sophia, as soon as she joined Isabella in the hall.
‘You look lovely,’ replied Isabella warmly. ‘Pink does indeed become you.’
‘While you look quite beautiful,’ responded Sophia promptly, casting admiring glances at Isabella’s classical gown of old-gold silk, and the necklace and earrings of intricate gold filigree. ‘You look like a princess from a fairy-tale.’
Secretly pleased, Isabella thanked her cousin demurely. ‘But you should not say such things, you know. At my age, I am more likely to be the wicked witch than the good fairy.’
‘Nonsense,’ chimed in an older voice. ‘You do yourself an injustice, as ever, Isabella. You look very well indeed, my dear.’
‘Oh, Aunt,’ protested Isabella. ‘How can I retain my countenance, if both of you put me to the blush?’
Lady Wycham ignored that protest completely. ‘Come, my dears, the carriage is waiting.’ The elderly lady, clad in imposing purple and leaning lightly on an ebony cane, led the way to the steps.
Barely ten minutes after their arrival, Sophia was chattering gaily with their host’s two nieces, while the hostess herself was seated by Lady Wycham, enjoying a comfortable coze.
‘Will you favour us with some music, my
