by Evie Grace
He steered her around a steaming pile of horse manure that the street-sweeper hadn’t yet had a chance to clear up, and returned to his wife’s side.
Ottilie took Violet’s hand, and they stepped through the double doors of the theatre into a grand hall lit up by chandeliers, their cut-glass teardrops seeming to drip with opulence.
‘Are you wearing the devil’s trickery on your faces?’ Mama said, catching up with them. ‘Violet, you have freckles – what have I said about wearing your bonnets when out in the sun?’
‘We never leave the house without them,’ Violet said, giving her sister a warning glance on their way to the ladies’ dressing room. It was the truth – they just didn’t always have them on their heads.
Pa was waiting for them in the reception area.
‘How long does it take you ladies to get ready?’ he chuckled. ‘I have your ball cards and look, both of you have your cards marked for the first three dances.’
Violet’s heart leapt. Someone had requested her company, but who was it?
Pa handed her her card. The first dance was taken by Mr Brooke, and she was to dance the second quadrille with Mr John Chittenden, and the third with Uncle Edward. She didn’t like the idea of dancing with Uncle Edward – he was old and married, and occasionally over-affectionate in his attentions towards her.
‘There are other young men eager to dance,’ Pa said as Mr Noble entered the room and acknowledged Mr Rayfield with a nod of his head. His cousin followed behind him.
‘Gentlemen, congratulations on your success – your winning the challenge cup is the talk of the town. Allow me to introduce you to my daughters, Miss Rayfield and Miss Violet Rayfield.’ He turned to them. ‘Mr Noble is the son of the master of the Dover Belle and is apprenticed at the Packet Yard, while Mr Lane is in the building trade,’ Pa went on, making it clear that Violet and Ottilie were not to consider them as potential suitors.
The young men bowed and Mr Noble flushed as he caught Violet’s eye, but to her disappointment, they didn’t have a chance to mark their cards because Pa quickly dismissed them, having caught sight of the friends they were meeting for dinner. ‘Ah, here they are.’ He nodded towards a bust of the Iron Duke, alongside which stood the Chittendens, including Uncle Edward with his dangling side whiskers, salt and pepper beard and drooping moustache that might have looked well on a young dandy, but made a man of his mature years look like a bearer at a funeral. ‘Come with me, ladies.’
Mama took Pa’s arm, and Violet took Ottilie’s and they walked across to greet Mr and Mrs Chittenden, and their son John, a handsome, yet reserved young man a couple of years older than Ottilie.
‘What a wonderful evening this is turning out to be. It’s your first ever ball, Violet, is it not?’ Uncle Edward said.
‘Yes, and it’s a pleasure to be here,’ Violet said stiffly.
‘I told your father that you wouldn’t want to dance with me, but he insisted that I mark your card even before he’d introduced us.’
‘Well, we don’t want any wallflowers,’ Pa said affably.
‘Mr Rayfield!’ A man – not a gentleman, Violet surmised – pushed into their circle. ‘I am looking forward to joining you and the rest of your party for dinner.’
Violet noticed how Mama rolled her eyes in Mrs Chittenden’s direction and how Mrs Chittenden smiled ruefully. She was about the same age as Mrs Rayfield, but she cut a far less elegant figure in a deep blue dress with gold stripes which made her look shorter than she really was.
‘This is Mr Brooke,’ Pa said, shaking his hand. ‘Allow me to introduce you to our party. Mr and Mrs Chittenden and their son, John.’
Mr Brooke offered a bow.
‘Good evening, sir,’ John said. He looked sophisticated in an immaculate black dancing coat and trousers cut from the finest cloth, but Violet couldn’t help remembering him as a naughty, smelly little boy who picked up slugs and snails from the park.
Pa turned towards his daughters. ‘These are the Misses Rayfield.’
‘How marvellously … marvellous it is to meet you,’ Mr Brooke said, inclining his head and bowing again.
‘This is Miss Rayfield – she is the eldest. Then there’s Miss Violet Rayfield,’ Pa went on proudly.
