A Waltz is Not a Cotillion

Emmaline still could not believe she was in London for The Season. She’d known since she turned sixteen that it wouldn’t happen. Her father’s gambling had left them almost penniless. They’d sold what few things were left--her beloved piano, a few paintings her mother had brought with her upon her marriage, and some pieces of silver that her mother had hidden when her father started selling whatever he could find to gather funds for his gambling. 

The only things that gave their family any relief was that they’d managed to keep that he’d hung himself a secret, thus preserving their reputation. Moreover, much to their surprise, although father had lost almost everything, he hadn’t gone so deeply in debt that the sale of their home and horse and carriage weren't enough to settle his debts. But where were they to live?

That was solved when one of their father’s old friends had offered them a small house on his property. He’d told her mother it was the least he could do for Johnny. Mother had swallowed her anger, when he apprised her of his “gift,” knowing he was one of the cronies who had encouraged father to go gambling. And thus, mother thanked him profusely, managing to wait to explode once we heard his carriage leave.

Then she finally told us the sad whole truth. Father had gambled away the dowry she brought that he had promised not to touch so she could launch me and my younger sister into the ton, the London upper class, which she once had been a small part of.

Luckily, Alistair, my only brother, older than me by eight years, had completed his education at Cambridge before father had started gambling and money became tight. He’d moved to London and begun his career as a barrister in a friend’s father’s law firm. As a result, he was able to help a little and promised more when he earned a promotion.

Thus, our new life began. No new dresses, none of our friends nearby, learning to plant a small garden for vegetables and herbs. Only two servants, our old cook who wouldn’t leave us, and her son, who was a bit slow, remained. I often found myself crying, unable to accept my future as a spinster and the dull unhappy life that I was certain was to be my lot in life.

Then, a letter came from my brother, a surprisingly long letter. He told us that a client of the firm had asked for them to send someone to see if there was some way to deal with a legal matter, and he’d been sent to see her. The head of the firm had told him, he wrote, “You’ve been doing so well, I think this might be something you can handle.” Thomas had accepted the assignment, delighted with the opportunity, and rushed to the home of a Lady Ronan.

When he was brought to her parlor, he wrote, she seemed startled. Taking a deep breath, she asked his name. He said that when he replied, “Thomas Lowery,” she smiled and said, “Ah that hair. Your father is Baron Lowery?”  

He said that he’d told her that father had passed. She then asked about you, mother, telling me that you’d made your debut at the same time she did and had been friends. He explained that the family was living in Ebrington in the Cotswolds. She asked about the family, and he told her about the girls. She then asked how old the girls were and if they were plagued by the family red hair. He wrote that he’d laughed and said that while you had gone gray, Emmaline was the one whose hair was identical to his and just as bothersome, and that she was eighteen.

Her reaction was strange. She sat still, clearly thinking deeply. Then she asked when you’d be making your debut, and I said that was unlikely due to our circumstances. After a few more quiet minutes, he wrote, she said, “Nonsense. I will see to her debut. The Little Season starts in six weeks. How far is it from that town to London?”  

I told her about eight hours by stagecoach. Her response was to tell me to write this letter immediately, telling you to have Emmaline ready to leave on Friday, that she would send her own travel coach and a maid along to chaperone her, and that they’d spend the night at an inn, and arrive on Saturday. I tried to understand what she was thinking, but she asked me why I was hesitating. I didn’t know what to say, so I asked her what the legal matter that she wanted to discuss was, and she said it could wait.

“Mother,” he had ended the letter, “I think we should seize this opportunity since I’m in London and can keep an eye on Emmaline and make certain all is well.”

Mother quietly folded the letter, looked at me for a long moment, then said, “I do remember her. We both married at the end of the season. She was a quiet, unassuming girl, whose family married her to much older man. We didn’t keep in touch, but I think we should, as Thomas wrote, “Seize this opportunity. And just think Emmaline,” Mama said, “if you marry well, you’ll be able to bring out Bethany.”

I was frightened, but how could I say no. Thomas would be there for me. And I did so want to find a way to avoid continuing to live the horrid life I had been enduring, so we went forward.

The well-appointed travelling coach came on time, the inn we stayed at was lovely, and on midday Saturday I arrived at an impressive mansion in a quiet area of London.

Lady Ronan came to the door to greet me, hugging me, then leading me to a lovely spacious room, about as large as our whole cottage. Lady Ronan stared at me for a long minute, then said, “Oh, your brother didn’t tell me how lovely you were.” To my surprise, she sounded disappointed when she said that.

