when she attained her full height at sixteen. It was dark green, not black, and utterly utilitarian. Her bonnet was black, but hopelessly outmoded; even her gloves were unfashionable. Edward Danforth would take one look at her and withdraw his invitation, ashamed to be seen with such a dowd. Charlotte peered into the mirror in despair, and then, with an effort, threw it off. He would not dare to be so rude. She would grasp her chance at a real outing, think what he would.
In fact, he did not show by the flicker of an eyelid any condemnation of her dreadful ensemble. He handed her into the kind of shining equipage she’d only seen from afar, laid a rug over her knees, and raised a finger to his groom, who left the horses’ heads and swung up behind. “A turn through the park?” he said, and Charlotte smiled up at him.
It wasn’t far. She admired Edward’s driving skill as they negotiated some narrow turns on the way. Their swift passage in the open carriage, feet above the street, was thrilling. Everything seemed different from up here.
The lanes of Hyde Park were sparsely populated; Charlotte put it down to the chilly temperatures until she remembered that morning was the fashionable time for riding. Had Edward planned it this way? He nodded to a few passersby but didn’t stop. “Not much going on in town as yet, though people are trickling back.”
By “people,” he meant the ton, Charlotte understood. There were, of course, hordes of unfashionable people all over the streets of London. “The Season hasn’t started,” she replied, trying to sound knowledgeable. He smiled at her, and Charlotte felt as if her ignorance was perfectly transparent, and yet somehow charming. She flushed.
“No. But the bad weather has spoiled the hunting, which will bring everyone back in short order. Do you hunt?”
Charlotte merely shook her head.
“What do you do, auntie?”
The glimmer in his eyes made it a joke, but she still smarted at this reminder of her lamentable history. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Your wish is my command, Mrs.…”
“Not that either!”
Edward laughed. “What am I to call you then?” Her flush deepened; she could not ask a young man she barely knew—and such a very attractive one—to use her first name. “How about ‘ma’am’?” he suggested. “Bit of a regal touch, dash of deference. That’s the ticket.”
“You’re making fun, but…”
“Not at all, ma’am. Perfectly serious.”
She couldn’t resist his smile, the glint in his blue eyes—and the fact that she had no alternative. She didn’t want to hear anyone call her “Mrs. Wylde” ever again. “Oh, very well.”
“Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am.” Before the jest could turn annoying, he added, “They say this art exhibit ’round the corner will be all the rage once the Season gets under way. Care to take a peek?”
Charlotte gathered the scraps of her dignity. “That sounds pleasant.”
With the good sense not to repeat the word “ma’am,” Edward turned his team toward the park gates. Their destination was not quite around the corner, but it was nearby. He pulled up before an imposing redbrick building and handed the reins to his groom. “Walk them, Sam,” he said as he jumped down and offered Charlotte a hand.
Inside, the walls of large rooms were crowded with pictures right up to the ceiling. Here and there, people wandered; most seemed more interested in each other than in the artworks. Charlotte examined a portrait of a fat man in full court dress and wondered what in the world to say about it. It seemed very ugly to her.
“My dears, hello, hello!” trilled a voice, and she turned to find Edward’s mother bearing down on them. “How lovely to see you again.” Lady Isabella enveloped Charlotte in a quick embrace, scented by violets, then took her arm. Her fur-trimmed cloak, with matching hat and muff, made Charlotte’s look like a candidate for the ragbag. “I couldn’t induce Edward to come to this exhibit. Now I see what is required—more attractive company than his mother.” She laughed and pulled Charlotte along. Arm in arm they strolled through the rooms, Edward trailing behind.
“That landscape is pretty,” Charlotte ventured, feeling that she must express some opinion if this exhibit was so important.
“There’s Cecily Harcourt,” was Lady Isabella’s reply. “She still looks rather plump, doesn’t she? She delivered Seton’s child only a month ago. They say her husband hasn’t the least idea that the boy isn’t his. I suppose Cecily is quite adroit with her… timing.”