The Daughter of Ashcombe Hall

Belgravia, London-1870

Lady Amelia Ashcombe watched through the window as the crowds of people dressed in the most formal attire thronged into the building. The forecourt of Ashcombe House was lined with glowing iron-lamp carriages as guests descended into the brightly lit entrance.

"You ought to look more excited than that dear, for it is this very event this very evening that could officially determine your future", her mother, Lady Vivienne Ashcombe told her, upon noticing the expression of indifference in her face.

Forcing a smile, Amelia replied to her mother, "I am excited, mother. I guess it is just simply nerves."

Her mother let out a laugh-or rather snort-as she said to her daughter,

"I can assure you my dear that with your beauty and etiquette, there is no reason for such a state of apprehension. You have already been presented at the Royal Court, and everything can only be smooth sailing from here. Besides, nerves are the one thing a lady cannot afford. This is your own home after all-or at least one of them-so you ought to be setting an example with your confidence, for if anything, you are the host of the occasion, the guest of honour."

Amelia continued to smile, although no matter how hard she tried, the smile refused to meet her eyes. This evening she would be formally introduced to society, and would have the opportunity to dance with a range of wealthy and handsome suitors. She supposed she should be excited, for it was the kind of life most girls only dreamed of. Aesthetically, she could not deny the beauty, for as she entered the gilded ballroom of her parents' townhouse, she beheld a sweeping marble staircase, the warm golden glow of thousands of beeswax tapers, along with the heavy chandelier with crystals that sparkled like twinkling stardust. Indeed it mesmerised her, yet she could still not feel the excitement whirring inside of her.

Dressed in a pristine white gown, accompanied by a long train, paired with a veil and an ostrich feather headdress, Amelia walked slowly into the gilded ballroom, which was teeming with heavy silk and satin crinolines, which dragged across the polished oak floors, the sharp tuning of violins piercing the air, as everyone waltzed to the elegant, lifting melodies they played. There were many other girls around the same age as her, dressed almost identically, carrying a dance card, while the young men, also around her age, here dressed the very image of nobility in their sharply tailored double-breasted frock coats.

Amelia was sure she had never spoken to so many people at once in her life, nor had she ever been complimented so much. She supposed she should be grateful and flattered, as any young lady would surely be upon being praised. Both prospective suitors and other ladies alike had praised her for her delicate beauty and elegant manners, for it was clear her time at finishing school had made her an expert in social graces and convention. At eighteen years of age, it was high time she found a prospective husband, or so her parents had made clear, but only would she be ready to do so once she had been presented to high society and of course prospective suitors, at none other than a lavish debutante ball.

"Forgive me for being so forward, but I just couldn't help but notice how beautiful you looked, miss. What is your name?"

Amelia snapped out of her trance and noticed a young man around her own age standing before her, with fair curls and a smile with teeth that sparkled like pearls.

Although Amelia had been fully prepared for this occasion, the bustling atmosphere of the place had left her in quite a daze, finding herself momentarily rendered of speech.

"Where are your manners, dear? This nice young man has just complimented you and is trying to talk to you-no doubt he wishes to have this next dance with you.", her mother whispered through gritted teeth, nudging her in the process.

"I'm sorry, it appears I was in a world of my own. Amelia is the name. Amelia Ashcombe."

Lady Vivienne raised her eyes, promptly smiling at the young man. "Lady Amelia Ashcombe that is."

"I am Frederick Charteris. Would you care to have this next dance with me?"

Amelia hesitated, but then seeing her mother's narrowed eyes and thinly curved lips, she hastily said,

"Of course, yes indeed you may have this dance."

Turning to look at her mother again, she noticed the thin curve in her lips had now turned to a smile, accompanied by an approving nod, as Amelia let herself be whisked off onto the dance floor by Frederick Charteris.

"I must say, not only do you possess the beauty of a blooming flower, but you also dance with such fluid grace."

Amelia smiled, but the smile did not quite meet her eyes.

"Thank you kindly."

She supposed she ought to be flattered by such a compliment-many girls her age would be, and it only made her further realise that she was not like many of the other girls in this room. She was dressed much the same as the other girls here, and indeed came from a similar background to them, yet deep inside she could feel as if she could not have any less in common with them.

After a number of dances and conversations of which she had long lost track, Amelia found her head whirring. Turning to her mother, who had remained by her side, or rather hovering over her like a watchful hawk, she said to her:

"Mother, it has been an excellent evening I am sure, but I feel I am ready to take leave, for I am rather tired."

Lady Vivenne looked at her daughter as if she had suddenly developed three heads.

"Where on earth are your manners, dear? You are here to meet prospective suitors, and still have many to meet and dance with. You should be enjoying this event, not trying to rush off from it, for it may well decide and ultimately secure your future. Now, there shall be no more talk of going home, not until you have made more of an effort with these lovely young men. They have been most courteous towards you, yet it appears almost as if they are trying to obtain blood from a stone."

