by R. J. Koreto
And before she could ask another question, the constable disappeared into the dark.
Mallow was waiting for her upstairs, and Frances told her the story. Mallow was horrified and asked for a promise that her ladyship would never again take a shortcut or walk alone after dark.
“There is great wickedness in this city, my lady. Begging your pardon, you have no idea.”
Frances was going to argue with her but stopped. She saw a little piece of London’s grimmer parts while working in the soup kitchen, but that was relatively safe. Mallow had grown up in the East End, seeing horrors Frances could only imagine.
“You’re right,” said Frances. “I will be more careful.”
Mallow shook her head as she tidied up. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you, my lady.”
“Nothing will happen. And even if it did, Lord and Lady Seaforth would take care of you and see you into a new position.”
“Very nice, I’m sure, my lady. But . . .” Mallow struggled to find the words, and Frances sat patiently. “But I would like to keep working for you, my lady.” She blushed and turned to cover it.
Frances was touched. “Let’s not worry. Nothing really happened. It was probably just a thief after my bag—oh, that’s it!” Frances grabbed her bag, which was full of suffragist club papers. “What if someone thought my bag contained Danny Colcombe’s manuscript and that’s why I was followed?”
“You mean, my lady, someone else wants it too—and thinks you have it?”
“Exactly—but who? And there’s something else I can’t figure out.” She frowned.
Mallow was used to her mistress’s reflective moods. It was something she learned in university, she said, a way of looking at the details of a problem. “Going to the text,” she called it.
“The constable called me ‘my lady.’ He shouldn’t have made that assumption. ‘Miss’ or possibly ‘Madam.’ Unless he knew me—but I certainly didn’t know him. Now that, Mallow, is the most interesting thing about the whole affair.”
Frances woke up the next morning feeling frustrated. She could go to the local station, but she’d look a fool, talking about a constable whose name she didn’t know on the suspicion he apparently knew her. She was sure she hadn’t seen him before.
She could go to Colonel Mountjoy with her thoughts, but he hadn’t wanted her further involved, that much was clear. And there was nothing connecting this with the Colcombe manuscript except coincidence. He’d give her a pat on the head and send her on her way. Inspector Eastley? If there was something funny with the police, he’d already know it and wouldn’t discuss it.
Perhaps it was a lucky guess on the constable’s part—or maybe it had something to do with Barnstable’s recent visit. No telling now, but it would bear consideration for later.
Meanwhile, she focused on the night. Lord Gareth would be picking her up for the theatrical evening with the Heathcote set. She wondered what he had meant when he had said that it would not be a typical evening of theater.
“I’ll be going out this evening. Find something smart in the closet—drinks first, then the theater.”
Mallow went through Frances’s closet and produced a dress Frances had almost forgotten about, something unusual she had had made a couple of years ago, elaborate and elegant and entirely in black and white.
“At the time, my lady, I recall you saying the simplicity of the color scheme didn’t suit you, but perhaps a second look. I really think you’ll find it a flattering cut.”
Frances agreed, and Mallow helped her get into it. Once it was all buttoned up, she gave her mistress a critical look as Frances reviewed herself in the mirror. Mallow had learned a thing or two about women’s clothes and how they change or flatter the ladies who wore them. The severity of the cut and the black and white scheme exaggerated Lady Frances’s hourglass figure. The copper hair stood out in sharp relief, and even her ladyship’s cheekbones seemed more prominent. The gray eyes appeared deeper, and the overall effect was to make her a little older. A little worldlier. So different from the soft and romantic styles she had for eveningwear or the brisk and cheerful outfits she favored for daytime.
Mallow hid a smile. Her ladyship rarely took a real look at herself in the mirror, but she was doing so today. Was it an important evening to her ladyship?
“Very well. Run an iron over it and I’ll wear it tonight.”
Lord Gareth was in the guest lounge when she came down that evening. She watched his eyes closely and was pleased to see his approval at her outfit. Mallow really did know best, she concluded.
Her escort’s evening clothes were splendidly tailored for his slim form. And again, she imagined him in something from the last century, from the lively days of Beau Brummel, the arbiter of fashion in the early 1800s, who strode through society like a peacock.
“You look lovely, Lady Frances,” he said.
