The air was heavily scented with extravagant perfumes and colognes. Everyone was on their best behaviour and even the stuffed shirts attempted to make witty repartee. The ladies were attired in exquisite taffetas, silks, crêpe de Chine and muslins in every possible hue. Diamonds and baubles flashed from bare bosoms and pearls reigned in every lustre. Most ladies flaunted powdered shoulders and bare backs above nipped-in bodices. A few simpered in the newer hobble skirts but most had retained the hourglass silhouette and stuck with heavily wired and voluminous skirts.
The rising warmth of many candles intensified the cloying fragrance of hundreds of hothouse flowers. Gentlemen were attired formally in swallow-tailed evening coats with coloured nosegays in their lapels. Fans and eyelashes were aflutter and even the dowdiest matrons had donned their best black satins.
Clare Dasher had told me who had declined their invitations. I wasn’t surprised that Viola had been invited but had declined on the grounds of ill health. She was rarely seen around town and was turning into something of a recluse. Clare had been terribly disappointed that the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress were unable to attend her ball. For the Wolffs were on a cruise ship steaming to England in a bid to persuade their eldest son, Algernon Wolff, to abandon his plan of marrying a British heiress.
Algernon was having a swell time in London and had established a successful law practice. Being a colonial he was not shackled by bonds of fidelity to any of the ruling class powerbrokers and his ferocity, outstanding legal skills and oratorical brilliance gave him the advantage over other young guns for hire.
Wilbur Wolff and his lovely young wife, Thomasina, had been recruited to Horace Wolff’s rescue expedition. God knows why, for even the most disinterested observer could tell that their marriage was not something to aspire to. Perhaps that’s why Horace insisted they join the in-laws on the trip? Maybe he was hoping that by witnessing the parlous state of his younger brother’s marriage, Algernon might come to the conclusion that getting shackled was a grim proposition indeed.
According to Clare Dasher, ‘Our venerable mayor is bloody determined that his eldest son should return to Tasmania, marry a Wolfftown girl and begat a den of cubs to carry on the Wolff dynasty.’
That night Lady Dasher looked resplendent in pink silk, with an abnormally large corsage of pink orchids spilling over her prominent breasts. She passed between her guests being particularly gracious to a coven of grim dowagers. Perhaps Clare had invited them so she could rub their noses in their own jealousy. After all, everybody knew Clare Dasher was Wolfftown’s reigning society queen.
The only other contender for the title was Miss Marietta Zendik, the most successful courtesan in the whole of Tasmania. The landed gentry would do anything to obtain an invitation to Marietta’s musical soirées. She has a melodious, silvery singing voice and Tremont Pearson was utterly devoted to her. When Tremont accompanied Marietta on the piano, hardened lawyers wept tears of joy. I’m not being facetious. I witnessed this phenomenon myself one Christmas, when Algernon Wolff had sailed into town on a rare visit to his family.
Lady Dasher stopped to address one of her guests. ‘Mrs Floros, how splendid you could make it tonight. Tell me dear, have you recovered from that nasty little cough?’
‘Yes, Lady Dasher, and have you recovered from the unpleasant affliction you had with my son?’
Clare did not accept the sting. ‘Not quite, Madam. Hasn’t Angelo told you? He’ll be spending the rest of the winter here with me and painting a lively fresco in the conservatory. Such a dear boy and quite the gifted painter. You must be so proud. My hope is that Angelo’s talent can be nurtured and refined. Now much as I’d love to linger and chat, I must simply move on and speak to my other guests.’
According to Maggie, Angelo Floros was one of the young blades she’d seen staggering out of Lady Dasher’s boudoir at five in the morning. Apparently Angelo was already a shadow of his former self. Maggie reckoned, ‘Soon there’ll be nothing left of the poor bugger but an empty pair of boots sitting on her Ladyship’s tiger skin.’
