The Daring Debutantes Bundle
The Daring Debutantes Bundle
M.C Beaton
The Daring Debutantes Bundle
Copyright © 2015 Rosetta Books
Henrietta copyright © 1979 by Marion Chesney
Molly copyright © 1980 by Marion Chesney
Penelope copyright © 1982 by Marion Chesney
Lucy copyright © 1980 by Marion Chesney
Annabelle copyright © 1980 by Marion Chesney
Kitty copyright © 1979 by Marion Chesney
Sally copyright © 1982 by Marion Chesney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Electronic edition published 2015 by RosettaBooks
Cover copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
ISBN (EPUB): 9780795347801
ISBN (Kindle): 9780795347986
www.RosettaBooks.com
Contents
Henrietta
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Molly
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Penelope
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Lucy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Annabelle
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Kitty
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Sally
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Henrietta
M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney
Copyright
Henrietta
Copyright ©1979 by Marion Chesney
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795319648
To my friend Madeline Trezza,
her husband Tony,
and her children Dana and Anthony.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
So this was London!
Miss Henrietta Sandford cowered in the corner of the carriage and fervently wished that she had never left the quiet county town of Nethercote to answer the mysterious summons she had received only that morning. The noise of the city streets was deafening as crowds jostled along the pavements under the old overhanging buildings. The smell from the kennels in the middle of the street was nigh overwhelming.
The hack negotiated the film of Ludgate Hill and then picked its leisurely way up Fleet Street past the red latticed windows of the taverns. The shop signs rattled and creaked mournfully as they swung back and forth in the bitter November wind.
The hack came to a halt in the press of traffic. Suddenly a drunk pressed his face against the carriage window, staring mindlessly at Henrietta with wild red eyes peering out from a forest of long, greasy unkempt hair.
She gave a squeak of alarm and turned her head away. The carriage jerked forward and she went over the events of the morning in an effort to settle her mind.
She had been going about her parish duties of visiting the poor—or rather her brother, the vicar’s duties—when suddenly an unfamiliar soberly dressed servant appeared by her side.
He had a message for her from her Great-Aunt, Mrs. Hester Tankerton. Henrietta was not aware until that moment that she had a Great-Aunt or indeed any other living relative apart from her brother, Henry. Mrs. Tankerton feared she was dying, explained the servant and was desirous of seeing Miss Sandford without delay. He cautioned, she must not tell anyone, especially her brother, of her visit.
Henrietta had been first frightened and then intrigued. Bullied by her brother and treated as little better than a servant, Henrietta had experienced very little excitement in her life. London was only a few hours ride from Nethercote, and all at once, Henrietta had decided to go. The servant seemed respectable. And before she had had time to draw breath, she was swaying and bumping along the London road. Now as she stared out at the strange sights and sounds of the metropolis, she felt she had been indeed mad to go on such a wild venture.
With a sigh of relief, she noticed that the streets seemed to be getting broader and quieter and at last the coach came to a stop in front of an imposing mansion.
Feeling suddenly quite shabby in her outmoded pelisse and refurbished poke bonnet, Henrietta knocked firmly on the door. It was opened by a middle-aged butler who bowed her into a shadowy hallway with various servants sitting around on wooden benches. Obviously Mrs. Tankerton’s staff was taking advantage of her illness, thought Henrietta. Even in provincial Nethercote, the servants were expected to remain in their own quarters unless they
were actively engaged in work. Evidence of Mrs. Tankerton’s old-fashioned ways was amply illustrated when Henrietta was ushered into a cedar parlor on the first floor to await her Great-Aunt’s summons. A ring of hard upright chairs stood in a circle on an uncarpeted floor where the ladies were supposed to sit and coze. Obviously Mrs. Tankerton did not believe in the more relaxed atmosphere of the modern drawing room with its oriental rugs and scattered chairs.
There was no fire in the grate and the wind howled dismally in the chimney. After what seemed like an age, the butler reappeared to inform Miss Sandford in hushed accents that Mrs. Tankerton awaited her.
She passed up another narrow flight of stairs to a massive oak door and into a dark bedroom dominated by a huge four-poster on which a small figure lay hunched against the pillows. Henrietta hesitated on the threshold, her heart beating fast. The curtains were tightly drawn and the only light came from a single candle beside the bed. The bare floor was waxed to a high shine. The only other furniture was a table beside the bed, laden with phials and medicine bottles and a few occasional chairs crowded against the far wall.
