by Joan Smith
“I believe it is, but Stornaway mentioned twice its being only a small informal do. Of course he did not say so till I mentioned my disgust of big parties.”
“It is too late to prepare costumes.”
“Too late? Why, we would have all day tomorrow. Dominoes can be had ready-made, and masks . . ." I looked, to see whether to allow my hopes to soar once more, as they had when first she told me of the call. Her face was radiant. Though she did not realize it, the precious cards were held against her heart. “Since you are so eager to go, my dear, I shall oblige you in the matter. It will do Perdita a world of good to be on terms with the Prince when she goes to London, too. A little attention from him would set her up.”
There was a small party coming in for dinner. The famous cards were removed from the mirror to sit on the sofa table, for easy discovery by the first lady who laid down her reticule. It chanced to be a Mrs. Carlisle.
“Maude—what is this?” she asked, picking them up. “How did the Prince ever hear of you?”
“Lord Stornaway, an acquaintance of my niece, called and brought the cards. The son of that shabby countess who billets herself at the Pavilion every spring.”
“Ah, the handsome son! That explains it. He has Perdita in his eye. He flies too high for her, Maude. I saw Lady Stornaway in the royal carriage this afternoon. She is either the Prince’s chère amie or the chère amie's best friend. There is some uncertainty in the matter, but she is seen about everywhere with him. I would adore to meet her.” Mrs. Carlisle received a half dozen glares at having let a piece of truth slip into her outpouring.
“She is lively, a pretty woman,” one of the gentlemen was allowed to acknowledge.
“I saw her walking in the gardens in a damped gown, at her age,” the admirer’s spouse said spitefully.
“Wish I had seen her,” the husband retaliated.
“You will never accept the invitation, Maude?” Mrs. Carlisle asked.
“Miss Greenwood has twisted my arm. She wants to go and see the Prince’s treasures.”
“What is the son like?” another lady asked.
“You must ask my niece,” Maude replied, the interest of her caller mounting higher at every question and comment. “He was very taken with her. She has visited at his summer place, near Tunbridge Wells.”
“I did not care for him,” Perdita said firmly. “He is fast.”
The neighbors nodded their heads in approval of her wisdom, and continued to proclaim their lack of interest in meeting such an infamous pair of rakes as the Stornaways for several minutes. Their indifference reached such heights they could speak of nothing else till dinner was served.
When the last hand of cards was played and the company departed, Maude said complacently that she had not had such a pleasant evening in years. Her only regret was that Gretta Norton had not been present.
“We shall go downtown very early in the morning to choose our dominoes and masks, to leave time to make a few preparations for the little party,” she said casually.
We spent the better part of the next day making our “few preparations.” The coiffeur was called in to construct an extravagant do for Maude, to curl Perdita’s golden hair, and to arrange my own. We were all eager to check out the gown that would go beneath the domino, to ensure that shoe buckles sparkled, that nails were manicured, that a strawberry or lemon facial was applied to fade any wayward spot, and bring a blush of healthy color. In short, the entire household was in a pucker throughout the whole day, running feverishly about borrowing nail trimmers, creams and pumice stones, darting to the shop for new silk stockings, for even the feet were to be done up in the highest kick of elegance. Callers were turned from the door with no hardness of feelings. The Cosgrove set realized one did not to go to the Pavilion without twenty-four hours’ hard preparing to appear natural. By the dinner hour, we were all tuckered out, and as fidgety as broody hens. Cook had prepared a special seafood dinner to honor the occasion. I hope it was enjoyed in the kitchen, for that is where three-quarters of it ended up.
As we arose from the table, three small corsages were brought to the door. "Roses," Mrs. Cosgrove said, smiling. "That was thoughtful of him.” She held the card in her fingers. Her smile was not broad enough to indicate a princely sender.
"Who are they from?” I asked.
“Stornaway,” she said, putting the card in her pocket. I was too shy to ask her to let me see it.