Right on the stroke of midnight Charlie struck a monstrous copper gong and hungry guests streamed into the dining hall. Crystal glasses glittered in the soft light and the Dashers’ best Wedgwood porcelain was laid out amongst a profusion of glittering silverware. Four massive chandeliers laden with beeswax candles provided subtle lighting that made the ladies’ skin glow. A deep interior balcony provided extra seating and tables for guests. The balcony was extravagantly decorated with trellises covered in lush foliage and flowers. Several blooming orange trees in large tubs provided an al fresco element to the proceedings. I recognised the flamboyant hand of Serge Balsamo at work; he’d succeeded in transforming a stately British dining hall into a theatrical Italian garden. Lily would have loved it.
The guests were hungry from their exertions on the dance floor. Such appetites! It was the plague of the locusts. I carefully checked everything and ensured the waiters quickly refilled the empty platters. It seemed to me that the female guests were drawn to anything sweet. I congratulated myself that I’d had the foresight to provide a wide selection of tasty savoury dishes, many of which were heavy on succulent meats, for these were the dishes that the male guests sought out.
Many guests couldn’t tear themselves away from the ballrooms which meant that although it was hectic in the dining hall, it was still manageable.
Mr Denholm touched my arm. ‘Miss Torte, this is a truly magnificent supper. I’ve never seen anything quite like it in my life. It brings joy to the heart. What you’ve created is a polonaise of the visual, textural and olfactory senses. Those delectable pastries over there, why I can’t think of words to describe them. What are they called?’
‘Yabbie pâté en brioche, another of Charlie’s superb creations. Basically, it’s a creamed herbed pâté of tender young yabbies, wedged in a brioche pastry. But what makes them so special is that he’s used a champagne aspic to fill the small crevices.’
Mr Denholm swallowed hard and licked his lips. ‘My dear, I simply can’t resist having another one.’
I left him salivating over Charlie’s toothsome creations and returned to the annex to organise my grand finale.
I’d just finished sprinkling red rose petals over the croquembouche when Roger’s valet, Rufus, tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Mr Dasher asked me to find you. If you’d care to follow me, I’ll show you the way.’
‘Rufus, I’d really appreciate you telling Roger you couldn’t find me, or am I taking too many liberties?’
Nobody had any secrets from Rufus, he knew everything. He stroked his chin. ‘An unusual request. Recently several well-bred young ladies of his acquaintance have been vying to spend time alone with him.’
‘How alone might that be?’
‘Alone in the family parlour with Mr Dasher, while their parents are out and it’s the maid’s night off. Or they meet him in the boathouse when nobody is around.’
‘Ah, and I suppose they’re naive enough to think that this will protect their reputations?’
‘I’m afraid so. You see, my master’s very public philanthropy has conquered even the most cynical ladies. But I find his bequest totally out of character. When Mr Dasher is asked to donate to worthy charities, he refuses to even give them the drips from his nose.’
I nodded sagely and Rufus gave me a very direct look. ‘You know initially I was unaware that the diamond bracelet I delivered to your patisserie was one of a pair.’
‘Oh? There are two?’
‘So it would appear. I discovered through nefarious means that your bracelet is the perfect twin to the one Mr Dasher donated to the Abandoned Wives Fund.’ He gave me a sly wink. ‘It will be an absolute pleasure to lie on your behalf, Miss Sasha.’
‘Thank you, Rufus.’
I adore Rufus. Roger doesn’t deserve him.
I made a few minor adjustments to the loincloths of my bearers and they sailed out down the passageway to the dining room carrying the hug
e croquembouche. I followed in their wake with my heart pounding. My audaciousness was starting to scare even me.
I need not have worried as the bearers were greeted with a thunderous ovation. How handsome they looked; six muscular young men in their prime with their bodies flexed as they upheld the gold platter. My semi-naked bearers with their black-rimmed eyes represented the exotic unknown. Local girls who yearned to cross the seven seas sighed longingly as they passed.
The bearers were sure on their feet and berthed the croquembouche safely on the buffet table without mishap. I’d supplied two sabres for serving, as cake knives seemed rather tame. Most guests hadn’t seen a croquembouche before and they clamoured around, watching my sabre-wielding bearers serve it up.
