The older lady prevaricated. “Sir, first the fabric must be selected, then the measurements are taken, and a design selected. Only then can we establish a price for the garments.”
“Then do it. Goddamn it. I just sold a painting, and I want this young lady to look like a duchess.”
* * *
Lucy was embarrassed—but not too embarrassed—to be accepting two new dresses. They were the first new dresses she would ever own that were not second hand. As she dressed in the best dress she currently owned for dinner, her head was filled with the images of the fine silks, satins, ribbons, lace, and buttons that she had examined this afternoon when picking out her dresses.
But now she needed to focus on getting ready for this evening’s dinner hosted by George’s Aunt Hester. She had no idea what to expect. She had never been a guest at any of the Grayson’s fine entertainments. She had always been in the kitchen and never at the table, even though George had repeatedly urged his parents to include her.
She sat at the dressing table in her room and fiddled with her hair. She had no one to help her dress, arrange her hair, or slip on her shoes—except herself.
But as she left the room to head downstairs, she met up with George who was handsomely dressed in navy blue breeches, white stockings, a mustard yellow waistcoat, and matching the navy jacket with a cravat.
“You look very handsome, George.” She then laughed. “It seems like I never see you dressed up. You are either coming from the fields in your work clothes or in the studio in a paint-smeared smock coat.”
“Believe me—I am much happier in my work clothes. These infernal stockings itch, and I am about to fling them off and dance barefoot in front of Aunt Hester.”
Lucy did not laugh but stopped and looked plaintively up at George. “You must forgive me,” she said, “But I have never been to a formal sit-down dinner before. I am afraid I may behave incorrectly or not know which knife or fork to use.”
George appeared to be astonished. “You mean to tell me that in all the years you have lived with us you haveneversat at the table with the family at a formal function?”
“No, George. I have always helped serve or eaten with the kitchen staff.”
“I am truly shocked. I have always considered you as one of the family, not as part of the staff.”
“That may be so for you, but not for some of the others.”
“Then I shall make it known to Aunt that you must sit across from me and you may just follow what I do when the dishes are served. And as for conversation—I am quite certain you can hold your own with the other guests. You are so bright and engaging.”
“Thank you. That puts me at ease—somewhat,” she said smiling shyly.
George linked his arm with hers as they headed down the hallway. “And are you pleased with the design and cut of your new dresses?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “You really should not have ordered those for me. What will your mother and father say?”
“They can say nothing because the money I spent was mine. Earned from the first sale of a painting—with many more to follow.”
“As long as they are not portraits of Lady Benson-Wright,” she said with a sly grin.
That set them both laughing as they entered the sitting room.
“What are you two laughing about?” Aunt Hester enquired, from her comfortable chair sipping a glass of white wine.
“The absurdity of the world we live in, Aunt Hester.”
“Ah… Now on that subject, I am never certain whether to laugh or cry,” she said raising her glass in a toast.
Lucy looked around at a few of the guests who had already arrived.
The first to step forward was Sir Harcourt. He clapped George on the shoulder and said, “Son, great to see you again. All my best to your parents.” Then he turned to Lucy. “Miss Lucy, I presume?” he said taking her hand and shaking it heartily as though he was stumping for an election. “Sir Harcourt Oakley, Hester’s absent husband, returned from the wilds of rural England. Great pleasure to meet you.”
“Sir Harcourt. Thank you for your hospitality,” Lucy said demurely.
“Come,” he said and taking Lucy by the arm, and leading her and George to the first guests—an elderly, distinguished looking gentleman and a lady. “And this is Mr. Reginald Simpson, of Simpson, Bradly, and Curzon—publishers. And this is his wife, Horatia. This is Miss Lucy Brighton, a friend of my wife’s nephew, Mr. George Grayson, son of the Duke of Sutherland.”
“A pleasure, sir,” Lucy said curtsying and nodding.
“Miss Brighton, Mr. Grayson.” He nodded and shook George’s hand.
