Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(48)

I must come to the point of this letter, which is already very long and will probably bore you to tears. Though we have never been boring to each other, have we? Anyway . . . I heard this morning from the Earl of Riverdale, Cousin Alexander, that my half sisters have indeed gone to Bath to live with their grandmother, Mrs. Kingsley. Their mother has gone with them, though I do not believe she intends to stay. The letter I sent to Hinsford Manor in Hampshire, inviting them, even pleading with them, to stay and consider it their home for the rest of their lives if they wished, was not answered. Young Harry, my half brother, went to see them but only very briefly. He has a commission in a foot regiment and is to join it shortly. He refused my offer to share my fortune but did explain that it was our father’s money he was rejecting, not me. I can understand that, though it breaks my heart that my attempts to share have been spurned.

Anyway, to come at last to the real purpose of this letter (will this woman never get to the point, you must be muttering between your teeth). Can you discover where Mrs. Kingsley lives and somehow keep an eye upon my sisters? I really do not know quite what I am asking, but you see, they are no longer Lady Camille and Lady Abigail Westcott. They are merely the Misses Westcott, natural daughters of the late Earl of Riverdale. I am not sure how Bath society will take to them. Will it shun them? Much, I suppose, depends upon the influence wielded by their grandmother—or upon their own attitude. My heart is heavy for them. I do not know them at all. Camille, the elder of the two, was very unpleasant during that horrid first meeting with Mr. Brumford. She was haughty and rude and overbearing. But I hardly saw her under the most auspicious circumstances, did I? And oh dear, the very next day her betrothed jilted her because of her illegitimacy. I wish violence upon his person. Shocking, indeed, but I think I really do. How dare he break my sister’s heart!

I still wish I could come home. I believe I would too if I had not put temptation out of the question when I brought Bertha here. She is exuberantly happy. She asked me yesterday if she could possibly have her half day off on Saturday instead of Tuesday as assigned by the housekeeper, because Oliver’s half day is on Saturday. I said yes, of course, and she is in transports of delight at being able to report that they are officially walking out together.

And there—I changed the subject and never did get around to saying exactly what I am asking of you. I do not know! But oh dear, Joel, can you possibly, possibly keep an eye upon my sisters? I do not know them and I probably never will, but I love them. How ridiculous is that? At least keep me informed if you possibly can. Are they social outcasts, or are they making some sort of new life for themselves? The end of another page is coming up fast, and I must not start another. Know yourself

the dearest friend in the whole world of

Anna Snow

P.S. Forgot to thank you for your lovely news-filled letter. Consider yourself profusely thanked. Out of space. A.S.

*

It had indeed been decided among the powers that be, namely Anna’s aunts and grandmother, that her first official appearance in society would be at the theater, in the duke’s private box, where she would be seen by a large number of the people who were now avidly eager to meet her but would not be called upon to mingle with them to any great degree. She still had much to learn, apparently, about polite behavior and who was who among the ton.

Anna had never watched a live dramatic performance, though there were theaters in Bath. She looked forward to doing so now, especially as she had read and enjoyed the play in question, Sheridan’s The School for Scandal. It would not have occurred to her to be nervous if everyone else had not told her that she must be—even Elizabeth.

“You will probably find it a bit of an ordeal, Anna,” she said during an early dinner on the evening of the performance. “Watching the play onstage is the least important reason for attending the theater, you know.”

Anna looked at her and laughed. “No, I do not know,” she said. “What else is there?”

“There are tiers of boxes,” Elizabeth explained, her eyes bright with merriment, “filled with the crème de la crème of society, and the floor or pit, which is occupied mostly by gentlemen. And everyone is out to ogle everyone else, to observe and comment upon gowns and cravats and jewels and hairstyles and the newest pairings and flirtations and courtships. The gentlemen in the pit gaze up upon the ladies, and the ladies, highly offended, gaze down upon the gentlemen from behind their fluttering fans. Half of society marriages are probably conceived at the theater.”

“Oh dear,” Anna said. “And the other half?”

“In the ballroom, of course,” her cousin said. “London during the Season is known as the great marriage mart.”

“Oh dear,” Anna said again.

Bertha had helped Anna into her turquoise evening dress, which seemed very grand to both of them as it shimmered in the light and flattered Anna’s figure with its expertly fitted bodice and softly flowing skirt, despite the modest simplicity of its design and lack of ornament. Bertha had set to work on her hair, brushing it until it shone and then twisting it into a knot high on the back of her head before curling the long tendrils she had left free to trail along her neck and over her ears and temples. She had been learning diligently from Elizabeth’s maid.

“Ooh, it looks ever so nice, Miss Snow,” she had said immodestly as she stood back to assess her handiwork. “All you need now is a prince.”