I wasn’t surprised to see that those waiting patiently for the croquembouche were mainly young ladies and clearly it was not just the cake that was tempting them to go back for seconds. Funnily enough the chaperones, dowagers and older women were steering well clear of the croquembouche. Perhaps they were affronted by the near nakedness of the lads serving it up. Instead these ladies were lining up to get their trotters on my version of one of Carême’s extraordinaires. I’d laboriously fashioned a Persian villa on a rocky outcrop from spun sugar and coloured fondant. It amused me to see my bizarre creation being reduced to ruins by Wolfftown’s wowsers and God’s police. You’d swear they hadn’t eaten for weeks.
The light fell softly on the gathering, as guests sipped their champagne and flirted and twittered. Glasses clinked, plates were refilled and several ladies had to discreetly leave the dining room to loosen their whalebone corsets.
I’d been worried that with so many people still dancing, there’d be too much food left over but I relaxed as guests went back for second or third helpings. There would be another wave of diners when the orchestras changed over, but they’d be missing out on the croquembouche, as it had already been reduced to crumbs.
I glimpsed Roger Dasher pressing towards me, so I hastily slipped out onto a balcony and stood hidden in the shadows until he’d passed. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me into his company.
It was a beautiful cold winter’s night. In the distance I glimpsed the sea heaving white as it assaulted the shore. Clouds swiftly passed and shrouded the moon in soft wisps of haze. The estate’s gardens and sweeping driveway were illuminated with hundreds of lanterns and the central fountain had been cunningly lit with hidden lamps. Light poured from the mansion and drowned out the stars. The Dashers never did anything by halves.
I peered across at the ornate building opposite. It was a faithful reconstruction of the mansion Roger’s late father had built in Paris for his French mistress and a shrine to thwarted love. When he was a young buck sowing his wild oats, Bill Dasher acquired the nickname Sweet William due to his insatiable appetite for the fairer sex. Much later when his French mistress, Mademoiselle Manon Lefebvre, ditched him and bagged a Russian prince, Bill Dasher set his sights on young English socialite Miss Clare Smithton. Waste not want not. He seduced her in Monte Carlo, impregnated her in Rome, married her in Paris and brought her home to Tasmania, where he promptly forgot about her. It had been common knowledge in Wolfftown that Sweet William paid more attention to his hunting hounds than his wife. And by replicating his mistress’s Parisian mansion in Tasmania, he revealed to everyone that he was still madly in love with Mademoiselle Lefebvre.
Clare Dasher had once given me a grand tour of the petite mansion. I expected her to be bitter but she seemed more amused by the ostentatiousness of the place. Clare prided herself on her refined taste. Judging by the look on her face she had a low opinion of her husband’s sense of style. The three-storey building included a sweeping onyx staircase and a Moorish marble bathroom with gold bathtub and gold latrine. The resplendent Crimson Salon had been kitted out with sculpted marble nymphs, romping satyrs and other naked folk.
Eventually the antics of his wife, coupled with his own syphilitic condition, led to Lord Dasher blowing out his brains in the Crimson Salon. Lord Dasher was known to be a crack shot but he was drunk at the time. Local legend has it that a stray bullet passed clean through his heart and shattered the marble nymph that resembled Mademoiselle Lefebvre.
A Wolfftown wag put it about that, ‘Lady Dasher is inconsolable at the demise of the nymph and has taken to her bed. With only an artist or three to provide solace in her hour of need.’
Clare Dasher had demonstrated by her rocky marriage that she had a weakness for womanisers, bullies and bounders. This weakness resurfaced when it came to christening her three children. Surnames were used indiscriminately as Christian names, as in Roger Casanova Dionysus Dasher and Adam Napoleon Medici Dasher. The eldest son was christened Caesar Byron Machiavelli Dasher. What on earth was she thinking? Despite the tragic circumstances it must have been a godsend for Caesar when his father slipped from the mortal coil and he inherited the title. For henceforth Caesar would simply be known as Lord Dasher.
My reveries were disturbed by a trio of roistering Cads gang members who vied for my attention and plied me with premium champagne. All three were the ne’er-do-well heirs of landed gentry. Kieren O’Shea took my arm. ‘Sasha, I’ve been looking all over for you. Roger warned everybody off asking you to dance. That arrogant prick wants you all to himself. So I bet Angelo Floros I could outfox our host and persuade you to have the last waltz with me. Please, do it for me.’