I didn’t have time to think about that strange comment because Thomas arrived. After a lovely nuncheon, Lady Ronan announced, “Thomas, Emmaline and I have to leave for the modiste now. We have so much to have made up. Why don’t you come back for dinner—at eight.”

Thomas agreed, walking us out to where a small, elegant carriage was waiting for us. Next thing I knew, I was being measured, having dresses put on and taken off, two of which were to be ‘worked on’ while we ordered what I needed for the Season. As we went through the various fabrics and patterns, Mademoiselle Fancon and I both pointed out that an orange-colored fabric Lady Ronan liked wouldn’t do with my hair, but Lady Ronan push for a blueish-lavender, which we reluctantly agreed to. 

Mademoiselle insisted on a few light green day gowns, which Lady Ronan agreed to, but somewhat reluctantly. It was strange, but then there were also any number of white gowns, being most suitable for a debutant. I soon lost track of what we’d ordered, but before we left, I’d been relieved of the rather shabby dress I’d arrived in and found myself in one of the gowns that had been "worked on".

I was tired and thought we’d be headed home, but no, we went from shop to shop purchasing everything from camisoles to stockings to gloves, and so much else I was dizzy. As we left the last shop, Lady Ronan looked at me, and seeing my exhaustion, said, “I think this has been too much for you. Let’s head home and you can lie down for an hour before you have to get ready for dinner. We can continue shopping tomorrow.”

Shopping, tomorrow, what more could I need I thought as I dozed off in the carriage. I woke enough to make it to my room, then divested of my dress and shoes, fell asleep. I woke when the maid shook my shoulder, saying it was time to wake if I were to be ready for dinner.

I reluctantly sat up and looked around. My room was spacious, beautifully furnished, and the face peering at me had a lovely smile. The girl introduced herself, saying, “I’m Anna, miss. I’m to be your lady’s maid.”

Surprised, I smiled at her and said, “I’m Emmaline, but you can call me Emma.”

“Oh no, Miss Emmaline, that wouldn’t be proper,” she said, blushing.

I realized suddenly that I was really in a different world. And the hot bath awaiting me was proof of my changed circumstances.

When Anna brought me down to the room I’d remembered from my arrival, Lady Ronan looked me over and said, “You look a bit better now. I take it the nap helped.”

I realized someone had joined us, someone tall and dark haired, with a stern square jaw, an aquiline nose, and dark hooded eyes. He seemed to be scowling at Lady Ronan.

“Alastair, this is Emmaline, she’s the daughter of an old friend and a delightful child. I’m going to be launching her this season,” she told him, adding to me, “Alastair, is my son.”

His scowl grew worse as he acknowledged me curtly. “This is a surprise. Why haven’t you mentioned it, mother?”

“Oh, it was a rather sudden decision,” she said, quickly adding, “Her brother Thomas was here to discuss a legal matter and, seeing his hair brought back memories of a girl I was friendly with at my come out. It turned out he was her son, the red hair you see.”

“No, I don’t see,” he said coldly.

Just then the butler announced my brother. Lady Ronan called him over and quickly introduced them. I watched as they shook hands, neither looking too pleased.

The conversation at dinner was stilted, Lady Ronan doing most of the talking. My brother and her son left shortly after dinner, mumbling farewells, clearly glad to escape. Thomas had hugged me, whispering in my ear something about “being careful.”

He took a moment to ask Lady Ronan which church we’d be attending in the morning, and said he’d meet us there.

Lady Ronan muttered something about having to change her schedule and left the room. I was ever so grateful when Anna arrived and urged me to get to sleep early.

I awoke refreshed and grateful for the cup of delicious creamy chocolate and a few biscuits Anna brought me. She dressed me for church, visibly upset at the straw hat trimmed with a simple ribbon that was the only hat I’d brought with me from Ebrington aside from the cloche I’d worn for travel.

She ran out of the room, returning with a lovely hat from Lady Ronan’s personal dresser. When we arrived at the impressive St. George’s Church, Thomas was waiting and pulled me aside as soon as Lady Ronan was surrounded with friends.

Thomas whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “Be careful around her son. I did a little nosing around and everyone I spoke with said that he was a bit of a wastrel, slow, not too knowledgeable, and took no part in the House of Lords.”

“Why should I be careful?”

“I have a niggling suspicion she’s hoping for a match for him. She’s discouraged any number of young women from approaching him—those from the merchant class whose families are desperate for titles. Those of their own class avoid him as boring, no conversation—and that would be torture for you, you bluestocking.”

He stopped as Lady Ronan approached, smiled, and said, “Our Emmaline was telling me that she was upset at the size of her new wardrobe.”

