Page 7 of A Secret Infatuation
Dorothea smiled and shook her head. “You are determined to think well of everyone, but not everyone is deserving of it. Regardless of what transpired last year, we must certainly present ourselves in the queen’s drawing room this year.”
It was unnecessary for Sophia to remind herself how much each social setting challenged her peace of mind, but to be required to make her curtsy before the queen without a single error was nothing short of terrifying. She glanced at Miles, who returned a sympathetic look. He seemed to understand better than his wife just how great the trial was for her. Dorothea was adept at most things and had trouble sympathizing with the challenges of others, although she was changing. A devoted and loving—but firm—husband, Miles softened those traits in her that might be described as managing. Goodness knew there was much to manage; now that their eldest sister had left their house on Grosvenor Square and moved into her marital home, it became clear how much responsibility she had always taken on. Sophia could only respect her for having carried it all for as long as she did.
After the ladies in the carriage ahead of them had been helped out, the earl’s carriage inched forward. The line moving toward the palace had turned into a two-hour wait, and now it would finally be Sophia’s turn to step into the court. She smoothed her hands over her white silk net gown with chenille embellishments. With the panniers placed close to the high waistline, she scarcely knew what to do with her arms. But it was useless to argue against the requirements of court dress. Her only stand was to insist upon wearing feathers from the humbler pheasant for the required three fanned out in her headdress. Dorothea would have had her wear the more elaborate ostrich feathers, but Sophia remained firm.
“Besides,” her sister continued, “this year, we are in a better position to make our presentation. We do not need our mama to give us countenance, as I am married and can fulfill that role. Such a thing would have been too much for her.”
Their mother, always sentimental and frail, had fully succumbed to her bereavement in the two years following the death of their father, which had caused Dorothea to sometimes grow impatient with her. Sophia could understand her mother’s difficulty in moving on without the bulwark of their family to steady her, but could also sympathize with her sister’s impatience over the prolonged expression of grief. Their father had not been an easy man to live with.
The door to their carriage opened, and the liveried footman standing outside of it bowed and held out his hand. Dorothea alighted first, followed by Sophia, and finally Miles. The gates to the palace were open, and ahead of them a line of people entered the courtyard. The swirl of white gowns indicated those who were as yet unbetrothed, and the more colorful gowns those who were married.
Sophia attempted to draw a deep breath but without much success. They crossed the courtyard and filed past the Chapel Royal before entering and following the procession to the grand staircase. The wall was papered in a blue flowered pattern, and the accents on the staircase were gold. On the upper level, they were led into the anteroom, where noble guests, seemingly from another era, advanced unhurriedly toward the Presence Chamber. A cluster of ladies, speaking in hushed voices and rapidly waving their fans, stood waiting to be announced. Contrary to the agitation around her, Sophia went perfectly still and reached for any thread of tranquility she might still have within. It was too much. She did not know if she could go through with it.
Dorothea leaned in. “Don’t forget to breathe, my dear. You must not faint.”
Sophia nodded and, just as the edges of her vision started to close in, she inhaled deeply. It helped, and her vision cleared. She was stronger than she realized and could get through this ordeal. You managed to speak to Felix Harwood without having a question put to you directly, she reminded herself. You can meet the queen.
“I can do this,” she said. “It is unlikely she will speak to me.”
“And if she does, you need only respond with the veriest commonplace, and that you can do.”
The doors opened, and the chamberlain stepped out. He lifted the list in his hand and began reading off names. The designated ladies entered, and the door closed behind them. They were back to waiting, and Sophia decided to be resolute. This lasted until the door opened again, and the chamberlain announced more names. She had to force in another shaky breath when she heard, “Lady Dorothea Shaw. Lady Sophia Rowlandson.” At least she would be presented at the same time as her sister.
“Lady Sefton should already be inside, since she is presenting us,” Dorothea informed her in a thready whisper. Behind her, Sophia heard the excited whispers of smiling young ladies, eager to have their turn. It seemed that no one was nervous but her.
The Presence Room was richly decorated with dark red velvet curtains tied back to reveal the tall windows on the right side; a large Persian rug in similar tones covered the floor. A fire roared in the marble-encased chimney, and above that, ancient arms were displayed on the wall. Sophia scarcely took in these details as her feet carried her midway into the room. She focused only on the three plumes waving from her sister’s head in front of her and the vague glimpse she had of Her Royal Highness seated on a red upholstered chair at the end of the room.
