The Wayward Debutante. Sarah Barnwell Elliott
can afford to send her so far from home next season if she doesn’t meet her match this time. So this ball actually meant a lot to her and she’s devastated she’ll have to miss it. She needs cheering up.”
Beatrice frowned. “I understand your sentiments, but I hope her illness isn’t contagious.”
“Oh, no. It’s just a mild cold, and you know what my constitution is like. It’s her spirits, really, that suffer most. I know I should go to the ball, but I’m sure I won’t be missed in that crush.”
Beatrice shrugged. “I suppose I don’t mind if it’s just this once.”
“Must I go?” her husband, Charles Summerson, asked hopefully from the doorway.
She turned around, making a face. “Absolutely. Lady Montagu-Dawson would never forgive us if we all deserted.”
He groaned and sank down into a chair. “Doesn’t seem a bit fair. Eleanor’s the only reason we’re going in the first place.”
Eleanor sniffed resentfully. “You’ve no idea how fair—produce a sick friend yourself and then you may complain. Besides, I’m the one who’s been to some affair nearly every day for the past two months, aren’t I?”
“She’s right, Charles.” Beatrice stepped in to defend her. “Eleanor is willing to go, but she’s sacrificing her time to help her friend. You, on the other hand, haven’t an unselfish bone in your body.”
Charles regarded Eleanor with mild skepticism but didn’t comment. Beatrice turned her attention back to her sister, concern again on her face. “Are you not enjoying yourself anymore? I’m sorry, but I haven’t even asked you until today…it’s just that you always seemed so eager to have your first season and I only assumed…”
Eleanor hadn’t been enjoying her season for some time now, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Of course I’m having a good time, a splendid time. Really. I only said that because I’ve been overcommitting myself recently.”
“You’re lucky you’re staying with Charles and me rather than with Aunt Louisa—she’d have you go tonight even if you were the sick one.”
Eleanor knew that was true and said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d avoided lodging with her domineering great-aunt. “As it is Aunt Louisa hardly leaves me alone. Every time I see her she asks me why I’m not engaged yet, knowing, of course, that no one’s asked me. She called me a disappointment the last time I saw her.”
“She didn’t!” Beatrice gasped in outrage.
“She did, too—said everyone expected better things of me. I’m trying, Beatrice, really—” She broke off, allowing her lip to tremble convincingly. “I’m not like you, Bea…six proposals in your first season alone…”
Beatrice blushed. “Oh, come, now. We all know you’re trying. You deserve a night off, and it sounds as if Miss…oh…”
“Pilkington.”
“Yes. Miss Pilkington could use your company. Go right ahead.”
Eleanor suppressed the urge to crow with joy. Instead, she folded her hands demurely. “You are the best sister in the world. Jane’s sending her carriage round later and I’ll also be driven home, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I never worry about you, Eleanor. If you were our dear sister Helen, on the other hand, I’d be worried indeed. But not you.”
“Really?” Eleanor should have been pleased her sister thought so highly of her, but instead she was rather disappointed. Being sensible and dependable was all very well, but…
For a moment they sat without speaking, the only sound provided by Beatrice finishing off her cake. Eleanor began to drum her fingers on her lap. Catching herself, she said, “Oh, my.”
“Yes?” Beatrice asked, her fork poised midair.
“The time, Bea. You’re going to be late.”
“Oh, dear. You’re right. When will I learn?” She deposited her plate on a small satinwood table and Charles helped her rise. As they walked to the door, Beatrice turned around to remark, “By the by, those items arrived from Father’s house early this afternoon. Meg brought them to your room. What on earth do you intend to do with all those clothes? They’re not suitable to wear.”
“Probably planning to rope us into more of her drawing room theatricals,” Charles suggested. “Don’t think for one moment that you’ll get me into that blond wig, Eleanor.”
She grinned, imagining her tall, handsome brother-in-law in the straw-colored woman’s wig that was a staple of her costume collection.
Beatrice just rolled her eyes. “Do try to enjoy yourself with Miss. Pilkington tonight, darling.”
“I will,” Eleanor said, following them out of the room. Indeed, she had a most marvelous evening planned—even if she couldn’t help feeling nervous.
Of course, there wasn’t any Jane Pilkington.
Eleanor started changing her clothes the moment she heard the front door close behind Beatrice and Charles. She didn’t ring for a maid to help. Her wardrobe for the evening was designed to be put on without assistance. A serviceable gray cotton dress with a simple linen collar. Sturdy black boots. The outfit had belonged to a past governess and had been moldering in her father’s attic until she’d rescued it for her costume chest last year. She’d known it would come in useful.
She examined her reflection in the mirror. She looked…passable. She pulled on the blond wig and grimaced. Each of her three siblings was blond. Tall, blond and stunning. Eleanor was quite pretty, she supposed, at least when she wasn’t standing next to one of them. Her hair was brown; she was of medium height; her eyes, at least, were a striking blue. For the time being, however, her less impressive looks were a godsend. She must not be recognized.
She removed the wig and looked away from the mirror with a sigh. I really am a disappointment, she thought as guilt settled over her. As Beatrice had said, she’d always been the good child in the Sinclair family. Ben had been a terrible rake before he’d married, while Beatrice found wedded bliss only after being thoroughly compromised first. Helen promised to be the worst of them and she was only fifteen.
But her family had always assumed that Eleanor would do her duty and wed with relative ease. If only they knew that she didn’t give a fig about getting married, not that anyone seemed interested in proposing to her, anyway. She was far too much the bluestocking, and although men seemed to enjoy her conversation, few glowed with pride to be seen in her presence.
No, the reason she’d longed for a London season was precisely what she was preparing to do tonight. She was going to the theater. It was her favorite thing in the world and had been ever since she’d seen her first play with her family in Bath at the age of nine. She’d have liked nothing more than to be a playwright herself, although that would probably never happen. She’d even like to be an actress, and that would definitely never happen…even though tonight’s performance proved she was perfectly capable.
The closest she’d ever get to these aspirations was sitting in the audience, and since she’d turned sixteen, every trip to London had included as many plays as she’d wanted, provided she could convince a family member to act as chaperone. She’d always imagined her coming-out would basically resemble these earlier trips, but now she was here and Beatrice and Charles were too busy to escort her. A London season, she was dismayed to learn, was serious business. Her life was carefully regimented, and she had little time to attend plays, not unless there was a very good reason to go. The only acceptable reason for her to go anywhere these days was that hordes of eligible men would be there. Getting married took priority.
And she was bored.
So she’d invented Jane. At first, it’d seemed a simple idea: tell Beatrice that she was visiting her dear sick friend but go to see