But really her best defense was that she no longer cared for any of that. She was going as a spectator, to enjoy the show. Even a spectator at the greatest show in England required a touch of town bronze, however, and Laura turned her mind to her toilette. Her toilette soon led her to the mirror to assess her appearance.
She gazed at the reflection of a bemused young lady wearing a slightly ironical smile. She had seen the expression on matrons during that infamous Season, and envied their detachment. When her mother called her hair a haystack, she referred to its style, not its color. It was a deep chestnut, but it did sit rather amorphously on her head. Its natural curl was hard to control at its present length. She would have a London coiffeur do it a la cheribime, with short curls playing wantonly about her forehead and ears.
Her eyes were not possible of changing. Eyes were eyes, hazel and not squinty or crossed in her case. That smattering of freckles across her nose must be bleached away by lemon juice. As she matured, the bone structure of her face became more prominent, showing high cheekbones and a strong chin. She meant to carry that chin in the air, to show her disdain. Her slender figure would be best enhanced by more sophisticated gowns than a deb wore. Bows and ruffles had never become her. As this was not her first Season, she need not limit herself to maidenly white.
Some vestige of excitement began to coil in her. The humiliation of her first Season had never been quite laid to rest. Perhaps this was her chance to squash it.
Over the next weeks, life became a busy round of studying fashion magazines, searching out materials and patterns, dashing to Andover to consult with Madame LaRue, and writing letters to Cornwall to confer with Hettie Traemore in preparation for the trip. Hettie and Olivia would stop at Whitchurch en route to London to pick up the Harwoods. Laura suggested going to London at least a week before the Season opened, to begin preparations. Her greatest regret was that she had not a single friend from her first Season to look up. The few girls she had known more than superficially had all made good but not grand marriages and moved back to the provinces. They had corresponded for a year; then as their families began to grow, the letters waned and finally stopped.
Laura decided that was all to the good. There would be no reminders of her former disgrace. She would begin this Season with a clean slate. The ace in her hand was that her expectations were not high. So long as Olivia made a good match, the Season would be called a success. And there was not a doubt in the world that Baroness Pilmore could have her pick of the partis.
Chapter Two
It was early in April when the baroness and her chaperone drew up to Oakdene in a grand but antiquated and extremely dusty traveling carriage. It was a berlin, dating from the middle of the previous century, with small wheels in front, larger ones behind. Its roof was a green leather dome, the doors mahogany with gilt panels trimmed in pink flowers. Venetian shutters at the windows were drawn to block out the sun. At the front was the driver's seat, looking for the world like a giant man's boot, turned up at the toe.
The whole contraption was so enormous and so stoutly built that the six hardy nags harnessed to it were puffing from exertion. It belonged in a museum, and the only possible reaction was to laugh, until Laura recalled that it was she who would have to drive through London inside it. Well, at least it had those shutters to hide her shame.
"Oh, dear, what on earth is that?" her mama said weakly. "It looks like a small mansion on wheels."
Laura peered with the keenest interest through the saloon window to see what sort of appearance the ladies made. When at last the step was drawn down and the ladies descended, they were seen to look at home to a peg in their baroque chariot. Hettie Traemore was wrapped up in a black cape with a nest of burgundy feathers covering her head like a bowl. Olivia wore a green traveling suit, brilliant as new grass, heavily epauletted with gold trim and many brass buttons. Her bonnet was similar to her aunt's, but smaller. She had grown into a large girl, approximately five feet and nine inches. She walked at an awkward gait, gazing all around and up at the house as she advanced. The host of admirers Laura had been imagining mentally evaporated.
Laura feared the baroness would need every ounce of her tin and every guinea of her dowry to attach even a modest parti. She took heart when Olivia was actually before her, with her bonnet removed. Her tousled red curls were not unattractive. Aside from the freckles, her face was quite pretty. A pair of dancing blue eyes spoke of a cheerful disposition, and her curtsey was a model of grace.
Olivia looked up and said, "Did I do it right? Mademoiselle Dupre has been giving me lessons."
"Very elegant," Laura replied.
There was no grace in Hettie Traemore. She moved with the labored steps of an invalid, putting her weight on a black thorn walking stick. "What a trip," she sighed. "You must marry a London gentleman, Livvie, and let him take you home, for I cannot even think of driving all the way back to Cornwall." Her sallow face looked haggard. Under her eyes, purple smudges spoke of sleepless nights.
The ladies were led to the saloon, where they gratefully sunk on to the sofa. "I would give my eye tooth for a nice cup of tea," Hettie sighed.
Tea was brought, and while it was drunk, the visitors sang the praises of their carriage. They didn't know how they could have made such a journey without it. "How anyone can endure being tossed about in those light barouches and landaux is beyond me," Mrs. Traemore said. "Our berlin sits the road very well, does it not, Livvie?"
"Oh, yes. It has four leather springs, which make it impossible to overturn. When that driver became impatient at Taunton and tried to pass us, it was his carriage that overturned. There was not room on the road for two carriages. We cannot travel so quickly as the lighter carriages-only six miles an hour-but we are perfectly safe and excessively comfortable."
Laura foresaw a wearying trip, if they were to block the busy road to London with a pace of six miles an hour. The carriage might not be dangerous, but the wrath of fellow travelers might quite possibly put their lives in peril.
"Are you looking forward to your presentation, dear?" Mrs. Harwood inquired of Olivia.
"Indeed I am. I am all atremble to think of meeting the queen."
Her naivete in granting frumpy old Queen Charlotte top priority was further evidence of just how far Cornwall was from London.
"But you will enjoy the balls and parties," Laura said.
"I have got a dozen gowns made up. You will tell me whether they need more trim, cousin," she replied, "for of course you know all about London. Is it true they party all day long?"
"They trot pretty hard at the height of the Season," she replied vaguely.
Olivia's eyes shone with excitement. "I want to see the horses at Astley's Circus, and the animals at Exeter Exchange."
These treats at least did not require an escort, and they were promised.
Mrs. Traemore required three days of rest before she could be persuaded to continue the journey. During that time, Olivia never left Laura's heels. She trotted after her like a puppy, asking questions, and volunteering information about her own life, which appeared to consist of riding and taking assorted lessons to prepare her for her debut. She was such a good-natured child that Laura soon grew fond of her. One could certainly not say that her title and fortune had gone to her head. She put on no airs, nor did she apologize for her rusticity.
"I have never walked out with a gentleman. In fact, I have never been alone with one. If anyone tries to kiss me, I shall land him a facer," she confided one evening after dinner. "Would that be considered farouche, cousin?"
"Not so farouche as a gentleman trying to kiss you. You would do quite right to-er-land him a facer, but perhaps you ought not to use the language of grooms when you are in London."