“How foolish, my dear. We are far from finished; in fact, we must hurry home after services because we have a milliner and cordwainer coming to the house because their shops are closed on Sundays. Oh, and later, we have to see what instrument you play, perhaps well enough to appear at musicals?”

I explained that I hadn’t had a chance to play the piano for the past few years, but that I missed playing something fearsome. Thomas said, “She was quite good.”

“We will test that in the music room this evening, and you’ll have four weeks to practice before the season,” Lady Ronan said, adding something about Alastair’s love of music.

Our carriage arrived. I asked Thomas to keep in touch, and home we went, where we were greeted with a cold collation. Then the milliner arrived, and when she departed it was cordwainer who measured and traced my feet for any number of boots and shoes and dancing slippers. I’d lost track of the number of new hats I now had, feeling overwhelmed by how indebted to Lady Ronan I was becoming, especially given Thomas’s warning. 

Thankfully, Lady Ronan had been delighted by my quickly regained proficiency at the piano, which I happily practiced at every evening. The whirlwind I was enmeshed in left me tired, but it was a happy tired, very unlike the exhaustion the days of hard work at Ebrington brought.

Thomas took me to the British Museum, to Hatchard’s bookshop, to look at the Houses of Parliament, while Lady Ronan took me to the theater and opera with Alastair, who clearly loved both.  Strangely though, every time he and I began to talk, Lady Ronan intervened. She never ever gave us a minute alone, which seemed to leave Alastair fuming.

Then the first ball of the Season arrived. It was to be at the Duke of Wellington’s enormous mansion, and I was a bundle of nerves. I’d been dressed in a charming gown of white silk with lovely green flowers embroidered on the belt tied under my bosom, and also along the edges of the puffed sleeves and shockingly low neckline, and the hemline.

Anna had washed my hair with tons of lemon juice, lightening it a bit into a softer red and pinned it up into lovely curls, one of which was loose and flowed down to my shoulder.   

Lady Ronan and Alastair greeted me with gratifying compliments as I descended the stairs. Lady Ronan put a white fur cloak around me, forestalling my thanks with a murmured, “For your debut in society.”

Then, to my dismay, Alastair, spurred on by his mother, put a chocker of large pearls around my neck, just as we were exiting the house. I was trembling as a result.

Soon we were there, through the receiving line, and in the ballroom. I’d been handed a card on a pretty ribbon for men to claim dances on, and Lady Ronan took it and wrote something. Then came introductions to a number of men, and soon the card was, to my delight, quickly filled.

Alastair claimed the first dance, a cotillion, which the dancing master Lady Ronan had hired had reviewed with me, and he taught me the latest craze, the waltz, which I was shocked by, because it was a dance between two people, very close to one another. He warned me that I had to receive special permission to waltz. I also knew I should not dance more than once with anyone at this, my first, ball.

The dancing seemed endless, and my feet began to hurt. As a result, I was eager for the supper dance which meant a chance to sit down. Then Lady Ronan appeared with a Lady Jersey and what looked like a reluctant scowling Alastair. Lady Jersey took my hand and began to chatter, then smiled and added those fatal words, “You have my permission to waltz.”

Alastair glared at his mother, then placed my arm in the crook of his elbow and led me to the dance floor. He said quietly, “I should have found a way to talk with you before. I should have known what mother was about. I can’t believe she would think you could be happy with me. I’ve watched you read every moment you can. You talk about subjects I cannot always fully understand.”

He paused, his checks flaming. Then he said, “I have to be honest with you, for mother hasn’t been. I have some sort of problem that keeps me from reading well—or sometimes at all. The letters don’t always make sense, p’s and b’s, are the worst, m’s and w’s, or is it I or an l. I don’t know how to explain it, and countless doctors I’ve been dragged to don’t know what’s wrong with my brain."

He stopped then, and we stood there not dancing. His eyes glistened, and he went on, “I must be some sort of idiot. If someone reads to me, I understand and remember, but mother won’t hire someone to do that. She’s terrified word will get out.”

He was so distraught that I reached over and took his hand to comfort him. Lady Ronan had apparently been watching us, and clapping to call people to attention, announced, “Oh look, my son and Emmaline Lowery are the first match of the Season.”

Applause greeted her announcement. Alastair and I stood there, shocked and silent. Then he whispered, “We need to talk with your brother. Maybe he can figure out how to solve this mess mother has created.”

Something led me to say, “I don’t think you’re not intelligent, you remember every word of the plays we’ve seen. I think it was cruel of your mother to not allow you to have someone to read to you.”

 I stopped, wondering if I’d said it just to encourage him in order to avoid going back to Ebrington. We bowed to each other and let Lady Ronan embrace us.