Helena waited patiently. Having arrived on the arm of her brother a mere half hour ago, she had yet to see her parents. It was only after they came together in the midst of the crowd that she noticed the admonition burning in her mother’s eyes. “Good evening, Mama. You look lovely.” Her mother’s gaze took in her gown surreptitiously.
“Helena . . . dear,” she repeated, leaning forward so that no one would overhear. “Have you entirely forgotten your improver?” The last word was said so quietly Helena might not have known what she meant had she not been anticipating this very conversation.
Helena laughed. “I have done no such thing, Mama. You know the new style doesn’t call for an improver.”
Her gown was a striking combination of black and white. The white bodice was cut into a deep V in the front and back and fell just off her shoulders. There was a second layer of black silk trimming the bodice that gave the provocative effect that the white gown revealed the top edging of her black underclothing, not that she would ever wear such a color under her clothes. The cuirasse-style bodice extended down over her hips in a shape that was almost formfitting. From there, the short skirt and a series of underskirts alternated the black and white pattern all the way down to the floor. The various layers were gathered up in the back and secured just beneath her bottom to create a lovely draping effect across the front. This meant that the gown did not need a dress improver, and the various layers created a graceful fall of black and white silk that trailed on the floor behind her.
“I disapprove of this.” Mama sniffed her displeasure.
“I’m hardly the only one wearing the new style. Don’t you remember August—” She stopped talking when her mother closed her eyes for a moment. It was probably wrong to remind her that August had been one of the first to wear the look back in the spring. Many of the older women considered it an indecent display of hips, and almost all of them also considered the Americans indecent in a variety of other ways. The truth was that while most of the women present still wore a bustle, several had adopted the new Continental style.
“Yes, I recall.”
Helena smiled. It would be in poor form to tell her mother that her small rebellion had been in part because of their subtle marriage pressure. At twenty-six she felt old, and a pretty and provocative gown made her feel young and attractive again. Instead, she said, “You might try it next year. The fall of silk would look attractive on your figure.”
Her mother pursed her lips, but Helena could tell the compliment had soothed her ruffled feathers. However, she had been reluctant to give up her crinoline and could not understand why the current fashion was moving toward a more natural silhouette.
“The colors of your gown are remarkable,” Mama said to soften her earlier censure. “Mature but daring, which suits you very well.”
“Thank you.”
“You could do with more bodice. You must take care of how much of your bosom you display.”
Helena fought to keep her eyes from rolling. Her mother was fine boned and with a small frame. Helena, however, had inherited her larger frame from her father’s side of the family, and as a result, her shoulders had always been broader than she wanted and her breasts larger than was fashionable. Smile intact, she said, “I’m certain there is a more appropriate place for this conversation.”
“You’re quite right, dear.” Mama patted her hand and glanced over toward where a group of men stood talking with Papa. “I’ve already spoken with Lord Tilbury and Sir Stratton, and both have indicated an eagerness to dance with you tonight. Please make certain you save them both dances. Stratton has recently inherited, if you recall, so perhaps a waltz for him.”
“I can find my own dance partners.”
“I know that, but I want to make certain we don’t leave anyone out. I know that Stratton isn’t the most exciting—”
“Mama, he’s almost sixty years old.”
“And what does that matter? He’s fit and an excellent sportsman.”
Helena could feel her jaw clenching, but she fought the urge and retained her smile. “I trust you spoke with Papa?” He must have told Mama about their conversation after dinner last week, which had put her into a matchmaking mentality. Not that the idea of matrimony was ever far from her mind; it was only not typically this aggressive.
“I have, but that’s neither here nor there. Stratton would be an excellent match for you. You would be very comfortable with him.”
“I am very comfortable now.” Between her moderate income, the townhome, and the cottage in Somerset, she would be able to live the rest of her life in modest luxury. She had no need for more than that.
Mama smiled and waved at an acquaintance across the room. “Do not forget your objective, Helena.”
“And what is my objective?”
“Your home for young women. Stratton seems inclined to indulge you in the endeavor, and his reputation is above reproach.”
“Have you talked with him about my charity?”
“Well, no, not specifically, but he favors you very much.” She gave Helena a knowing look. “With a little finesse, you could have him agreeing to anything.”
Before Helena could answer, Lord and Lady Stampford greeted them. Was this truly how she was supposed to plan the rest of her life? Find a man who would lend his financial support to her causes in exchange for her hand in marriage?
Hand in marriage. No, it was more like her body in his bed. Despite her best efforts, her face flamed at the idea. It felt as if they all walked around using euphemisms because the real words were so unpalatable.
A murmur rose through the crowded ballroom as the Duke and Duchess of Hereford made their way in from the receiving line.
“Ah, the American.” Lady Stampford’s high voice was hard to miss as she practically sneered the word.
The American was how they all seemed to refer to Camille, Hereford’s wife. She had married Hereford about a year ago and had been regarded with various versions of condescension ever since. Everyone knew that he had only married the pretty girl for her wealth, and instead of looking upon Camille with kindness and pity, they all regarded her as a shallow social climber. The censure had eased a bit since the arrival of the Crenshaw heiresses in the spring, but poor Camille still bore the brunt of being an outsider worse than they. She lacked parents who were attempting to expand the scope of their business, which had, at least to a small degree, softened the sharp tongues that would wag about the Crenshaw heiresses otherwise. Camille had been cast to the wolves, all alone to face the wrath of London Society with her parents back in New York.
She was only around twenty, and Hereford was nearing sixty himself. She stared straight ahead as they walked in, her chin up a notch higher than it should be as she faced down the scrutiny of the guests. Everyone fell silent as she accepted a glass of champagne and asked them all to raise their own glasses in a toast to her husband. He didn’t bother to look at his wife once, not even as she spoke, all but praising his virility and youthfulness. He stood next to her, surveying the crowd like a king finally receiving his due.