The Perfect Finish

Chapter Thirteen - Almack's

Mrs Cosgrove was highly respectable. But her place in the world was below the aristocracy.

And Anna's? She was uncertain of her own. A little closer to those exalted ranks, since Papa was landed gentry and his grandfather had held a baronetcy.  But Papa's father was the younger son, so their claim was too distant to speak of.

It was perfectly fine. Just what she had expected from the beginning.

And while Lady Holloway and Mrs Cosgrove were friends, it was not to be expected that Lady Holloway would exert any influence on Anna's behalf. Why should she? She knew nothing of the Rosewoods.

But the unexpected had happened.  Lord Holloway was impressed by her presentation. He spoke to a friend whose wife was close to the patronesses of Almack's, and a delivery of vouchers was made to the little house on Baron Street.

Mrs Cosgrove shrieked when they arrived.

"Oh, Anna!" The older woman's face was flushed with excitement. "Can you imagine? We need - oh, dear, we need new clothes! Call Mary - no, call Miss Cordon! We want the best for this!"

And so they arrived at one the most exclusive clubs in London on the night of its weekly ball dressed in new clothes, with new gloves, and new shoes, and new stockings. Her hair in a simple style, caught up by satin ribbons and looped and curled and pinned and pulled in all directions.

The rooms were tastefully decorated, the mirrors polished and clear, discreetly illuminated by gas lighting, bright enough for vision, but gentle enough to help everyone look their best.    

At the very first glance, her eyes passing nervously across the cream of London society, she caught sight of Mr Haversham at a table with some others. 

Yes, this was a logical place to find him.

They met their hostesses and moved into the room.

After so many balls she'd thought she knew everything about them; the bright colours, the music, the chatter and the waiters with tall glasses passing through the room.

This was the quietest ball she had seen yet. The colours were hardly somber, but - muted. There were as many older attendees as youngers. High necks, puffed sleeves, jewellery.

The thought came from nowhere. Davina Rapston would never fit in here. 

Mrs Cosgrove beamed her way round the dance floor to a vacant table, nodding to everyone they passed.

What did one do now? She ought to feel select, here in this exclusive place. But she was nervous and out of kilter.

She was considering the matter when Mr Haversham came over and bowed.

"Servant, Miss Rosewood. Looking well tonight." He looked at her, one eyebrow raised a little.

His presence dissolved her fear. "Thank you, Mr Haversham. I am happy to see you in good spirit." She could appreciate his perfect manners now. So she was looking worried? That would not do here.  

He turned to greet Mrs Cosgrove and impressions flashed through her mind. He was not talkative, but he could impart reams of information with a single word. Not a dowd but not in the slightest a dandy. In fact, his beautifully fitting clothes, understated though they were, made Mr Chetwind seem almost cheap, and Mr Haversham's perfectly groomed brown hair made Lord Poulson's look blowsy and uncombed.

It was the conclusion of a split second. She was ready to accept his request for the third dance by the time he looked back to her. And just as he left them Mr Withand appeared, dressed for once in appropriate evening attire. He made a deep bow and took her hand for a whole second.