‘I’ll have to think about it, Kieren. I’m quite fatigued.’
Hardly surprising given I’d been up most of the night engaging in combat with Roger Dasher Esquire. Wrongly assuming I was setting him up for a fall, Kieren proceeded to drown his sorrows in a spectacular fashion. Losing bets was a credible pastime among the scions of the district. It increased their status with their peers if they feigned a don’t-give-a-shite attitude to their heavy losses.
Kieren challenged his friends, Vincent and Marcus, to raise the stakes. ‘Come on you two. Bet I can hang upside down like a bat over the balcony for ten minutes without wimping out. You’ll have to hold my feet of course.’
Naturally they rose to the challenge or their manhoods would have been at stake. After a few minutes I stopped their fun by announcing, ‘Enough. I want my turn.’
‘Out of the question, Sasha.’
‘Why?’
‘Girls simply do not do these sorts of things.’
‘This one does.’
‘Sorry but it would not be right.’
‘Gentlemen, we can come to an arrangement. I’ll win Kieren’s bet for him, by obliging him with the last waltz. And in return, you three will suspend me over the balcony for at least seven minutes.’
They hauled Kieren back up and went into a huddle. The discussion was fierce but they agreed to accommodate me. I knew the bet with Angelo Floros must have been large as Kieren was so keen to risk my life.
Upon demand Kieren handed over his white evening tie and I bound my skirts around my ankles. I slipped off my dancing slippers and stuffed my ruby necklace and earrings into Vincent’s trouser pockets. I was probably half-cut but why should the boys have all the fun? The trio gingerly lifted me up and eased me over the balcony. It was exhilarating.
I kept them up to the mark. ‘Now lads. Don’t be so tentative. I won’t think you ungentlemanly, if in order to keep me safe, you need to place your ungloved hands upon my person. But in fairness I should warn you that if you drop me, you’ll be held accountable to both Brendan Kane and Snuff Rogers.’
They visibly sobered. Responsibility weighed heavily upon the boys as they nervously took turns holding my feet and ensuring I didn’t nose dive five storeys to the gravel below. I laughed because they were handling me as though I was a fragile religious icon.
The world is an exceptionally interesting place when viewed upside down from a great height. Noises reached me from below and snippets of conversation floated in the frosty air. I could see doormen and groomsmen stamping their feet and blowing on their cold fingers. From its
nest a shivering pigeon examined me, its beady eyes darting nervously. I soothed her fears by making clucking noises. My hair uncoiled and the white roses tumbled out. They spiralled down into the darkness below and were crushed by the horses. The many coloured lights merged and swam with my rushing blood.
Now that I no longer had the distraction of creating a sensational supper, my anxiety diminished and memories of the previous night returned. I had no moral qualms about losing my virginity but I felt violated because I’d been unconscious. By plying me with the Pharaoh’s elixir Roger had played the game unfairly and against the rules. Dirty pool. Tears came into my eyes but I blinked fiercely and they were gone. The night air whisked them clean away.
The orchestra played a spirited waltz and I envisioned each musician playing his instrument. I was particularly fond of the oldest violin player and could clearly picture him in my mind’s eye. He played his violin as though it were his adversary, sawing and hacking away with an intense frown of disgust on his florid face. Champagne bubbles frothed through my veins and my whole being relaxed. I convinced myself everything was going smoothly and satisfactorily. In short, I healed myself.
The lads were relieved when I signalled I’d had enough and they hauled me back up. I put my jewellery back on, repinned my hair and assured Kieren that when the time came I’d have the last waltz with him.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and hunger now drew me back to the dining hall. Things had taken a turn for the worse and I gaped at a scene that appeared to be a public orgy. Debauchery reigned as chaste maidens forced themselves onto handsome footmen and virtuous wives ran amok with the nearest available male. Four of my naked bearers were being ravished by girls previously known for their impenetrable virtue, while the other two bearers, who’d retained their loincloths, were desperately trying to escape. It dawned on me that the sexually aggressive young women were those who’d partaken of the croquembouche and gone back for second and third helpings.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 20
