The Officer and the Proper Lady

Julia jerked her wandering attention back from Major Carlow and opened her reticule. ‘Mama’s card, ma’am.’ Lady Geraldine was hardly likely to call on the Tresilians, although Mama would want to write and thank her for her help.

‘A good address,’ Lady Geraldine observed.

‘I know. We were lucky to arrive before the rush.’

‘Indeed you were. After all, the Richmonds have had to settle for that barn of a place on Rue de la Blanchisserie in the Lower Town.’ Something in her lady ship’s smile hinted that she was not over-fond of the Duchess of Richmond. ‘When does Mrs Tresilian receive?’ Goodness, she did intend to call! ‘Between two and four on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thurs days, ma’am.’ But their usual callers were modestly circumstanced people such as themselves, not Society ladies. ‘Thank you for the tea, and for lending me countenance, Lady Geraldine. I must take Philip home.’ Julia gathered up her reticule and her scattered wits and shook the proffered hand in its tight kid glove.

‘Will we meet the major again?’ Phillip demanded, as they left the Parc and negotiated the crowd outside the Duke of Wellington’s house. ‘I liked him.’

So did I… ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Julia said. ‘But he had a lovely uniform: you must tell Mama all about it.’

‘And a great big sword for killing Boney with,’ Phillip said with a blood thirsty chuckle, dancing off down the pavement swinging an imaginary weapon. Julia followed, suddenly sombre.

Chapter Two

Two days later, Lady Geraldine duly called and was received by Mrs Tresilian and Julia, Phillip having been deposited with the landlady and a litter of kittens in the kitchen.

‘My niece has just gone back to England to be married,’ Lady Geraldine observed once tea had been poured. ‘I find I miss having a young lady to go about with quite dreadfully— I have no daughter of my own, you see, and I do so enjoy the company of young people.’ Mrs Tresilian made sym pathetic noises. ‘So, if you would lend Julia to me, I would be de lighted to chaperone her to parties and so forth.’

‘Lend?’ Mrs Tresilian said faintly. ‘Parties?’

‘And balls: we seem to have them every night, after all. Routs, receptions, picnics. You know the sort of thing.’

‘Me?’ Julia felt she had to add something, however inane.

‘You do enjoy parties, Miss Tresilian?’

‘Yes, ma’am. But I know no-one in Society…’

‘But I do. Mrs Tresilian? I would not be depriving you?’

‘Not at all,’ Mrs Tresilian said with emphasis. ‘I live very quietly, which is so dull for Julia.’

We cannot afford to live any other way! Julia thought in alarm. Parties? Balls? Picnics? That means gowns and silk stocking and gloves and…money. What is Mama thinking of? I cannot spend like that just to enjoy myself!

Lady Geraldine stayed the regulation half hour then departed in a froth of green muslin leaving promises of invitations, a wave of chypre perfume and two astonished Tresilians behind her.

‘Mama! I have not got a thing to wear.’

‘Well, that would present an original appearance!’ her mother observed with a smile. ‘Let us make a list of what you will need. We can trim up somethings with fresh ribbons, and we can look at my lace, see what can be done with that. But a ball gown is essential. A new afternoon dress, a walking dress. And something for half-dress occasions. We will make a list.’

‘But how can we afford it?’

‘It will be an investment. This is a miraculous chance, to be here just now when Brussels Society must be full of men who do not need to hang out for a rich wife. It will not be as it has been up to now, with so many people like us, here to save money. Dip lo mats, confidential secretaries, cha plains, officers—think of it!’ Julia did, and very improbable it seemed that any of them might be interested in her.

‘We cannot hope for a title, of course, just a com fort ably circumstanced gentleman, but even so, it will be worth the effort.’ Mrs Tresilian gave a happy sigh. ‘You are a good girl, Julia, you deserve some enjoyment and the opportunity to find a husband worthy of you.’

Julia sat down on the hard horse hair sofa and tried to imagine being part of that social whirl. But it would be a huge responsibility, and a gamble. If Mama spent their precious savings on gowns, then she must find a husband. It had been so long since she had come to accept that without dowry or connections she was never likely to marry, that the idea of setting out in cold blood to find a husband was daunting.

‘You are quite right, Mama.’ Julia managed a smile. This was her duty and she must try, however diffident or awkward she felt. ‘It is a wonderful opportunity and I will do my best to attach a respectable gentleman.’ It was disconcerting to find that despite this worthy resolution, the only feature she could imagine that this unknown paragon should possess was a pair of stormy blue-grey eyes.

Hal sauntered into Lady Fanshawe’s reception on the stroke of eleven with every intention of enjoying himself and no particular scruples about how. He had spent a hard day drilling with his troop at their base near Ninove, ten miles from the city. It had meant a long gallop to get back to bathe and for his valet to insinuate his long limbs into his skin-tight dress uniform. After that, he had been ready for supper and a bottle of claret with friends in one of the little bistros that had sprung up to serve the influx of officers.

Now, refreshed and relaxed, he smiled at the prospect of an evening surrounded by beautiful, intelligent and, above all, so phisticated women. He would drink champagne, find a willing partner and arrange an assignation for later. He greeted his hostess and turned to view the throng: heated, chattering, animated with the heady mix of alcohol, gossip and sexual intrigue. And there was a woman who might have been de signed for exactly what he had in mind: Lady Horton. Her husband, as always, was nowhere to be seen. Hal strolled across, amused by the way in which she pre tended she had not seen him, posing and laughing to show off face and figure to best ad vantage.

And what a figure, he thought appreciatively—lush, graceful and provocatively displayed in shell-pink satin silk that clung to every curve. And if she was wearing a stitch of under wear beneath it, he was a French general. Hal made himself a small bet that he would discover the truth of that by sun-up.

‘Lady Horton. Barbara—’ he lowered his voice ‘—you look edible.’