Arcana (12 page)

“You’ve been away at school, busy with your studies,” I say with a bit of an irritated edge to my voice. “And Lucy needn’t be burdened with every little thing that goes on.”

“I don’t mind,” Lucy says. “It’ll give me something to puzzle over while I’m cooped up in this house all day.”

I give her arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry Grandmama has kept you under lock and key.”

“What was the rumor she heard about you?” Robert asks.

“It’s not what you think,” I say just so he’ll stop glowering. “She just mentioned hearing about a girl from Gloucestershire who was so rebellious her father had to send her to London.”

“Seems the girl has some reputable sources then.”

I glare at him. “I wouldn’t laugh at someone spreading rumors about you.”

He holds up his hands. “My apologies, dear sister. I can see you are not in the mood for teasing.” He looks at Lucy with a mischievous grin. “Dare I ask, then, why she has feathers in her hair?”

I reach up and feel one of the three white ostrich feathers. “It’s another ridiculous debutante tradition. Grandmama ignored my pleas for a simple comb.”

“Ah, I see.” He pats the single line of braid on his trousers with his pair of white gloves as if eager to leave. “Well, come along then. Grandmama sent me to tell you the carriage has been pulled ’round.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” I say and struggle to my feet, balling the gown’s long train into my left hand.

“Don’t bunch it so,” Lucy says and straightens it out. “You’ll wrinkle it.”

I roll my eyes at her and follow Robert out the door.

Instead of my grandmother’s elegant barouche, a hired hackney waits in its place. Confusion furrows my brows as I glance at the awaiting footman. I would think tonight of all nights she would want to flaunt her considerable position in society with her own carriage.

“Katherine, hurry into the carriage before you ruin your gown,” Grandmama says, her tone sharp. She glares at the sky for a moment before pulling her velvet cape tighter around her.

“Grandmama, where is your barouche?” I ask.

She turns her glare from the sky to me. “What concern is it of yours where my carriage is? We have transportation for the evening. Kindly save your ridiculous questions for a time when we are not standing in cold, pouring rain.”

“Forgive me for asking the question anyone would in my position,” I snap. Surely I will not be able to take much more of her acerbic character.

She signals to the footman to help me into the carriage, pointedly ignoring my jibe.

“Oh, and lest I should forget,” she says once we are inside, “there has been a change in plans. Instead of Robert escorting you to the ball after your debut at Court, Lord Thornewood will meet us there to take his place.”

I gape at her. I knew the earl was to aid in my debut, but I thought we would share a dance or two. I never imagined I would enter a ballroom on his arm. I hate the thrill that runs up my spine almost as much as I resent the nervousness curled in my stomach.

“What about Robert?” I ask Grandmama. “He came all this way—”

“He’s here to support his sister, but your brother has not the social pull of an earl to make society take notice.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Surely you see that.”

Robert puts his hand over mine and gives a gentle squeeze. “Everything will be fine, Wren.”

I shoot him a dark look. It’s easy for him to say; he isn’t about to be an object of intense scrutiny.

After waiting for an hour in a crush of carriages, our coach is finally allowed through the imposing gates of Buckingham Palace. The palace beyond is so large and formidable, I suddenly feel quite ill-prepared, as though even the creamy-beige stones of its neoclassical architecture have judged me and found me wanting. My eyes are drawn up to the wide stone balcony, and even farther up, to the Royal Standard flying limply in the rain.

“Remember to curtsy to not only the queen, but the princesses as well,” Grandmama says as I am unceremoniously pushed out the door of the carriage. Men in palace livery move forward immediately to assist me.

“No one is to accompany me?” I ask, my eyes pleading with Rob for help.

“Do not be daft, child,” Grandmama snaps. “It is your debut, not ours. Just follow the others, do exactly as I instructed you, and you will do splendidly. We will await you at the ball.”

With these dubious words of wisdom, the door is shut behind me, and the carriage rolls away.

I join the queue of other debutantes entering the palace. They titter excitedly like ostentatious white peacocks, but I can only gape about like the country girl that I am. Lucy would absolutely love the majesty of the palace, with its color scheme of cream and gold, as rich as its sovereign. These colors are broken up by vibrant crimson in the carpeting and wall coverings, until the interior of the palace resembles a room of jewels: pearls and rubies all encased in gold.

One of the palace officials halts our procession in the antechamber outside of the Throne Room in Buckingham Palace. A buffet table laden with petit fours, biscuits, and other sweets along with refreshments has thoughtfully been provided for us—most likely to keep us from fainting beneath the weight of our gowns. A photographer holding a large, square camera takes photos of us, a parade of debutantes falling upon the golden buffet table like a flock of seagulls, and I cannot stop myself from enjoying the delicious treats laid out for us.

I choose a variety of petit fours as light as air and take a bite.

“Careful, dear,” a familiarly snide voice calls out, “you wouldn’t want to spill anything on your lovely gown.”

Eliza trills a laugh as she bumps into my elbow, nearly causing me to spill my tea all over the front of my dress. I down the rest of my drink to prevent her from repeating her little trick, since I am fairly sure such a horrible stain would bar my entrance to the Throne Room. I glare at her back as she makes her way to the front of the queue and poses with her ridiculous bouquet of flowers for the photographer.

“You do well to ignore her. She has always been rather cruel,” a soft voice says beside me. I turn to see Lady Hasting’s daughter, the girl who had played the piano so beautifully at the supper we attended. She holds out her gloved hand, and I shake it. “I believe we’ve already met. Miss Sinclair, is it? I’m Penelope Hasting.”