Violet exchanged greetings with Mr Brooke, a little disappointed by his age and appearance. He was a short, rather rotund person with a well-trimmed beard and sandy hair falling in waves to his shoulders. A signet ring gleamed from one finger of his left hand.
‘Mrs Rayfield, I presume.’ He took Mama’s hand briefly before releasing it. ‘I have heard so much about you from your husband. He is indeed a lucky man.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Brooke,’ Mama said.
‘It’s Arvin. My mother was French – she gave me her father’s name.’ He smiled disarmingly before turning to address Uncle Edward. ‘This is a meeting of great significance to me, as I’ve heard Mr Rayfield tell that you are one of the most influential men in Dover.’
‘You flatter me, sir,’ Uncle Edward said sternly, but the ebullient Mr Brooke was not to be suppressed.
‘It is an honour to become a friend of Mr Chittenden. By all accounts, you have a great talent for spotting opportunities for investment in the railways and shipping.’
‘I hope that Mr Rayfield hasn’t been giving away all our secrets,’ Uncle Edward said with a hollow laugh.
He seemed ill at ease, Violet observed.
‘A man is best described by his occupation. It reveals much about his character. For example, a physician with his knowledge of the art and science of medicine will be of sound mind and robust health, while an engineer will be precise and attend to detail, a man on whom one can rely.’
‘I don’t believe in your theory,’ Uncle Edward said. ‘I have met medical men who care more for their fee than their patients, and engineers who produce the shoddiest machinery.’
‘There are exceptions to every rule, but this one can be applied in a general way. Let’s take Sidney – I mean, Mr Rayfield – as an example.’ Mr Brooke touched Pa’s shoulder. ‘He has had success in many areas – now that could signify that he is capricious, buzzing from one flower to another like a bumblebee, finding success by chance not design, but that isn’t right. He is a man of great curiosity, passion and intelligence.’
‘What do you think of that analysis, Edward?’ Pa beamed at Mr Brooke’s compliment while Violet fidgeted, wishing they would stop talking and the dancing would begin.
‘I am bound to admit the accuracy of Mr Brooke’s judgement of your character in this particular case,’ Uncle Edward concluded. ‘I’ve heard that you’re in the wine trade.’ He emphasised the word ‘trade’. ‘What does that say about you?’
‘That is for my friends to judge,’ Mr Brooke said with a deep bow. Violet wondered if his obsequiousness was real or mocking. He was committing a terrible faux pas that he seemed completely unaware of, dressed in a red velvet jacket more suitable for the stage or – God forbid – the circus, than a ball.
‘I hear music,’ Violet whispered to Ottilie as the band struck up in the next room.
Mr Brooke bowed deeply for a third time.
‘Miss Violet, I believe we are partners for the first dance.’ He offered her his arm, and taking a deep breath, she took it, glancing at him surreptitiously as he escorted her to the ballroom. He was at least thirty if not older, and not in the slightest bit handsome. The ladies were staring at him, hiding their amusement and ridicule behind their fans.
As the master of ceremonies put the couples into fours, Violet caught sight of Mr Noble with his dark curls pushed back behind his ears. He was standing with his cousin in the crowd, watching her.
How she wished she was dancing with him, not Mr Brooke, she thought, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks when he smiled, not out of sympathy or with the intent of mocking her for her current misfortune, but in a kindly – possibly even admiring – way. Perhaps he would ask her later now that they had been introduced.
‘I believe that’s true,’ Violet said, suddenly unsure of herself.
As well as wearing clothes that made him look out of place, Mr Brooke danced the quadrille in a ridiculous manner, not gliding smoothly across the floor, but bouncing along on the balls of his feet. She kept her eyes averted and prayed that the dance would soon be over. At least, she didn’t make a mistake – it was her partner who was in error, stepping forwards when he should be stepping back, and turning to the right when he should have been turning to the left.
‘Oh, my sincere apologies,’ and ‘Oh la la,’ he kept saying, swaying his body and keeping his arms out straight and stiff.
Her first dance was certainly memorable even if it was for all the wrong reasons. As the music came to an end, Mr Brooke held her gloved hand high in the air, and Violet found she was stuck to the floor.
