A Lady's Guide to Fortune-Hunting(5)
‘My darlings, you look so much like your mother,’ she said. And they fell into her arms.
Aunt Dorothy had squeezed many lives and roles into her one and fifty years. As an actress, she had enjoyed a varied and glittering career onstage, while offstage, she had spent her hours entertaining a selection of London’s most generous gentlemen. Having accumulated a not inconsiderable sum of money in this manner, upon her forty-first birthday she had dyed her fiery red hair a dark brown and rechristened herself, in both name and conduct, as affluent widow Mrs Kendall. As Mrs Kendall she began to enjoy a different lifestyle on the fringes of polite society, spending her days in houses that – as a young lady – she had only spent evenings. Though Kitty had worried Aunt Dorothy’s storied past could very well be more hindrance than help – after all, actresses were hardly considered respectable – from her deportment it was clear that her transformation to a lady of quality was unerring. Seeing her, Kitty felt surer that Aunt Dorothy would be able to guide them through their next steps in London, to lend wisdom to Kitty’s pursuit of a fortune. But though Kitty had a thousand questions to ask her aunt, for their first few hours together, all they spoke of was their mother.
‘I should have liked to come to her funeral,’ Mrs Kendall told them fervently. ‘You must know that I would have come, but your father thought … it might not be wise.’
Kitty understood this vague explanation perfectly. In a better world, it would have meant everything to have Aunt Dorothy there with them – to share stories of Mama’s life before, so they might still learn new things of her even as she was gone. But Mr Talbot had acted in the family’s best interests by keeping Aunt Dorothy away. Her presence might have raised questions … and some things were best left in the past.
‘It was a beautiful day,’ Kitty said instead, clearing her throat. ‘Crisp and cool. She would have loved it.’
‘You never could keep her inside if the sky was bright,’ Aunt Dorothy said, her smile pained but sincere. ‘No matter the day.’
‘I did a reading,’ Cecily piped up. ‘From The Book of the Duchess – her favourite.’ No one had understood a word of it, of course, Kitty reflected privately, but Cecily had read clearly and well.
They spent many more hours exchanging memories, their chairs inching together, their hands clasping at points, growing closer in that sure, inexorable way people do when they have shared in such a loss together. By the time conversation turned at last to Kitty’s broken engagement, the sky outside was dark.
‘You were quite right to come,’ Aunt Dorothy reassured Kitty, pouring three liberal glasses of ratafia. ‘London is just the place – what a disastrous thing it would be to commit yourself to Bath or Lyme Regis at such an hour. Consider me your fairy godmother, my darlings. I am quite sure we can sort an excellent match for each of you in just a few short weeks.’
Cecily’s attention – which had wandered a little – shot back to the present. She looked at Kitty with wide, accusing eyes.
‘Aunt Dorothy, it is only I who shall be making a match,’ Kitty said firmly. ‘Cecily is too young.’
Aunt Dorothy looked surprised. ‘Are you quite sure? Would it not be wise to find husbands for you both?’
‘Quite sure,’ Kitty affirmed. Cecily breathed a sigh of relief.
Aunt Dorothy looked unconvinced but rallied almost immediately. ‘I suppose she can still help us catch the flies, then!’ she declared. ‘We have much to do first, mind. We must sort your clothes, your hair, your …’ She gave a waft of her hand that seemed to encompass everything about them. ‘And there is not a day to lose – the Season is about to begin.’
3
They awoke the next morning earlier than their host – city hours, Kitty supposed – but any suggestion of laziness was quickly disproved by the brisk manner in which Aunt Dorothy conducted the day.
‘There is no time to waste,’ she said, ushering them into their cloaks, out of the house and into a hackney. The first stop, upon Kitty’s request, was to a discreet building on Bond Street where she sold what remained of her mother’s jewels for the total sum of ten pounds to cover their London expenses. It was to be their very last accounting and Kitty tremored to think that ten pounds – which would disappear quickly enough – was all that stood between them and a debtor’s prison. She pushed the thought aside with an effort. It might seem foolish to spend their precious coins upon fripperies, but the day of indulgence that lay ahead was as necessary as last year’s repairs to Netley’s leaking roof.
‘Morning dress, evening dress, hats, gloves, shoes, petticoats – we need it all,’ Aunt Dorothy explained, as they rattled over the cobbles. ‘For the ton, it is Mrs Triaud for dresses; Hoby’s for boots; Lock’s for hats. But for us, Cheapside will do just nicely for it all.’
Despite its name, Cheapside to Kitty seemed resplendent. A sea of drapers, confectioners, silversmiths, booksellers, hosiers, milliners, cobblers, shop after shop for street after street and mile after mile. Steered by Aunt Dorothy as their unflappable guide, they cut a swathe through them all: they were measured for morning, walking, evening and ball dresses, they tried on hats and stroked hands over impossibly soft stockings, they parted with shilling after shilling in the name of investment. It was late into the afternoon by the time they returned to Wimpole Street, much fatigued. But Aunt Dorothy was far from finished.