* * *
Chapter 20
At the appointed hour, we assembled in the saloon for a glass of sherry to reinforce us for the strain of making our curtsies to the Regent. With a final check in the mirror, we were off, rather wishing, at the last minute, that we had a male for escort. I don’t believe a word was spoken between us as the carriage proceeded along the red-brick roadway of the Steyne, past the geometrical gardens, to the Pavilion Parade. We had not before entered into the private ten acres of ground, but had contented to drive past and look from the carriage.
The Pavilion was an impressive sight, its facade nearly five hundred feet long. One hardly knew what to feel, to look at the strange assortment of Moorish, Russian and Grecian architecture. Colonnade and entablature vied with green-roofed domes, minarets, cones and battlements. Bath stone and stuccoed brick and trellis-work jumbled together in pretty confusion.
“Barbaric!” Mrs. Cosgrove decreed happily.
“Oh I think it is sweet!” Perdita coo’d, while I found myself beyond not only speech, but even thought. I was a cauldron of turmoil that had nothing to do with the architecture. In a minute I would see him.
We entered the domed porch, to be shown through an octagonal vestibule with Chinese lanterns into a large hall, whose ceiling was painted like a cloud-laden sky. A last peek into the mirror over the marble mantel showed us three fearful faces. It also showed me what I never suspected before, that Aunt Maude rouged her cheeks. I wished I had done so. I looked too pale. A footman announced us, and we went into the Chinese Gallery.
We saw first-hand the First Gentleman of Europe, outfitted like the first dandy, in a gaudy white satin jacket, plastered with gold medals and ribbons. His portly frame was held into shape by a corset, whose stays creaked with the effort of containing such mountains of flesh. He was scented and powdered, and none too steady on his legs, though whether it were the drink or overweight that caused it was unclear. Both the light and the heat were overwhelming, like a desert at high noon, but a desert blooming with every manner of colorful, exotic flower.
We made our practiced curtsies, and were welcomed most graciously to the Prince’s little do. “I hope you will enjoy it. We don’t see enough of the youngsters.” Perdita was subjected to a covetous examination at this speech. "What is your name, lass?” he asked her.
"Perdita Brodie," she said shyly.
"Perdita! Ah, how it takes one back to his youth,” he said, fingering a lace-edged handkerchief. "You are too young to be aware of Perdita and Florizel. Perhaps you, Mrs. Cosgrove, are familiar with that youthful, tragic tale.”
She pulled a sympathetic face, though I had often heard her and her friends complain of his harsh treatment of his first mistress, Perdita Robinson.
"The wonderful folly of youth,” he said, dabbing at his rheumy eyes with the lace. "Take this beautiful lass away. I cannot bear the memories."
Before she obeyed the royal command, she found a moment to utter some phrases in praise of his building, and its treasures. They restored him to humor, before he turned to greet the next guests. Perdita was that easily forgotten. "John, you sly villain!” the Prince said jovially to some newcomer.
With our duty done, we were free to stare in open wonder at the scene around us. It was difficult to know whether we were in the orient, a hothouse, or a jewel shop-window. There was chinoiserie everywhere, there was the effigy of flowers on walls and forming lampshades, there was ironwork formed to resemble bamboo, and there was an opulence of gold and jewel tones that boggled
the mind. Mirrors too abounded, to multiply the lights and ornaments and crowds out of all proportion. No elaborate masquerade costumes were in evidence. A dame or two had powdered her hair in the old style, while one gentleman wore a pink fitted coat and held a feathered hat that looked old and vaguely French. For the most part, the ladies wore very daring gowns, some of them damped to cling to figures that were either too portly or too meager to look well. The gentlemen wore black jackets, with a sprinkling of livelier colors.
We none of us recognized a single soul in the room. The guests were Londoners, famous personages from the nobility, politics and the sphere of arts, Maude told us, though she could not be sure which person represented which field. I personally could have been well entertained for a fortnight just looking at them. They were not beautiful, but they were interesting, in a dissipated way. They were also totally unimpressed with the Pavilion and the Prince.
