Page 2 of Introducing Miss Joanna (Once a Wallflower 2)

“Yes. Everything you need, Jo, don’t stint on it. But as to the ballgown, you have nothing to worry about, my girl. I have the matter well in hand.”

“Oh?” she asked uneasily. Her initial excitement dimmed a little when it occurred to her she was about to be thrown into the midst of Society matrons and their debutante daughters.

“I’ve spoken to the seamstress, Mrs. Laverty. She has agreed to make your ballgown.”

“That is good of her.” The widow, Mrs. Laverty, played piquet with her father every Saturday. Jo had hoped they might marry, but her father still mourned her mother.

Mrs. Laverty sewed beautifully but lacked the experience of the London fashions. Jo would study the illustrations in the fashion magazines, but the latest editions weren’t easy to get.

“We’ll depart for London in April,” her father said. “Fred Manion has offered us a ride when next he takes his produce to Covent Garden.”

Jo stared at him in surprise. “In his wagon?”

He chuckled. “Heaven forbid! Fred has been doing well and has purchased a carriage to visit his family in Bath. He will be our coachman, while his son, Henry, will drive the vegetable wagon to market.”

Jo couldn’t help smiling. Her father could well afford a new carriage and a set of prime carriage horses, but she would not dampen his enthusiasm by suggesting it. Especially as she would need a new wardrobe. She’d heard women changed their clothes several times a day in London. Goodness, what an expense!

Some hours later, after she, her father, and Aunt Mary had all contributed their ideas for the trip, Jo retired to her bedchamber to go through her wardrobe. As she feared, nothing was suitable. One wasn’t so fussed with what one wore in the country. She tramped for miles over the fields, in good weather and bad, and her half-boots were scuffed, her pelisse faded, and her best poke bonnet, which was perfectly good for church, had seen better days. The subtle differences between a walking dress and a morning dress or an evening gown and a ballgown escaped her. Accessories were a complete mystery. She had no idea which hats and which gloves to wear with what.

Preparing for bed, Jo flicked her braid back and leaned close to her bedchamber mirror. She pondered whether to take the scissors to her waist-length, dark red hair, but decided it needed to be stylishly cut. Her father always said it was her crowning glory, but none of the women passing through the village wore a huge bun at the back of their heads.

During the following weeks, Mrs. Laverty took her measurements and hunted for the right fabric. Jo, eager to see the ballgown, had given the dressmaker an illustration from a magazine she’d found. It was of a slender lady with impossibly tiny feet in a high-waisted dress. Nothing about Jo was tiny. She was tall, and her feet were long and slim like the rest of her. The dress had a low scoop neck and three tiers of ruffles around the hem, with more of the rosebuds sewn onto the capped sleeves. The overall effect was dainty and feminine.

At Jo’s first fitting, Mrs. Laverty produced the material for the ballgown. “Your father believes green suits you best, and I quite agree, you have lovely eyes.” She picked up the fabric from her table and draped it over Jo’s shoulder. “Perfect!”

In the long mirror, Jo studied the effect. The blue-green silk was flattering, although she would have preferred the white muslin with the roses. Mrs. Laverty had not only taken her scissors to the silk but had stitched it together and was now slipping it over Jo’s head. “There will be the three ruffles at the hem and the short sleeves you asked for,” she said.

The seamstress, enthused by the task, had the gown almost completed by the beginning of the third week. Jo was a little disappointed when she tried it on, but it still needed a few finishing touches.

“It’s as you described,” Mrs. Laverty said, eyeing her carefully. “I couldn’t find any silk rosebuds. The camellias are just as pretty, don’t you think?”

Large flowers decorated the hem and smaller ones on the short sleeves. An even bigger camellia sewn onto the skirt made Jo think of a node on a tree. She admitted she was no expert, so decided it would do. And the color was lovely.

“It’s beautiful, Mrs. Laverty,” she said as the seamstress fussed about with pins in her mouth.

“It does suit you, Jo,” Aunt Mary said. “You look wonderful in it.”

The day of their departure arrived. Their trunks tied on the back of Fred Manion’s carriage, they climbed inside. Fred expressed his satisfaction at having purchased the contraption secondhand at a very good price. The worn seats were hard, and the interior smelled of a sheepdog and something indefinable and unpleasant. However, nothing could rob Jo of excitement as they set out on their journey.

Fred rested the horses at the top of Forest Hill. Then leaving the Wiltshire downs behind them, the carriage rattled on through Savernake Forest, passing tramps, peddlers, and wanderers along the way.

“London, here I come,” she said with a grin.

“You will be the belle of the ball,” Papa enthused.

“She will.” Aunt Mary settled in the corner with several pillows, her eyes shining with anticipation through the lenses of her eyeglasses.

Their first overnight stop was the White Bear at Maidenhead, and without the delays of bad weather, or the need for Fred to use his blunderbuss to ward off highwaymen, they reached Kensington a day later. Their journey was almost at an end. Jo’s bottom was sore from the constant jouncing around, and poor Aunt Mar

y had become pale and silent.

The bustling city was a revelation. Jo stared through the window at the busy streets, the shops, and the dazzling display of wares encroaching on the footpaths. Women boldly strode the street corners and chatted to passing men. The roads were filthy, the gutters overflowing, and coal smoke turned the sky gray. An all-pervasive dank smell rose from the Thames. But none of it mattered. This was London! The carriage pulled up at a crossroads to allow a wagon piled with vegetables to trundle slowly across in front of them.

“They’re going to Covent Garden,” Fred Manion observed loudly from the box. “That’s where I’ll be off to as soon as I deposit you in Mayfair.”

“So good of you, Fred,” Papa yelled back.

“Pies. Pies,” a hawker called to them from the pavement. Holding his tray against his chest, supported by a leather strap looped around his neck, he shuffled over to them. “Fancy a beef pie with onions, yer lordship? Ladies? A pastry that fair melts in yer mouth. Made by me missus.”

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