have wished.” A shadow appeared in his green eyes. “I promised her you would have your chance, and here you are at twenty-one. The men you meet at assemblies and church dances are not good enough for my girl. Your mother married beneath her when she chose me, bless her heart. I pray I never gave her cause to regret it.” He sighed. “While I dislike your mother’s family, and what they did to Mary, throwing her out because she took your mother’s side, I have to admit they are well-born.”
“A Season? I can’t believe it,” Jo said, slightly breathless. “Is Aunt Mary to come with us?”
“Your aunt complains of her rheumatism but expresses an eagerness to accompany us.”
“She will enjoy being among society people again.”
“I believe she will. I have promised to purchase that cottage your aunt wants. She intends to move there with her cats after you marry.”
“She has had her eye on that cottage for ages.” While she was pleased for Aunt Mary, Jo felt a quiver of unease. Should she marry, her father would be alone here. He must come and live with her. And any man she married would need an agreeable nature. Someone calm, gentle, and kind.
Her father fed a piece of meat to Sooty, patiently waiting at his feet. “Where is your aunt?”
“She has taken an apple pie to Mrs. Jones, who’s feeling poorly.” Jo jumped up. “When do we leave? I must make a list.”
“Now, I don’t intend to leave immediately! There is much to do to prepare. You have need of a ballgown.”
“We can purchase it in London,” Jo said, fearing something might occur to change his mind.
“Yes. Everything you need, Jo, don’t stint on it. But as to the ballgown, you have nothing to worry about, my girl. I have the matter well in hand.”
“Oh?” she asked uneasily. Her initial excitement dimmed a little when it occurred to her she was about to be thrown into the midst of Society matrons and their debutante daughters.
“I’ve spoken to the seamstress, Mrs. Laverty. She has agreed to make your ballgown.”
“That is good of her.” The widow, Mrs. Laverty, played piquet with her father every Saturday. Jo had hoped they might marry, but her father still mourned her mother.
Mrs. Laverty sewed beautifully but lacked the experience of the London fashions. Jo would study the illustrations in the fashion magazines, but the latest editions weren’t easy to get.
“We’ll depart for London in April,” her father said. “Fred Manion has offered us a ride when next he takes his produce to Covent Garden.”
Jo stared at him in surprise. “In his wagon?”
He chuckled. “Heaven forbid! Fred has been doing well and has purchased a carriage to visit his family in Bath. He will be our coachman, while his son, Henry, will drive the vegetable wagon to market.”
Jo couldn’t help smiling. Her father could well afford a new carriage and a set of prime carriage horses, but she would not dampen his enthusiasm by suggesting it. Especially as she would need a new wardrobe. She’d heard women changed their clothes several times a day in London. Goodness, what an expense!
Some hours later, after she, her father, and Aunt Mary had all contributed their ideas for the trip, Jo retired to her bedchamber to go through her wardrobe. As she feared, nothing was suitable. One wasn’t so fussed with what one wore in the country. She tramped for miles over the fields, in good weather and bad, and her half-boots were scuffed, her pelisse faded, and her best poke bonnet, which was perfectly good for church, had seen better days. The subtle differences between a walking dress and a morning dress or an evening gown and a ballgown escaped her. Accessories were a complete mystery. She had no idea which hats and which gloves to wear with what.
Preparing for bed, Jo flicked her braid back and leaned close to her bedchamber mirror. She pondered whether to take the scissors to her waist-length, dark red hair, but decided it needed to be stylishly cut. Her father always said it was her crowning glory, but none of the women passing through the village wore a huge bun at the back of their heads.
During the following weeks, Mrs. Laverty took her measurements and hunted for the right fabric. Jo, eager to see the ballgown, had given the dressmaker an illustration from a magazine she’d found. It was of a slender lady with impossibly tiny feet in a high-waisted dress. Nothing about