Cotillion

It was while they were awaiting their turn to be served at one of the counters that Kitty’s eyes alighted on the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. She could not help staring, for such gleaming golden ringlets, such deep blue eyes, so exquisite a complexion seemed to belong rather to a fairytale than to a stuffy and overcrowded shop. The child—for she did not look to be much more—was very elegantly dressed, in a swansdown-trimmed bonnet and pelisse of blue velvet that almost exactly matched her big eyes. From the wide, upstanding brim of her bonnet to the heels of her velvet half-boots all was perfection, except her expression. This was disconsolate, even a little scared. A stylishly gowned woman, who was turning over a pile of muslins on the counter, spoke to her, and, when she did not hear, spoke again, sharply, causing her to give a nervous start.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Olivia, can you not pay attention?’ the elder woman said, in a scolding tone. ‘How many times am I to tell you that these dawdling and languid airs of yours will not do? I am sure I may wear myself out, buying dresses for you, for anything you care, or any thanks I may get for it! Nothing is so disagreeable in a girl as that stupid sort of indifference, and so you will find!’

The girl flushed, and murmured something Kitty could not hear. She bent over the muslins, but apparently the choice she would have made did not suit her companion’s notions, for Kitty heard the sharp voice say: ‘Nonsense—quite unsuitable! You have not the least notion! You put me out of all patience with you!’

The girl stepped back again, and, making room for a stout matron to pass, brushed against Kitty. She looked round, begging pardon, in a shy, childish voice, and Kitty said at once: ‘It is dreadfully crowded, isn’t it? Is it always so?’

‘Oh, yes!’ sighed the girl. ‘And Bedford House is worse!’

‘I haven’t been there. This is my first visit to London. Do you live here?’

‘Yes—no! I mean, we used not to do so. I am just out, you see, so Mama has brought me to town.’

‘Why, it is the same—almost—in my own case! I have been shopping all the morning, and my head is in a whirl. It is all so big, and there is so much to see!’

‘Do you dislike shopping?’ asked the girl sympathetically.

‘Gracious, no! I never enjoyed myself so much in my life, I think! Do you dislike it?’

‘I liked it at first—having pretty dresses, and hats—but it is so tiring, standing still for hours, while they pin things round me! And being scolded for fidgeting, or tearing a flounce, or letting my best hat be spoilt in the rain.’

The older woman, hearing her voice, had turned her head, and was keenly scrutinizing Kitty, in an appraising way which made Kitty feel that the cost of her clothing was being assessed to a halfpenny. She summoned the girl back to her side, but just at that moment Meg, who had been inspecting some Indian muslin handkerchiefs, looked round, and said: ‘My dear Kitty, do you think these pretty? Only three shillings and sixpence each! I have a very good mind to buy some.’

The stylish woman stared very hard at her for an instant, and then, suddenly smiling with the utmost affability, spoke to the fair beauty in quite another voice, saying: ‘I did not perceive that you were engaged, my love! I only wished you to say whether you like this sprig-muslin.’ She then bestowed the smile upon Kitty, and added archly: ‘Has my daughter been telling you that she thinks shopping a dead bore? Such a naughty puss as she is, aren’t you, pet?’

She glanced at Meg, as she spoke. Meg was looking enquiringly from Olivia to Kitty, and was considerably taken-aback to find herself suddenly addressed.

‘Good gracious! Lady Buckhaven, is it not? How do you do? I dare not hope that your ladyship recollects!—Mrs Broughty—I had the honour of meeting you at—lord, I shall forget my own name next, I daresay! I fancy you are acquainted with my cousin, Lady Batterstown. Dear Albinia! the sweetest creature! Your ladyship must allow me to present my daughter!’

This was uttered with such a gush of friendliness that Meg, not quite so well-experienced in the ways of the world as she thought herself, was rather overwhelmed. She was certainly acquainted with Lady Batterstown, but she felt sure that she had never before encountered Mrs Broughty. But although she felt that Lady Legerwood, easy-going though she was, would unhesitatingly have depressed Mrs Broughty’s pretensions, she found herself to be quite unable to do so. It seemed, moreover, that Kitty was acquainted with Mis

s Broughty: she had certainly been chatting to her, and it appeared that she regarded her with approval. Mrs Broughty, voluble, and wonderfully assured, was talking of Kitty as though she knew her well, dexterously coupling her with Olivia, rallying both girls on their lack of interest in humdrum shopping, and saying that they must not be allowed to chatter to one another now, but might perhaps meet one day soon. She contrived to tell Meg that she was staying in Hans Crescent—quite out of the world, dear Lady Buckhaven would say!—and even to extort from Meg, stunned by this ruthless eloquence, the expression of a hope that they might become better acquainted. By this time her parcel had been made up, and she was obliged to move away from the counter. While she was taking leave of Meg, at much greater length than the circumstances warranted, Olivia, who had been standing all the time with downcast eyes, and heightened colour, glanced fleetingly into Kitty’s face, and said in a low, unhappy voice: ‘Pray, forgive—! I mean—I daresay we shan’t meet again! I should not wish—’

Kitty interrupted impulsively: ‘Indeed, I hope we may!’