“Oh well, if he is going to inflict his playing on us, I for one mean to retire with my dispatch box,” one elderly gentleman said, and turned on his heel to slip out a side door.
The noise was at a high pitch. The ladies especially all talked at the top of their lungs on matters that ought to have been discussed in a whisper, or not at all. Snatches of indiscreet conversations floated on the air. ". . . said she was going to visit her mama, but went to stay the weekend with her lover at Hurley Hall. . .," "he felt obliged to call him out, but could not like to treat his wife’s lover so shabby . . .," "lost ten thousand pounds at one sitting, and he owing every merchant in the city . . .," "saw him at the ball with Lord Peter’s French whore, both of them disguised . . ." One speech in particular called my attention to the speaker. "If Sir Scawen thinks to make an honest woman of Lady Stornaway, I wish him luck of an impossible endeavor.”
It was a gaunt, ugly woman in a hideous purple gown who spoke, to an even uglier man, who was wobbling on his feet. "Top of the trees, Nel . . ." was his incomprehensible reply. Then he turned and straggled away from the lady, to take another glass of wine from a servant. Strolling towards a table, he lifted a small gold box, a snuffbox I believe it was, and slipped it into his pocket. I could not but think of O’Reilly, and his light fingers. But he had at least the excuse of the shopkeeper’s heavy thumb to justify his deed. The actresses too had penury to blame for their wanton carrying on. What excuse had these aristocrats, but boredom?
“It is exactly as I imagined,” Maude said happily. “We really ought not to have come.” She had no air of meaning to depart for all that.
It was impossible to disagree with her speech. There was not a person of character in the room. The gouty bodies and raddled faces of the guests spoke clearly of the dissipated life they led. Despite the grandeur, the wine and the noise, there was no real gaiety either, but only a desperate search for it. It was rather pitiful. Already, after only a quarter of an hour, the noise, the heat and the blazing lights were beginning to pall. Had it not been for Stornaway, I would have welcomed an excuse to leave. But I had come in hopes of seeing him, so set myself to the task of finding him out. He entered suddenly through one of the false bamboo arches, looking like a breath of spring, in all the surrounding decadence. I had not realized how well formed his body was, how tall and straight; his face too was at odds with the haggard countenances on all sides. His expression was alert, his eyes sparkling as he looked all around. When he spotted us, he advanced at a rapid gait, nearly capsizing an admiral in his haste.
He made a graceful bow, said his good evenings, and told Maude how happy he was that she had come. “I am not at all sure it was wise,” she admitted, with a passing glance over the crowd.
“There is a quieter room with some card tables set up, if you would like to escape,” he offered.
I do not think she had any real desire to escape, but to view another chamber was acceptable. We all went to a more sedate, though still gaudy, chamber where half a dozen tables were being made up. The misfits were assembled here, taking refuge from the din. A few Brighton acquaintances were discovered, and invited Maude to join them.
“I shall look after the ladies,” Stornaway offered.
“We shall not stay long,” Maude said aside to me. “No harm can come to you, though I dislike to think of you girls being exposed to those people. Keep a sharp eye on Perdita, my dear.”
"There is some dancing going forth in the Crimson Saloon,” he mentioned, as we left.
“Oh good! Let us go to the Crimson Saloon,” Perdita said. “We shall never be back, and I would like to see as much as possible tonight.”
The crowd here was younger than elsewhere. They were not yet so deeply sunk into dissipation as their elders. Stornaway found a respectable gentleman friend in the throng who was very happy to be presented to Miss Brodie, and lead her to the floor.
“At last,” he said, when we were alone.
He did not wear his black sling, but held the limb at a cautious angle, rather close against his body. “You are not able to dance yet. How is your wound, Stornaway? I hope you are recovering satisfactorily.” I felt strangely shy, now that I was with him again.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” he asked, with a deprecatory shake of the head, as his fingers tightened on mine. “The wound is fine. I don’t want to dance. We must find a quiet place to talk.”