I smile. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Penelope. And please, call me Katherine.”

She leans in closer. “Are we not a lovely bunch of brides . . . er, debutantes?”

A sort of joyful relief at the rareness of our shared way of thinking bursts through me like a firework. “Do you think it is the veil or the train that most gives away the true purpose of this tradition?”

“It’s difficult to say, though I think you shouldn’t forget the bouquet when creating your list of evidence.”

“Indeed, it would be wrong of me to do so. Yours is lovely, by the way.”

She holds the bouquet, larger than her head, to her nose like a blushing bride. “You’re a darling to say so.”

We both laugh, drawing the attention of the photographer away from Eliza. As he snaps our picture, she glares at us with petty malice. But before she can formulate some new plan of vindictiveness, one of the lords-in-waiting invites us to queue up before the doorway of the Throne Room.

My heart flutters against my chest as I take my place in line. Beneath my elbow-length white gloves, my palms are damp—partly from holding the weight of my nine-foot train over my left arm. My mind chooses this exact moment to regale me with images of myself tripping over said train and crashing to the floor in front of the entire Court.

Mama, lend me your grace,
I think like a prayer. I close my eyes for a moment, and I can almost hear her voice, telling me, as she always did, that there was always strength within me if I would but reach for it.

The queue of debutantes moves forward until I stand at the threshold of the Throne Room. Royal guards in scarlet line one side of the room, prominent members of the Court on the other. At the end of the long room are the king and queen, seated upon their thrones, but I try not to focus on anything but the veil of the girl in front of me.

I take my first step into the room, my shoe bright white against the red of the carpet. The gold-leafed ceiling soars above me, brightly lit by seven enormous chandeliers. The room is designed to be awe-inspiring in majestic colors of gold and red, but I am too busy praying that I will remember the choreography of all I must do once I reach the throne.

A court attendant moves forward and indicates for me to drop my train. Shakily, I do so. With a golden wand, he spreads the heavy satin behind me until I can feel the weight of it pulling at my back.

Careful not to step on the train of the girl before me, I process forward. The name of the first debutante is announced, and after only a few moments, the next two names are called, until I stand alone before the king and queen.

“The Honorable Katherine Sinclair, daughter of Lord Edward Sinclair, Viscount of Bransfield,” one of the court officials announces.

For one horrible moment, I freeze. Do I kneel or curtsy? Do I kiss the queen’s hand, or do I only bow my head?

Something draws my gaze to the right of the king, and I lock eyes with the Earl of Thornewood. Gone is the characteristic look of arrogance. In its place is a warm smile. “Curtsy,” he mouths to me with a nod.

I sink into a curtsy so low I’m almost kneeling before Queen Alexandra. She extends her hand to me, and I take it and kiss the back of it. Taking care not to step on my train, I move back toward the Throne Room entrance, curtsying to King Edward and again to each of his daughters in attendance, Princess Louise and Princess Victoria.

The court official with the wand replaces my train over my left arm, and with great relief, I am free to leave the Throne Room.

So much angst for so short an event. In the antechamber beyond the Throne Room, I duck into a dim hallway and lean against the wall, my ribs straining against my corset. An official will undoubtedly seek me out, but for now, I enjoy my brief respite.

“I am surprised, Miss Sinclair,” Lord Thornewood says, appearing in the doorway like a specter. “I did not expect to find a newly presented debutante hiding in a darkened corridor like a wanton woman.” I take a steadying breath. I cannot keep my hand from nervously smoothing my skirt, especially when his eyes trail over my dress.

To my chagrin, heat flushes across my cheeks. My eyes flick over his inky black velvet jacket and trousers. His ivory shirt and cravat are the only bright things on his body. I try to ignore how darkly handsome he is, how even the curve of his lips has my pulse jumping to life. “Is it a crime now to seek out a moment of peace?” I snap.

His grin only grows wider. “Such a tone I am greeted with, though I did my best to see you through your debut.”

The warm smile he bestowed upon me in the Throne Room flashes through my mind and chips away at my defenses. “The awful truth is you’re right. You did help me, and I am grateful.”

He steps forward, so close if I but leaned toward him our lips would touch. “How grateful, Miss Sinclair?” I hold my breath as he reaches out and trails his fingers down the edge of my jaw. “Ah, but I shouldn’t tease you. Tempting as you are, with your flushed cheeks, I am a man of honor . . .” A self-deprecating smile touches his lips. “Though the gossips may say otherwise.”

Just as I am sure I will give in to my base desires and kiss the teasing grin from his face, a voice calls out from the room beyond, “Miss Sinclair?”

I jump away as though I have been burned and rush to the doorway. “Yes?” I say.

“There you are, my lady,” a relieved-looking court official says. “Your carriage awaits you. Shall I show you the way?”

I flash a smile at the official. “Oh yes, of course. Thank you.”

I glance back at the hallway, but there is no sign of Lord Thornewood—a small blessing, as I shudder to think of the repercussions if I were to be found alone with him in the palace, of all places.

There is no doubt in my mind: the man is a rake.

EIGHT

L
ATER
in the evening, after my grandmother has allowed me to change into a soft blue evening gown, the carriage delivers us to a building with a façade that seems flat after the awe-inspiring architecture of the Palace. The red brick is faded and devoid of any embellishments save for an iron fence and lampposts. Still, the very sight of it fills me with trepidation. Especially now I am to be escorted by the earl instead of Robert.