Miss Broughty clasped her hand gratefully. ‘Thank you! You are very good! I wish very much—You see, I have not any friends in London! Not female friends! Oh, Mama is waiting for me! I must go! Goodbye!—so happy to—!’

The sentence was left in mid-air; a tiny curtsy was dropped to Meg; and Olivia followed her mother towards the door.

‘Well!’ said Meg. ‘Kitty, who in the world are they? How do you come to know them?’

‘But I don’t!’ Kitty replied. ‘I fell into conversation with Miss Broughty, but it was the merest nothing!’

‘Good God, I thought they must be friends of yours! Odious, pushing woman! I wish I had given her a set-down! Depend upon it, if I see her again she will claim me as a friend of long-standing! I can’t conceive how Lady Batterstown comes to have such a vulgar cousin, and I am positive she never introduced her to me.’

‘Oh, dear, I am very sorry if I have got you into a scrape!’ Kitty said penitently. ‘But I felt so much pity for Miss Broughty—I had been watching her, you know, thinking how beautiful she was, and that horrid woman spoke to her in such a way, and she looked frightened, and unhappy! And then I could see she was so much mortified by her mother’s manners that I could not but assure her that I should be happy to meet her again. Meg, did you ever behold a lovelier girl? She was like a fairy princess!’

‘I suppose she was very pretty,’ acknowledged Meg. ‘If her hair is naturally that colour, which Mrs Broughty’s is not!’

Kitty could not allow the colour of Miss Broughty’s hair to be called in question, and was about to defend it when the assistant behind the counter providentially intervened, desiring to be told Meg’s pleasure. The Broughtys were forgotten in the more absorbing business of deciding between a figured and a checked muslin.

Both ladies were considerably fatigued by the time they reached Berkeley Square, but there were so many parcels and bandboxes piled on the seat before them that it was to be supposed that their labours had been successful. The footman carried them all into the house; and if Skelton, the austere butler, was surprised at his mistress’s returning to her home with bandboxes bearing the name of a far from modish shop on their lids he was much too well-trained to betray it.

The Buckhaven mansion was a large one, and furnished with a mixture of old and new taste, Meg having been unable, so far, to persuade her lord to replace all the antiquated chairs and tables which her predecessors had acquired. She conducted Kitty at once to a comfortable bedchamber, where a fire burned brightly in a modern grate, and a sofa, drawn up before it, invited repose. Someone had unpacked Kitty’s trunk, and had laid out her dressing-gown. Meg recommended her to lie down upon the sofa for an hour, begged her to ring the bell if she desired anything to be brought to her, and tripped away to rest on her bed, in accordance, she told Kitty, with her doctor’s advice.

Remembering that she was in a delicate situation, Kitty hoped very much that the day’s shopping had not dangerously exhausted her. She herself was quite tired out, and had no sooner leaned her head back against the sofa-cushions than she fell asleep. She awoke to a room lit only by the glow from the fire, and started up, wondering for how long she had been asleep. A knock on the door was followed by the cautious entrance of her hostess, who exclaimed in the voice of one by no means exhausted: ‘Oh, you have not rung for candles! Were you asleep? Did I wake you? I beg your pardon, but pray come to my dressing-room, Kitty! Mallow is there, and we have been looking out some things which I never wear, and perhaps you might like! You won’t be offended? We shall be sisters, you know, and how stupid to stand upon ceremony! Do come!’

Kitty could only thank her, and be glad that there was not light enough in the room for Meg to perceive her blushes. Almost she wished that the Standens had repulsed her, rather than have sunk her so deep in conscious guilt by their kindness. But the complications attaching to a belated confession were too numerous to be faced; lingering only long enough to allow her cheeks to cool, she followed Meg down one pair of stairs to her dressing-room. And here she found so many elegant things laid out for her inspection that she could scarcely be blamed for forgetting that she was an impostor. Meg’s dresser, a middle-aged woman who had for many years been employed in the Standen family, knew all about Mr Penicuik, and so saw nothing remarkable, or worthy of her contempt, in Miss Charing’s straitened circumstances. A little to Meg’s surprise, she had thrown herself heart and soul into the task of deciding which of her mistress’s gowns, and hats, and shawls could best be spared from her overflowing wardrobe. The modish Lady Buckhaven was not to know that her dresser, deep in Lady Legerwood’s confidence, was at her wits’ end to know how to restrain her dashing but inexperienced employer from appearing in public in garments which, however fashionable they might be, were quite unsuited to her fair prettiness. One glance at Miss Charing was enough to assure her that the greens and the ambers and the rich reds which Lady Buckhaven had so recklessly bought would admirably become this dark damsel. In her anxiety to be rid of garments the wearing of which by Meg would surely draw down upon her dresser’s head reproaches from Lady Legerwood, she even offered to make such slight alterations as might be necessary to adapt them to Miss Charing’s fuller figure. When Miss Charing shrank from accepting an opulent evening-cloak of cherry-red velvet, ruched and braided, and lined with satin, she contrived to draw her a little aside, and to whisper in her ear: ‘Take it, miss! My lady—Lady Legerwood, I mean!—will be so very much obliged to you! Miss Margaret—Lady Buckhaven, I should say!—should never wear cherry!’