Polite chatter filled the drawing room of Briggswath Hall. With only a few red sofa’s and salon chairs, a few small tables, and a rosewood grand piano in the corner, the room was under-furnished compared to most drawing rooms. But Lady Selby abhorred the vulgar oriental fans, vases and screens, gilded mirros, drapes and tapestries, dried flowers, china, photographs and other paraphernalia that cluttered the drawing rooms of insecure, young brides in lesser homes.
 
That was not to say that the room was modest. Rather, it’s timeless elegance resulted from the excellent state of the thick carpet; from the intricate details – lions, sphinxes, roses, letters – hidden here and there in corners of the oak panelling around the walls;  from centuries of ancestry shown in a few portraits on the walls – bonnets and wigs and armour and all; from the high, neoclassical ceiling with its ornamental relief and painted pantheon.
 
Lady Selby moved around the room with matching grace, greeting and pairing her guests. Her attire was rather muted for a formal dinner, her dress slightly old fashioned, though made by one of the best dressmakers in Paris, and her jewels modest. But then again, the guests were nothing special: locals with little to recommend themselves in terms of title, rank or connection, but whose company she enjoyed – and also a few whose company she did not enjoy, but whom she could not overlook without giving offense. Whitby wasn’t Mayfair.
 
She approached her latest arrival with a reserved smile. Mr. Du Pond was a very recent addition to her social circle. She could not decide whether she liked him. But she found that she liked his existence in Whitby’s highest echelons. He was an outsider as an American, as a black man, and as someone who had taken Whitby’s polite society by storm. It seemed to her that only a few weeks ago, no one had ever heard of ‘Frank Du Pont’, and then overnight she had heard his name on every set of lips and he was at every social gathering. His manners were certainly pleasing, but something about them made her suspect that he was hiding something. She couldn’t quite pin it down. She mistrusted him. But she enjoyed his company all the more for that. He was a puzzle and she was up for the challenge. She delighted in the way he had shaken up Whitby’s sleepy society and she surmised that there were interesting developments ahead. “Ah, Mr. Du Pond,” she greeted. “How do you do?”

Frank smiled his smile with a hint of artificial sweetness. “Lady Selby, you honor me with this invitation”, he replied as he gave a small bow to the hostess like the gentleman of yore might have given once upon a time. He did not offer his hand to her yet and let her do the talking, and decided to speak only when spoken to. Since he was a boy he had been trained to watch for the signs of deceit, and he did his best to make sure that he would remain undetectable and with the suave movements of an actor as he had charmed his way into prominent homes with his well placed lies and his web of illusions for his victims to fall for and render them under his spell.  

Frank was certain he would find a well-off mark in this small circle of wealthy people, especially in this lavish home, amongst the finery of this lady. His sister had chosen the new area for their newest ploy. The young man relished the end payout, but he most enjoyed the beginning of this game of his, and he had always had a knack for storytelling when weaving his web of deceit. It could be a challenge, he decided as he integrated and ingratiated himself with the elite of this community. Ever careful not to reveal too much, lest the mask fall before his performance even started. 

Lady Selby smiled at the young foreigner's display of deference. "Not at all, Mr. Du Pond. It would seem you are a great favorite wherever you go. I wouldn't dream of denying my guests the pleasure of your company." There was only the slightest hint of sarcasm in her tone, a subtle reprimand, or a warning, rather, wrapped in friendly encouragement. He was a welcome guest, but he was not to take her for a fool. She had not lived sixty-two years, traveling the world, without learning a thing or two about people.

He was an accomplished charmer, she had to admit, and she suspected that this accounted at least in part for his successful reception in Whitby's high society. She wondered what lay beneath all the charm. A rake, she suspected, or a gold-digger. Maybe both. Maybe more. She had met her share of charming young men during her lifetime. It didn't bother her. Well-bred young ladies from good families didn't fall for men like him. He was only a potential risk to silly girls from lesser families, social climbers with money and education, but no real breeding, and probably a lack of parental oversight. Speaking of which... "I've paired you with Miss Catherine Ennington. Have you met her?"

Ah, right on schedule, he decided when talk of partners arose. He paid little mind to the idea that this older matron might be on to him. If she were, he had a few tricks up his sleeve. “I have not made her acquaintance”, he admitted. Smelling of fancy cologne, he wondered who this woman was. He had given up a long time ago on predicting the ages of women. “It would be my honor”, he replied, sounding as dignified as possible towards the older woman.