You are capable. She breathed. You can make your curtsy to the queen, and you shall officially be launched for the London season. You have enough confidence. After all, you spoke to…
“Lady Dorothea Shaw, eldest sister to the fifth Earl of Poole, married to Mr. Miles Shaw.”
All thought fled as her sister glided forward and made a deep curtsy before Queen Charlotte. Lady Sefton spoke for her, and Sophia had a glimpse of the startling height of the queen’s wig. She wondered if she always wore it like that, or if it was merely for court. Numb from fear, she heard her sister replying, “You are all kindness, Your Majesty.” Then Dorothea backed up toward the door that would lead into the gallery, where freedom was to be found.
“Lady Sophia Rowlandson, second sister to the fifth Earl of Poole.”
Now it was Sophia’s turn. She clutched her train in her left hand, but an attendant rushed forward to take it from her. Legs trembling, she walked to where the queen now stood, talking to one of her ladies-in-waiting. As Lady Sefton presented her, Sophia dropped into a deep court curtsy. She had not needed to be reminded to practice this over and over until the gesture was flawless. She held herself perfectly still until the queen leaned down and kissed her forehead. Only then did she allow herself to rise.
To her inexpressible relief, the queen smiled graciously but did not speak to Sophia. It was then her turn to follow Dorothea, and she lifted her skirt just enough that she would not trip, inching back toward the door and taking care not to turn her back on the queen. Another lady had been announced and was now curtsying deeply.
She had done it! She had successfully made her presentation at court. Breathless with relief, Sophia was nearly at the door, where hands would reach out to guide her until she could turn forward again.
A mild outcry sounded from the gallery. The gentleman usher attempted to pull her out of the Presence Room from behind, but Sophia’s heels bumped into something solid and she arched backward, her hands flailing to restore her balance. Ushers on either side grabbed her elbows before she fell, and she remained frozen in this posture, her stricken gaze on the queen, who had turned toward the commotion.
Sophia had the presence of mind to drop into another curtsy as soon as she was brought upright, and that was when she saw the fabric of her sister’s gown and a slipper peeking out from underneath it. She pivoted her head quickly in shock before remembering she must not turn her back on the queen. In what seemed like an interminable amount of time, others hurried from behind to lift Dorothea and transport her inanimate form far enough so they could shut the door.
Once out of sight of the queen, Sophia whirled around and dropped to her knees beside Dorothea. She tapped her face and tried to revive her, but she would not wake. A commotion split the room as Miles, who had promised to meet them in the gallery after the presentation, hastened toward his wife, also dropping beside her, his face revealing his utter panic.
“She needs air,” he announced to the room at large, and wasted no time in lifting her into his arms and carrying her in the direction of the exit.
Sophia hurried after him. There were hushed murmurs and an occasional giggle, but she was sure the ladies did so more to give vent to their nerves than from malice. All she could think about was that her sister had fainted. She had not thought such a thing possible. Nothing ever overset Dorothea.
Felix stood in the Friary Court of St. James’s Palace, waiting for the admiral to meet him there. A levee had been organized at the same time as the queen’s reception, and Felix was to be presented as a newly elected member of Parliament. He was to stand before the king—or bow, rather. As a lad, he had not been particularly ambitious. He had known he would have an education, for his father, a scholar himself, considered such a thing indispensable. But Felix assumed he would live in a plain house in Surrey and follow in his father’s footsteps as a vicar. That, or take on some other gentlemanly occupation, such as solicitor or steward. He had not aimed to reside in England’s most prominent city and make history through policy change. Yet here he was, in London, a member of the Commons and now apparently about to rub elbows with the peers of the realm as they stood before His Royal Highness.
There was a commotion as people exited a palace door, and he turned to watch it. It appeared a lady had fainted at her presentation. He could hardly blame her, for such an ordeal must be extremely trying. In fact, he felt fairly nervous himself. Vaguely, he noted that her gown was plum colored, and even he knew anything but white indicated a matron rather than a maiden. This unusual detail caught his interest, for a matron would be more experienced in the world and not normally subject to a nervous crisis.
A gentleman with a pinched face carried her down the stairwell, and behind him was another anxious face that made Felix take an involuntary step forward. The small feathers in Lady Sophia’s hair bobbed up and down in the breeze as she came to the gentleman’s side and looked around. She appeared to be searching for their carriage, although there were not many of those in the court at present. Her eyes landed on Felix and, to his surprise, she hurried to meet him, hindered some by the large skirt of her gown. He strode quickly to her.
“Mr. Harwood, would you be so kind as to procure a carriage for us? My sister has fainted, and we must get her home.” Her voice was breathless, but there was no weakness in her tone.