‘Mr Brooke,’ she said, trying to be discreet. ‘You are standing on my dress.’
‘I’m what?’ They both looked down as they heard something tear. Violet could have cried as she saw the embroidered butterflies on her train ripped and dirty.
‘Oh, Miss Rayfield, I beg your pardon. What can I do? There must be something I can do,’ he implored. ‘Je suis desolé.’
‘It’s no matter,’ she said, trying not to cry. ‘I’ll go and see if one of the maids can repair it.’
‘I’ll come with you to pay for any services rendered – it’s the least I can do,’ he said, propelling her across the floor and off to the dressing room where he left her to seek assistance.
‘This kind of thing happens all the time, miss,’ the maid said through a mouthful of pins as she knelt to make a temporary repair. ‘It’s such a shame, though – I’ve never seen such delicate embroidery.’
‘There is a man outside, trying to look in,’ one of the other ladies exclaimed.
‘The Frenchman in the red coat?’ said another. ‘Is he supposed to be here? He isn’t dressed for dancing.’
‘He’s an acquaintance of the Rayfields,’ somebody else said.
‘Then Mr Rayfield should have a word with him – he has no idea how to act.’
‘They must do things differently in France.’
Violet kept her head bowed.
‘There! You can hardly see it now.’ The maid struggled to her feet. ‘I’ve put a couple of stitches in to hold it together.’
‘May I take your name, so I can make sure you receive payment?’ Violet enquired.
‘It’s Miss Devlin, but there’s no obligation – the committee are paying me royally to be here tonight.’
‘Thank you. I’m most grateful.’ On leaving the dressing room, Violet discovered that she’d missed the next two dances and it was time for dinner. The Rayfields took their places at their table and Violet found herself sitting between Uncle Edward and Mr Brooke, and opposite Ottilie, John and Mama.
‘Where have you been?’ her mother asked.
‘I’ll explain later,’ she said at the same time as Mr Brooke interrupted, ‘I put my great big hoof on Miss Violet’s dress while dancing.’
‘All is well, though,’ Violet said quickly, forgiving him for his clumsy mistake.
‘You stood me up,’ Uncle Edward smiled. ‘Never mind. There’ll be more dancing later.’ And then he turned away to talk to Mama, leaving Violet wondering what on earth she and Mr Brooke could possibly have in common.
‘It was an honour to dance with you,’ he said.
‘How do you find Dover?’ she said, unsure how to respond.
‘Ah, I’m growing rather fond of the town which people like to call the lock and key of England. Although the castle and forts are rather forbidding, the inhabitants are utterly charming.’
‘Will you be staying long?’ Violet sipped punch from a crystal glass.
‘I hope to remain here for quite some time. The climate isn’t as agreeable as that of the South of France and the food is poor, but England is a land of opportunity. That is the case, is it not, Mr Chittenden?’
‘What were you saying, Mr Brooke?’ Uncle Edward said, looking irritated at having his conversation with Mama interrupted.
‘How England is a land of opportunity if you know where to look for it. French wines are more affordable here, thanks to the free trade treaty between our countries and Gladstone’s decision to reduce import duties, and now, with the Single Bottle Act, grocers can sell wine for drinking at home.’
‘I disagree with those who suggest that increasing the availability of wine will reduce drunkenness,’ Uncle Edward said. ‘It’s dressing up what is a licence to print money for those who are involved in the wine trade as a move towards temperance.’
‘You are cynical.’ Mr Brooke placed his hand over his glass as one of the waiters offered to pour him some of the claret which Pa had ordered for the occasion.
‘Do try it,’ Pa said, noticing his reaction. ‘I’d value your opinion.’
‘No, thank you. I never drink.’
‘But you say you are a wine merchant? This is intriguing.’ Uncle Edward raised his eyes in astonishment. ‘You promote the sale of wine, yet you do not partake. You can’t possibly be a prohibitionist. The promotion of abstinence would send you straight down the road to bankruptcy.’
‘I believe it is everyone’s duty to encourage temperance and civilised behaviour,’ John ventured to say.