“Is that Miss Sandford, Hobbard?” came a querulous voice from the bed. The butler placed a chair beside the bed and withdrew. Henrietta moved slowly forward.
“Come here child and let me have a look at you.” Mrs. Hester Tankerton raised herself slightly on the pillows. She was an elderly woman with thin wisps of grey hair escaping from under an enormous lace cap. The face was waxen, almost translucent, held to this world by a pair of small bright eyes like a bird’s. Henrietta stood before her, her hazel eyes looking wonderingly at the small figure on the bed. Mrs. Tankerton sank back on the pillows as if the small effort had completely exhausted her. “You don’t look like your brother,” said Mrs. Tankerton, “but that’s about all I can say for you.”
“You know Henry?” asked Henrietta in surprise.
“’Course I know Henry,” snapped the invalid. “I know Henry and about every other toady in London. I’m very rich and I’m about to make my will. What d’ye think of that?”
Henrietta moved her hands in a sort of bewildered embarrassment and remained silent.
“Faugh!” said Mrs. Tankerton in disgust. “Milk and water miss! I am looking for an heir worthy of my fortune. Not some countrified, dowdy miss, frightened to open her mouth. Be off with you!”
She struggled to reach a small handbell beside the bed.
“Allow me, madame,” said a voice like ice. Mrs. Tankerton looked up and encountered such a blazing look of dislike in Henrietta’s large eyes that she remained frozen, her withered hand stopped motionless in mid air.
“You,” said Miss Sandford, clearly and distinctly, “are a horrible old woman. No amount of money in the world gives you the right to be uncivil, madame. Good day to you!”
She marched past the astounded butler who had just arrived at the door of the room, and ran lightly down the stairs. She gave vent to her lacerated feelings by slamming the street door behind her with a resounding and most unladylike bang, and jumped into the coach.
Hobbard went forward anxiously to where his old mistress lay shaking on the bed. To his surprise he found that Mrs. Tankerton was convulsed with laughter.
“By George, Hobbard,” she gasped. “Send for my lawyers. This’ll put the cat among the pigeons. I’d give a monkey to see the look on Henry Sandford’s face when the will is read.
“She’ll do. Yes, I really think she’ll do….”
Chapter Two
“Dear Henrietta, I feel you should pay a call on Miss Scattersworth,” said the vicar of St Anne’s, Mr. Henry Sandford. “I myself will call on Lord and Lady Belding.”
Miss Henrietta Sandford twitched the curtains and stared out at the rain which was blanketing the county town of Nethercote. “You will be taking the carriage then,” she remarked in her placid voice.
“Of course,” remarked the vicar, preening himself in the looking glass and straightening his cravat. “One must keep up appearances. But you will find the walk to Miss Scattersworth’s invigorating. We should not put off our calls simply because one of our parishioners lives in the poorer section of the town.”
Henrietta reflected that her brother, the vicar, did not at any time feel obliged to put his glossy hessians inside the door of any low class house. He left that duty to his sister. But she was fond of Miss Mattie Scattersworth who was an elderly spinster of the parish and one of her few close friends. She made a move to leave the room.
But her brother was not finished with her. He felt irritated that Henrietta had accepted the duty of a walk in the rain without fuss. He racked his brain for some way to annoy her.
“It is very gracious of the Beldings to include you in their invitation to the ball. It promises to be a very grand affair. Ah! If only you were as beautiful as Miss Alice Belding, we should have you married to some fine London Lord.”
Miss Henrietta Sandford’s one claim to beauty lay in a pair of magnificent hazel eyes. And with them, she surveyed her plump and pompous brother with an unfathomable expression. “Well, Henry, since I am six and twenty and practically an ape leader, you should realize that there is no hope for me,” she finally remarked with an edge to her voice.
“And whose fault is that?” said her brother, turning an unflattering shade of red. “You could have been married to the squire had you not been so stubborn.” The squire, Sir Arthur Cromer, was a widower of fifty-eight with daughters as old as Henrietta herself. It was an old argument and Henrietta decided to make her escape. She was entirely dependent on her brother for the roof over her head and the clothes on her back and he unfortunately topped every argument by reminding her of that unpleasant fact.