The driver had dropped the young mistress off and had gone to drink and commiserate with the other coachmen. He certainly had reason to be miserable. He had had the horses and carriage ready at six as instructed, but Miss Catherine was nowhere to be seen. He had sent a footman to tell the butler to tell the lady’s maid that the carriage was waiting. He was told that Miss Catherine would only be a minute. It was in fact a full twenty minutes, before mademoiselle came out of the mansion looking like a depressed peacock.

“Oh, please, do hurry, or I’ll be late,” she cried as if he needed to be reminded of the time! But then she stopped, “she bloody stopped!” he recounted to the McAllisters’ coachman, who listened with evident glee.

She had turned round and shown him the back of her head. Could he tell that the ringlets were not the same size? Was it very obvious? He couldn’t see anything the matter with her hair, but he suddenly understood what had kept her for so long, and he cheered up just a little in the knowledge that there was a poor lady’s maid who had already had a worse night than he could possibly have.

Still, it had taken him another five minutes to convince her that he couldn’t tell the difference between the ringlets.

“It’s these two,” she had said breathlessly, reaching up to find the ringlets she meant. “Sarah just wouldn’t listen. She kept looking at the wrong pair!”

“I promise you, Miss, I have never seen ringlets so well organized.” Or young ladies so spoiled, he had added privately.

When she was finally in the carriage, she had alternated between noises of dismay (at more flaws she had discovered in her ‘ruined’ hairdo, no doubt) and begging him to go faster. He had had to drive like a madman to get here in time. “That little brat’s out of control. Almost makes me consider going back to the Carringtons,” he told his colleague, before taking a swig of his bottle.

***

Miss Catherine Ennington glided into the room with a pleasant smile, good posture, and an air of perfect poise. Her rose-coloured mousseline de soie over ivory silk dress, with a low neckline and a tiny waist, and her pale, thin face, gave her an almost ethereal quality. Only the light blush that appeared in her neck and cheeks as she looked wide-eyed around the room, hinted at the immense pressure she had experienced ever since she had received Lady Selby’s invitation.

Lady Selby let out a sardonic: “Ha!” She took his arm to let him walk her around the room. Moving around meant there was less chance their conversation was overheard. “Not so great an honour, I’m afraid,” she explained. “The Enningtons are rather insignificant; not an old family, and not well-connected, not to anyone outside of Whitby anyway. Tradespeople – only very recently made their fortune. A very great fortune, I admit,” she added casually, though it was very much said on purpose and she turned her head ever so lightly to observe his reaction.

If they had stayed with their own set, Lady Selby might have liked the Enningtons better. She was all for industry and people bettering themselves. But the Enningtons practically thought themselves aristocracy, even though they clearly didn’t have the breeding to match the airs they put on. They were social climbers of the worst kind, pushing in where they didn’t belong and feeling entitled to do so just because they had money. Lady Selby only suffered their presence in her social circle to keep the peace. Some of her local friends were well acquainted with the Enningtons. She could not snub them without causing ripples.

Some of the daughters were tolerable. At least their parents had had the good sense to buy them an aristocratic education. Miss Catherine Ennington knew how to dress, how to walk, how to sit, how to speak, when to be quiet. She could boast a range of accomplishments that Lady Selby’s own daughters would have been jealous of. She was pretty, delicate, and had a kind nature by all accounts (for she was very involved in local charities). She was polite and respectful to everyone Lady Selby saw her interact with, including herself. In short, she was perfection incarnate. And Lady Selby found her incredibly boring.

“They bought an estate above Saltwick. And I suppose their daughters will marry into good families, as their dowries are said to be extravagant.” Of course, that had been the whole point of their rigorous education. The girls were their parents’ way into Mayfair. “As for Miss Catherine Ennington, she’s like most young ladies of her kind: very accomplished, very well-mannered, but with no opinions of her own. I wish I could have paired you with more interesting company, Mr. Du Pont, but I’m afraid I would be thought a bad host if I did not pair a young lady with a dashing bachelor like yourself.” Her eyes lit up. “Ah, here she is now.”

She led Mr. Du Pont to where young Miss Catherine was standing. “Miss Ennington, how are you? May I present Mr. Frank Du Pont?”

Lady Selby wouldn’t mind seeing Mrs. Enningtons ambitions for this pretty little puppet thwarted by scandal.