We walked to the edge of the room and sat on two highly original and uncomfortable chairs, that looked like tulips growing out of the floor. “Your aunt disapproves of me. Small wonder. She was barely civil when I called. I hoped she might succumb to the temptation of the Pavilion. I did not see how else I was to reach you, being hampered on all sides by propriety. Did she tell you I wrote you at Alton’s, and the stupid servants did not forward the letter?”
“Yes, she told me.” I noticed Stornaway was chattering in a nervous way, unlike himself.
“So what is to be done?” he asked bluntly.
“What do you mean?” I looked, trying to read his mind. It sounded ominously like a prelude to a brush-off. There was no smile, no intimacy in his words or tone.
“She has no actual authority over you, cannot forbid the match, or anything of that sort?”
My heart leapt for joy. “We have not spoken of a match, Stornaway,” I mentioned. Forbid it, indeed! Much I cared if she forbid it a thousand times!
“You are having second thoughts,” he said quietly. "This is not the optimum meeting place for me to convince you I am a reformed man. I am only here because of Mama, and because there was no room to be had at an inn, but mostly, of course, because you are at Brighton.”
“I heard someone say your mother is to be married,” I said, feeling some perverse urge to change the subject, to see how quickly he would return to it.
“Yes, the engagement is not formally announced yet. An old friend and neighbor, Sir Scawen Blinker, has offered for her. They have known each other anytime these thirty years. I could hardly be more surprised had she set up as a nun. About us, Molly . . ."
“Your mother is here, is she, at the Pavilion?”
“Yes, around somewhere. I’ll present you to her later. Mol, stop diverting me: I’m a big boy. I can take it. You have changed your mind, is that it?” His eyes were brightly inquisitive, beautifully worried, as eager as a puppy’s. “Rescue me,” he said simply.
“A man must do that for himself.”
“I am trying. Help me. I don’t want to end up like these people. I thought I would, till I met you. I am convinced a marriage of convenience leads to nothing but—this,” he flung his good arm out towards the dancers. “If a man is not happy at home, he leaves home as much as possible. And where does he go? Where his friends and acquaintances congregate—clubs, such dens as this. Stafford has already begun laying plans for the Season’s dissipation, and he not married above a week. I had the most pitiful letter from him, trying to sound happy, you know . . . That is not going to happen to me. I am through with worldly-wise folly.”
As he spoke, an eld
erly couple came into the room and sauntered towards us. The woman was pretty, rouged and carefully curled. The man at her side looked out of place, due to his austere expression and his sober outfit.
“Sonnie!” the lady chirped, holding her arms out to Stornaway. “Is this her?” she asked, looking towards me, her eyes widening.
I arose to greet the eldsters. “This is Miss Greenwood, Mama, whom I have been telling you about.” They sat down with us. The mama subjected me to a gentle quizzing, as any prospective mama-in-law will do. I could not return the compliment, but no questions were necessary to find her vain, silly, and quite charming.
"I was in alt when I learned Sonnie had broken off with that wretched Dulcinea,” she said frankly. "The duchess called, trying to patch it up, but I snubbed her. It simply would not do. How could I have borne to have her forever underfoot, disapproving of me? He brought her home to me, you know, then he slipped out early from the party and left me to entertain her. It was the fear of her that nudged me into accepting Scawen, but once it was done, I did not back down, even though it was no longer necessary. Scawen disapproves of me too, but I can always handle him.”
Sir Scawen smiled so fatuously at this plain talking that there was no reason to doubt her. “I hear you had a marvelous adventure with some actors. You must tell me all about it. When you were pointed out to me across the hall, I felt sure it was the petite blonde Sonnie had fallen for. I am so glad it was not. She don’t look up to his weight, but I am quite sure you could handle a whole herd of rakes, my dear. You look very resolute.”
"Oh! Thank you. I think?”
"I meant it as a compliment,” she said, blinking her great blue eyes at me.
They stayed for ten minutes talking to us. Sir Scawen seemed a sensible man. Before leaving, he told me he was vastly relieved to see Sonnie choose so wisely. I hardly knew what he meant, but like the mother’s remark, it was meant for a compliment.