Henrietta escaped up the stairs to her room and began to prepare for the wet walk ahead. She pulled the heavy wooden pattens over her shoes and put that dowdy piece of headgear called a calash over her bonnet to protect her from the elements, reflecting that it would have cost her brother very little to allow her to hire a chair. But Henry delighted in penny-pinching—as far as his sister was concerned. His own clothes-leaned almost to dandyism and would not have disgraced a Bond Street beau.
The town of Nethercote was considered by the few visitors from London to be a charming seventeenth-century village and by its residents as a bustling metropolis. Most of the town was centered round the central market square with its Assembly Rooms and posting house, The George and Dragon. Why go to London when the shops of Nethercote had everything there was to buy from the best of plain English fare to a real French dressmaker, Madame Aimée? The fact that Madame Aimée was once a Clapham seamstress called Bertha Battersby had been long forgotten and the townspeople did as much to foster her French image as Madame Aimée did herself.
Aristocracy was in residence just outside the town in the shape of the Beldings; and Arthur Cromer, Henrietta’s rejected squire, lived in a brand new cottage ornée to remind the sophisticates of Nethercote of the simple joys of country life despite the fact that his vast thatched-roofed residence could have housed a whole army of tenant farmers and their laborers.
Henrietta picked her way across the slippery cobbles of the market square, with the heavy ring on the soles of her pattens making an ugly clanking sound and the rain beginning to trickle down her neck.
The visit to Mrs. Tankerton seemed to be a long, long way away. She had told no one of her visit, not even Miss Scattersworth. Miss Mattie Scattersworth would have thought her mad for not trying to ingratiate herself into the rich lady’s graces.
Miss Scattersworth lived above the bakery at the corner of the square. She was one of Nethercote’s many indigent gentlewomen, keeping the body and soul together by sharing each other’s modest tea trays, and perpetually living in the grim and awful shadow of the poorhouse.
As she climbed the stairs to Miss Scattersworth’s lodgings, Henrietta composed her features into their usual outward calm.
“My dear Henrietta!” gasped Miss Scattersworth, “So deligh
ted! But in this terrible weather. You must be chilled to the bone.”
“I am,” said Henrietta matter-of-factly. “Do let me in, Mattie.”
Miss Scattersworth stood aside with profuse apologies and followed her young friend into the tiny parlor where a meager fire fought a losing battle with the all-pervading chill of the bleak November day.
Henrietta placed a basket of victuals tactfully on a small table but Miss Mattie’s quick eyes had caught the action and filled with grateful tears. “So good of your dear brother,” she said in a choked voice.
“Fustian!” said Henrietta sharply. “You know he would not even give you a piece of bread. I stole these from the kitchens.”
Only in front of her elderly friend did Henrietta put off her carefully cultivated social mask. Miss Mattie gave a delighted gasp and covered her mouth with her long, bony freckled fingers.
A lifetime of genteel poverty had not dimmed Miss Mattie’s spirit for adventure. A thin angular female of sixty-two with thick grey hair in neat bunches of ringlets under a modest cap, she had never given up hoping that something exciting would happen to change her drab life. She was an avid reader of novels and Henrietta thought that her friend lived more between the pages of her favorite romances than in the real world.
When they were both seated in front of the fire, Mattie leaned forward and grasped Henrietta’s hand. “Now tell me all about your going to the Beldings’ ball. What are you going to wear? Do you think you are going to fall in love? I can see it all. He will cover your face with impassioned kisses and…”
“And throw me across his saddle-bow,” grinned Henrietta. “And of course Miss Alice Belding will be so madly jealous that she will…”
“Take poison and in a fit of remorse for all the bad things she has said to you, will leave you all her money in her will and…” cried Mattie.
“And,” interrupted Henrietta, “we will both go to London for the Season where we will dazzle all the gentlemen with our unique beauty and…”
“I shall marry an Earl and you a Duke,” finished Mattie triumphantly.
Both burst out laughing. Then Henrietta shook her head. “You know what it will be like, Mattie. I shall sit in the corner with the chaperones and occasionally be singled out by Alice who will deign to drop a few crumbs of gossip to me from her lofty height.”