A Poor Relation. Joanna Maitland

had no regrets, now, about pretending to be dependent on Aunt Jemima. Her life was her own, and she could live it in comfort, even though she would die a spinster.

      She smiled with sad irony at the memory of her come-out. White and pastels were all very well for brunettes like Sophia, but pale-complexioned blondes tended to look merely insipid. And gentlemen were unlikely to be enamoured of a lady who looked them straight in the eye, or worse, overtopped them when she rose from her seat. Lord Amburley, now, was a much better partner for a tall lady. She would not even reach his shoulder. Dancing with such a tall gentleman—waltzing, perhaps?—might be delightful. She would put her hand on his shoulder, where the warmth of his body could be felt through the fine cloth of his coat. His gloved hand would rest in the middle of her back—perhaps even against her bare skin—while he guided her firmly through the throng of dancers. She would feel his warm breath on her face as he complimented her on the lightness of her dancing. His dark eyes would…

      Isabella checked herself severely before her musings advanced even further into the realm of daydreams. A man should not become the subject of missish fancies just because he happened to be rather taller than the ordinary. He certainly had little, other than height, to recommend him. Unless, perhaps, that underlying sense of humour which had betrayed itself when she taunted him? Resolutely, Isabella put his lordship from her thoughts and rose to begin her preparations for the ball.

      Madame Florette’s jade creation was a wonder of expensive simplicity, allowing the beautiful shot-silk overdress to fall in graceful folds from a high waistline below a deeply scooped décolletage. The neckline and the tiny sleeves were edged with the aquamarine satin of the underdress. The open edges of the overdress were similarly trimmed and finished with tiny aquamarine satin buttons and loops.

      Isabella was more pleased than she was prepared to admit. She had almost persuaded herself that she was now past the age when a lady hoped to be admired, and that she should settle quietly into spinsterhood. But faced with the fairy-tale gown, she knew a moment of youthful excitement ill-suited to an ‘ageing spinster’. Let us see whether he can ignore me now, came the unprompted thought.

      Soon Isabella was standing in front of the pier glass, critically assessing her reflection. Mitchell’s new way with her hair was most becoming, she decided. The rather looser knot of curls on top made her look very young. And Mitchell’s suggestion of aquamarines was right too, mere trumpery though they might be.

      Answering a light tap at the door, Mitchell admitted Lady Wycham’s maid. ‘Can you come to my lady, please, miss? She’s took bad.’

      Isabella immediately hurried to Lady Wycham’s apartments. She found her great-aunt lying on her bed, partly dressed for the ball, but with a silk dressing-gown over all. She was very pale, and a hand was pressed to her throat.

      ‘Oh, Aunt,’ gasped Isabella, ‘is it one of your spasms? Shall I send for Dr Ridley?’

      ‘I shall be well again in a moment. Parsons should not have fetched you.’ She looked severely at her faithful maid, but it had no visible effect. ‘Only I fear I may not be able to accompany you tonight.’

      ‘But we shall stay here with you,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘We cannot possibly go when you are unwell.’

      ‘Nonsense, Isabella. I am quite recovered now.’ She attempted, unsuccessfully, to sit up. ‘Perhaps not quite enough to accompany you, but certainly enough to be left in Parsons’ care. I insist that you take Sophia to the ball. You must simply make my excuses to the Duchess.’

      Isabella was torn between her duty to her aunt and her desire not to disappoint Sophia. Her indecision must have been apparent.

      ‘Isabella,’ said Lady Wycham curtly, ‘what is the matter with you? Have you windmills in your head, child? I take it you will do as I ask?’

      ‘Dear Aunt, I should rather stay here to see to your comfort—’ Lady Wycham drew breath sharply, as a preliminary to another biting retort ‘—but I know that you will not tolerate it. So, if you insist, I shall chaperon Sophia to the Duchess’s ball.’

      ‘I do wish it, my dear. Thank you. I know I can trust you to ensure she behaves as she ought.’ A sudden look of concern shadowed her face. ‘You will make sure she does not waltz?’

      Isabella smiled reassuringly. ‘Have no fear, Aunt. I have been drilling Sophia for weeks on the subject of the waltz. She knows she may not dance it until she has received permission at Almack’s. And that is one rule she will not dare to break.’

      Lady Wycham gave a sigh of relief and smiled lovingly at Isabella. ‘You look quite beautiful in that gown, my dear child. Do not waste your looks among the chaperons tonight. Promise me that you, too, will dance.’

      Isabella knew that, if she was to be Sophia’s chaperon, it would hardly be proper for her to dance. Chaperons did not do so. A small voice whispered that chaperons did not dress in gowns of shot silk either, but she pushed that thought to the back of her mind, while she grappled with Lady Wycham’s request. She could not refuse without upsetting the old lady, so she agreed, consoling herself with the thought that, at her age, she was unlikely to be asked to dance at all.