‘While I believe quite the opposite,’ Mr Brooke said. ‘Let all gentlemen – and ladies too – be merry, but then I would say that because I’m completely immersed in the industry. I’ve made it my business to become an expert in everything, from the cultivation of the best strains of grape, to the harvesting, fermentation, ageing and bottling. Wine has been my life, my raison d’être for many years.’
‘Many years, sir? You make it sound as though you’ve been in wine for decades, when I would guess that you aren’t much over thirty. Though you are certainly older than my son here, who cannot yet raise a full moustache,’ Uncle Edward said. ‘I’m afraid he won’t attract the ladies with that scanty herbage.’
‘Mr Chittenden, don’t tease him,’ his wife said. ‘What were you about to say, Mr Brooke?’
‘Only that I am over thirty and have devoted my entire adult life to the wine trade.’
‘But how can you possibly judge the quality of the wines without imbibing?’ Uncle Edward asked.
‘I taste and spit,’ Mr Brooke said.
Violet heard Ma’s tiny gasp of shock and saw Mrs Chittenden wrinkle her delicate nose in disgust.
‘One of the tools of my trade is a silver spittoon.’
‘Not in front of the ladies,’ Pa said in warning.
‘I apologise for causing offence – you will find me a straight-talking man,’ Mr Brooke said, looking round the table. Violet gazed towards Ottilie to gauge her reaction, but she was making sheep’s eyes at John.
Feeling light-headed from the punch, Violet was relieved when the waiters served a light supper of potatoes with ham, tongue and pre-cut chicken that was held together on the plates by ribbons. She ate quietly, listening to the rest of the party making conversation about the weather and mutual friends before returning to their inquisition of Mr Brooke. By the time they had been served trifle and blancmange for dessert, they had ventured on to more personal topics than comparing Paris with London, and the sorry state of the port at Calais compared with that of Dover.
‘You are not married, Mr Brooke?’ Mama asked.
‘Not yet,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I should like to settle down. As for family, my parents are long dead, God rest their souls. My father traded in wool, and my dear mother –whom I adored for her sense of joy and delight in everything – was a French noblewoman born in the Languedoc. I have but one sister.’
‘We should like to meet her one day. She must come to visit us.’
‘She is ill, I’m afraid, confined to the chateau with
a disfiguring skin condition.’
It was a plot worthy of one of Eleanor’s sensationalist novels, Violet thought, feeling sorry for his sister’s affliction.
‘What do the doctors say?’ Mrs Chittenden joined in.
‘Alas, it’s incurable. I’ve employed the services of the renowned surgeons and physicians of Paris to no avail.’
‘She is not married either then?’ Mama said.
‘There is no hope of that. Poor Claudette. Her appearance is quite … repulsive to those who do not know her.’
‘What is the chateau like?’ Mama asked, moving on to safer ground.
‘It’s like a palace with many well-appointed rooms, four grey stone towers, and a lake. Behind it are the vineyards – rows of vines as far as the eye can see.’
‘I think I’d find a chateau rather draughty,’ Mrs Chittenden said.
‘It has all the usual domestic conveniences – it isn’t a hovel.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—’
‘I know you didn’t, Mrs Chittenden,’ he said.
‘I think we’ve finished here.’ Pa drained his second glass of claret. ‘I have a fancy for a cigar while those who wish to dance do so.’
Violet stood up and walked back to the ballroom with Ottilie, where they sat down with Mama and Mrs Chittenden.
She wondered where all the gentlemen were, but then John made his way over to them.
‘Good evening, Miss Violet,’ he said. ‘May I have the next dance?’
She smiled, grateful not to have been left out.
She danced with John, then Mr Noble requested the pleasure of her company for the next quadrille while John danced with Ottilie. Violet felt as if she was dancing on air as her partner led her on to the floor.
‘You look like the cat who’s got the cream,’ Ottilie whispered as they passed each other.
Mr Noble was very handsome indeed with his square jaw and even teeth, but it was the vigour and intelligence in his striking blue eyes which caught her attention the most.
‘I saw you rowing today, Mr Noble,’ Violet said.
‘William. It’s William,’ he said.
‘Congratulations on your success, William.’
