Letters passed in the mail. Sir James warned his daughter to be good and be careful, with Mama adding a postscript to be sure to see if she could find a French modiste and not to get her hair cut too short as she read La Grecque was to be all the style in the Fall. The Inglesides had each secretly foreseen an unparallelled success for their daughter, but each new letter from her set them reeling, for they had not foreseen such dizzying heights as she was reaching. The Prince of Wales actually taking tea with her and Aunt Effie, and Beau Brummell taking her to parties. “She will, be a countess before the Season is out, James, just like Effie,” Lady Mary crowed. “A duchess more like,” Sir James replied, his eyes lighting on the title of the Duke of St. Felix that cropped up in each letter. The precise nature of his visits was, of course, not remarked upon. “Duchess? Your fancy is flying too high, my dear,” Mary chided. Her own had actually soared a little higher, to the extent of checking the Peerage to see whether any of the royal dukes were available.
