while Octavia put Poppy in her basket. ‘I shall, Lady Octavia. I understand from your mama that lots of people will be coming. Now come along. Into bed with you and go to sleep, otherwise you will be too tired to enjoy the party. When you wake you’ll be ready for your bath. I’ll lay out your prettiest party dress—the rose brocade with raised pink rosebuds you like so well. You’ll be the prettiest young lady at the party.’
‘What are you going to wear? Will it be as pretty as my dress?’
‘No, Lady Octavia. I have nothing as pretty as that. I don’t know what I’m going to wear. I haven’t decided.’
Jane tucked the bedclothes around Octavia as she closed her eyes and in no time at all she was asleep. She sat on the bed for a moment, looking down at her young charge. Octavia looked adorable with her curling blonde hair rumpled and falling over her brow, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming softly through her parted lips.
* * *
What to wear for Lady Lansbury’s birthday party was proving a headache for Jane. It wasn’t something that usually concerned her since she was never invited to parties and the like where the guests were made up of fashionable ladies and gentlemen.
Miss Spelling would make her appearance beside Lord Lansbury. Try as she might not to dwell on this, Jane could think of nothing else and would make an extra effort with her appearance. When she tried to picture this unknown American heiress, she was beset with apprehension and a sharp twinge of jealousy—a feeling totally alien to her until now and she rebuked herself for it—all the greater because she had no right to such feelings when Lord Lansbury was going to marry someone else.
A lovely wise old lady she had met in India had told her that whenever a special event occurred, one must cover oneself in silks and perfumes to make one feel secure in one’s own being. To do this would send out whatever messages one wished from this simple subtlety.
Jane had taken this advice to heart, but ruefully she thought how simple that advice would be to follow if one looked like some of the fashionable beauties she had seen in London. At twenty-one years old she was capable of self-analysis and knew it would take more than silks and perfumes to stave off the disharmony she felt for herself. She chided herself for not purchasing some new clothes on her arrival in London. Aunt Caroline, eyeing her out-of-date gowns with distaste, had suggested taking her shopping, but Jane had put it off, telling her she would think about it later. She now had cause to regret not doing so.
Looking through her much-travelled battered old trunk, she drew out a brilliantly hued gown of sapphire silk. It was far more elaborate than her usual day dresses and she was sure it would be suitable for the party. The style was perhaps a little old-fashioned and would not flatter her figure, but it was certainly eye-catching.
The colour glowed and gleamed in the light as though it had a life of its own as she slid the sensuous fabric over her bare shoulders and felt its caress against her skin. The ripples of silk rustled very softly, enticing and provocative. The neckline was modest, the sleeves to the elbow trimmed with the finest lace. The tightly sashed waist and billowing skirt with its layers of supporting underskirts accentuated the feminine shape of her body.
She felt the aura of the old lady very strongly as she twisted this way and that in front of the mirror, assessing herself as never before, as if through someone else’s eyes—Christopher Chalfont’s eyes.
* * *
When Octavia saw her she gasped with delight, reaching out to lightly finger the fine silk.
‘Oh, you look so pretty, Miss Jane. So pretty.’
‘Do I, Lady Octavia?’ Jane asked, looking back at the mirror and frowning slightly as if that image of herself were not quite what she had expected to see.
‘It’s a lovely dress.’
‘This is a very special gown, Lady Octavia. It’s travelled with me all the way from India.’
‘India was where you lived, wasn’t it?’
Jane tilted the child’s face up to hers and smiled fondly. ‘Yes, I told you all about, it if you remember. It’s a country far, far away. Now, I think we had best present ourselves to your mama, don’t you? We mustn’t be late for her party.’
* * *
With Octavia, Jane left their rooms and walked along a wide passage crossing the width of the house. They passed bedrooms and drawing rooms, dining rooms and studies. The Great Gallery was a room of tremendous proportions and a hushed church-like atmosphere. Its floor was of polished oak and its walls supported a huge vaulted ceiling of decorative plaster. Set in rows along the walls were the family paintings, many larger than life and all housed in elaborately gilded frames. They gave the impression to anyone entering the gallery that they were stepping into the presence of nobility.
The afternoon was warm and sunny. Lady Lansbury had opted to have her birthday party on Chalfont’s magnificent lawns, where tables beneath parasols had been set out for the guests. Footmen were on hand to assist an enthusiastic stream of guests from their carriages and see that the vehicles and horses were taken around to the stables.
Beneath a red-and-white-striped awning, trestle tables covered with pristine white tablecloths were laden with a magnificent array of food—every delicacy which was considered necessary to tempt the appetite: pâté, lobster, all manner of succulent meats, pies and jellies, bottles of hock and claret, bowls of punch and fortified wine for the ladies. A large complement of servants flitted about to wait on the guests’ every fancy.
It was quite a spectacle for Jane when she stepped out of the glass doors which opened on to a broad terrace. Octavia in her pretty pink dress, her pretty bonnet held in place by a wide band of embroidered pink ribbon loosely knotted under her chin, held her hand tightly, an anxious look in her eyes. Jane knew she was always uneasy when in the company of so many people and she had promised not to leave her side for a moment.
The scene that confronted them was a kaleidoscope of colour. The gardens were ablaze with blossoms and islands of rhododendrons and azaleas, the air heady with the sweet fragrance of magnolia. Hanging flowers and a profusion of roses and laburnum climbed and trailed over a covered walkway. Elegant sculptures were set against dark green yew trees and an Italian fountain discharged water into a giant lily pond.
Rising above all this was Chalfont House, standing like a magnificent work of art, the brilliantly lit stained-glass windows of the seventeenth century glinting as they caught the sun. The effect was stunning.
Set against this background of unashamed opulence, the lawns and terraces were swarming with titled, wealthy and influential guests, their beautiful gowns, jackets, bonnets and parasols competing with the flower-filled beds. Lady Lansbury presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of eau-de-Nil shot silk with a matching turban trimmed with plumes of a moderate height.
Into this select assembly the proud figure of Lydia Spelling stepped on to the high terrace to make her grand entrance. This was the first time Jane had seen her close up and her heart sank at the exquisite picture of fashionable sophistication she made.
Miss Spelling was sandwiched between the Earl of Lansbury and her father, a short, portly man with mutton-chop whiskers, his face carved in hard lines. With her dark hair perfectly coiffed beneath a plume of tantalising white feathers, and a fitted, high-necked jacket of quilted deep-rose satin that hugged her body and accentuated the full swell of her breasts, Lydia Spelling’s appearance was dramatic and could not be faulted. She was not beautiful, or even pretty,
