Page 17 of Margins of Love
“You know Alli is my only one, dear.”
Rachel turned to confirm that she heard her hostess’ voice. The hefty lady inclined her head as her hand cramped over her flabby stomach, twisting the fabric of her dress. She reached out to hold a second woman’s arm. The other woman was slender and wore a velvet gown. It only took a glimpse for Rachel to recognize the delicate Belgian lace and the elegant silver embroidery on the blue velvet bodice. The woman’s sleeves ended just short of her elbows and were tied with a loose orange ribbon, the shade of Rachel’s favorite French soap bars.
“I know, dear. It broke my heart every time you had a stillbirth. It is a pain no woman should have to endure.”
Intrigued, Rachel caught the compassionate dignity in the woman’s voice. It must have been quite a long time ago that Lady Bustle-Smith had been with child, Rachel thought as she turned her head to better hear the conversation. From the corner of her eye, she could see that the woman in velvet was patting Lady Bustle-Smith’s fleshy hand. They must have been quite close.
Lady Bustle-Smith shook her head in self-pity. “Sometimes, my dear,” she said, pausing to exhaled, “I think I’ve had my fill of pain.”
“You shall have no more from us. Look, my dear, Alli is your only child, and it is clear that you wish to marry her off to a nobleman. Rest assured that my Fave will not approach her. You have my word.”
Rachel snorted but immediately covered it up with a cough. Her Fave? Rachel considered the woman’s age and her carefully curled white hair. Fave’s mother. She still had her hand on Lady Bustle-Smith’s arm, showing off an intricate pearl bracelet, an artful braid of several strands of pearls in various sizes, the only piece of jewelry she wore.
“My Allison is truly a diamond of the first order,” Lady Bustle-Smith said proudly.
Rachel noticed no dissent from the woman in velvet. A true lady.
A cheerful girl sat down close to Rachel. “Do not pay attention to the dowager countess’s diatribe on her misfortunes.”
Rachel, agog at the girl’s informality, warmed to her instantly.
“Corriger la fortune, correcting one’s luck, is her life motto. She would do anything for her brood. The ends justify the means.”
She came closer and hid her mouth behind her hand to whisper in Rachel’s ear, “My brother has quite the reputation, you know. But not to worry, barking dogs don’t bite.”
Rachel laughed at the girl’s encyclopedia of clichés.
“I am Elizabeth, by the way. Lizzie for my friends. Of the Pearlers from London,” the girl chirped.
It was a miracle that the puzzle pieces did not clunk-clunk audibly as they fell into place in Rachel’s mind. In the exact moment that she realized that this sprightly companion must be the younger sister Fave had mentioned, a hand brushed her bare arm and brought her back to the moment.
“Do not slouch.” The elegant lady in blue frowned at Lizzie and squeezed her arm for emphasis.
“But we are amongst friends, Mother.” Lizzie waved her hand to show that there were only women in the room.
“At all times, my dear, there are eyes on you,” the lady said, emphasizing each word. She smiled briefly at Rachel and returned to her post at Lady Bustle-Smith’s arm.
“My mother is extremely worried about my prospects this season. It is my debut, you know.” She smiled, and Rachel decided at once that she liked her.
“It is my first season, too,” she said to her newfound friend. As with Fave, she noticed, it was easy to talk to Lizzie.
“But you are surely…” Lizzie tested words on her lips, and none seemed to satisfy her.
“I am almost twenty, that is true. And yet, it is my first season,” Rachel said, helping her out.
She thought about how best to explain her absences from past seasons. The truth was her parents carefully hid her away and occupied her with travels every year, but Rachel knew that they only bought themselves time. There was little sense in sponsoring her debut and drawing attention when she would not be allowed to accept any offers for marriage from a gentile.
“What are you two gossiping about?” asked a shrill voice in a full-frontal attack.
Rachel deflated at the sight of Alli Bustle-Smith. “Allison, please meet—”
“Elizabeth, darling, how are you? I see you have met a fellow debutante.” Allison chose not to dignify Rachel with introductions and plunged right into her usual gripes.
Lizzie gave Rachel a knowing smile. Rachel thought Fave’s little sister was extraordinarily entertaining.
Allison was just like her mother, though not as smug. She asked pointed questions and never hesitated to use any information entrusted to her for her own gain. Most men of the ton, Rachel knew, were afraid of her tricking them into marriage. It was general knowledge that Allison’s suitors were usually the stocky widower type, the ones who had no chance with any of the nicer and more desirable girls. She had rejected many suitors, allegedly for their age.
“Lizzie, dear, you must pardon me, but I have duties as the hostess’ daughter.” And with the haughtiness of Napoleon’s indignant mistress, Allison moved on in search of the next victim.