Amelia sighed. She supposed she ought be for happy, for most girls her age would feel as if they were living a dream-a fairy tale-to be dancing with numerous handsome and wealthy men, one of whom she would likely find herself married off to. Yet somewhere within this glittering fairy tale was a gilded cage, and instead of a princess was a pretty bird, trapped inside of this cage as it was admired for its beauty and elegance, yet longed to escape and explore the world beyond.

Amelia had just escaped the last dance when her mother’s hand settled lightly at her elbow.

“Amelia, my dear,” Lady Ashcombe said, with that particular softness which always meant obedience was expected, “there is someone I should like you to meet.”

Before Amelia could answer, her mother guided her toward a gentleman standing beside Lord Ashcombe near the marble fireplace.

He was tall, impeccably dressed, and perhaps ten or twelve years older than Amelia. His dark evening coat was cut with severe elegance, his gloves spotless, his expression composed. Nothing about him was improper. Nothing about him was ungracious.

And yet Amelia felt, before he even spoke, that he was a man accustomed to being obeyed.

“Lord Whitcombe,” Lady Ashcombe said, “may I present my daughter, Lady Amelia Ashcombe.”

The gentleman bowed over Amelia’s hand.

“A pleasure, Lady Amelia.”

His voice was smooth, measured, and perfectly controlled.

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” Amelia replied, because that was what she had been taught to say.

His eyes rested on her face a moment longer than was comfortable.

“Your mother tells me you have recently returned from finishing school.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“A most valuable institution,” he said. “A young lady’s education is never more successful than when it teaches her how to move gracefully through the world.”

Amelia felt the words settle over her like a veil.

“Grace is useful, certainly,” she said carefully. “Though I have sometimes thought understanding the world might be equally valuable.”

There was the faintest pause.

Lord Whitcombe smiled.

Not warmly.

“An unusual observation for a young lady.”

Lady Ashcombe’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against Amelia’s arm.

Amelia lowered her eyes, though not quickly enough to hide the spark of irritation.

“My daughter is fond of reading,” Lord Ashcombe said, with a small laugh meant to soften the moment.

“A harmless fondness,” Lord Whitcombe replied, “provided the books are wisely chosen.”

Amelia looked up then.

“And who is to choose them, my lord?”

His smile did not falter.

"Those with greater experience, naturally."

The answer was polite. Perfectly polite.

That made it worse.

A silence stretched between them, thin as glass.

Then the orchestra began another waltz, and Lord Whitcombe extended his hand.

“May I have the honour?”

Amelia could feel her parents watching her.

Every lesson she had ever been taught pressed upon her at once: smile, accept, be agreeable, do not embarrass the family.

So she placed her hand in his.

As he led her toward the dance floor, Lord Whitcombe said, “You will find, Lady Amelia, that life is much easier when one does not resist the order of things.”

Amelia looked at the bright chandeliers, the silk gowns, the smiling faces turning around them.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I imagine it is.”

But as the music began and he guided her into the first turn, Amelia knew with sudden certainty that ease was not the same as happiness.

Amelia had meant only to retrieve her gloves.

They had been left in the small withdrawing room beside the conservatory, where she had escaped earlier for three precious minutes of silence. The house was quieter now, the music from the ballroom softened by distance, the laughter reduced to a faint glittering murmur beyond the walls.

She was halfway across the corridor when she heard her father’s voice.

"Whitmore is an excellent match."

Amelia stopped.

The name struck her with no particular feeling at first, only recognition. Viscount Nathaniel Whitmore had bowed over her hand that evening with polished courtesy and eyes that seemed to measure rather than admire.

Her mother answered, low and pleased. “He was most attentive to her tonight.”

“Attentive enough,” Lord Ashcombe replied. “And his fortune is secure. His connections are useful. There could be no objection.”

Amelia’s fingers tightened around the banister.

No objection.

As though she were a house to be leased, a horse to be purchased, a portrait to be hung in the correct room.

“She is young,” Lady Ashcombe said, though there was no protest in it. “And Amelia has always had… opinions.”

“A husband will settle that.”

The words were spoken calmly. Not cruelly. That was the worst of it.

Amelia felt the breath leave her.

Her mother gave a faint sigh. “She must learn that cleverness is not always an ornament in a woman.”

"No," her father said. "But obedience is."

For a moment Amelia could not move. The corridor seemed suddenly narrow, the candlelight dim and airless. From the ballroom came the faint sound of applause, delicate and distant, as if belonging to another world entirely.

Inside the room, her parents continued arranging her future.

A visit would be encouraged. A proposal expected. Her acceptance assumed.

Amelia stood unseen in the shadows, her gloves forgotten, her heart beating with a strange new terror.

Until that night, she had believed her life was merely restricted.

Now she understood it was already being handed away.