She curtsied. “Thank you, my lord.”
He had a little two-seater car, smaller and more nimble than her brother’s. “We’re meeting at the Heathcote house, then we’re going in a group to the theater. It will be an evening of music and dance. Do you like dance, my lady?” She liked the way the slightly mocking “my lady” rolled off his tongue.
“I haven’t been to the ballet recently, but I do like it.”
“Tell me what you like about it,” he said with a smile.
“I like the elegance of the French dancers. I am less interested in technical proficiency than in emotional engagement.”
“So you are less interested in the Russian dancers?” he asked, and she sensed a challenge. It was like the conversation the other night, almost a fencing match, and they went back and forth.
“I’ve actually seen the dancers in Russia,” he said. “Perhaps some of the finest dancing in the world can be found in St. Petersburg.”
“You’ve been to Russia?” she said. She had never met anyone who had visited Russia, and Lord Gareth launched into several anecdotes, amusing and illustrative, populated with fatalistic peasants and talented but dark-humored musicians.
“May I ask what you were doing there? Merely to entertain yourself?”
“No, I was carrying on an affair with a married Russian countess, a cousin of the czar, no less.”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said. She watched him closely, trying to get to know him completely, but new facets kept appearing.
“You don’t think I’d be so bold as to have an affair with a woman whose husband could have me executed?”
“I still believe you’re teasing me, and you think very well of yourself if you think a Russian countess would have you.” And Lord Gareth laughed again.
They pulled in front of the Heathcote house, a handsome well-kept building whose location cleverly, like the Heathcotes themselves, straddled a line between aristocratic elegance and artistic fashion.
Lord Gareth parked the car and turned to Frances.
“Tell me, my lady, do suffragists believe in marriage?”
Frances opened her mouth in astonishment and then brought her hand to cheek. “Lord Gareth—this is so sudden! I had no idea you were so overcome. But I can’t bring myself to refuse you. We will visit my brother at once to ask his permission.”
She had the pleasure of seeing Lord Gareth deeply discomforted for several long moments before he grinned and wagged his finger at her.
“See—I can tease, too,” she said. “Anyway, suffragists believe in the marriage of true equals. And when you are ready to propose, you may ask my brother for his blessing but not his permission. Now do lead me inside.”
Other guests were already gathered in the drawing room, which was dimly lit. The dresses were ornate and perhaps too lavishly trimmed for the most proper society events. She saw Lord and Lady Heathcote themselves in clothes so beautiful and well-tailored that they almost succeeded in covering up their dissipation with elegance. She waited for Gareth to introduce her to them, but he whispered. “This is not yo
ur typical gathering. If they wish to meet you, they will say so. But probably not tonight.” He smiled and shrugged, trying to excuse this strange breech of etiquette. “They only talk to people after they’ve been to several of their gatherings. It is the way of things here.”
Frances recognized a few people, although knew none of them well. But she could attach at least a minor scandal to them—Lord M., who had once left London very quickly after a card scandal at the Wentworth Club, and Mrs. J., whose attachment to her husband’s cousin had set all the tongues wagging last season. These were people who had come from aristocratic families—nevertheless, Frances knew her mother would never have admitted any of them to her home.
No servants were evident. Gareth saw her to a drinks table, where Frances couldn’t recognize half the bottles: odd-colored liquors with labels in foreign languages.
“Will you allow me to choose for you?” he asked.
“Thank you. But a sherry will be satisfactory.” She wanted her wits about her, and there was no telling what some of those drinks might do to her senses. Frances wondered if that would disappoint Gareth, if she would appear unsophisticated. But she was pleased when her choice had the opposite effect.
“Interesting, Lady Frances. You are a progressive, even revolutionary, but you turn away from novelties. That shows a nicely balanced mind.”
Frances blushed at the compliment and simply said, “Thank you.”
Apparently, although everyone knew it was a theater party, the location was kept secret until whispers began to permeate the room, and Gareth said it was time to be off. They didn’t drive to the West End theaters but to a slightly shabby bohemian neighborhood that she rarely had occasion to visit. She probably would’ve walked right by the theater had Lord Gareth not pointed it out to her. It could’ve been a warehouse. He drove the auto through a narrow alley into what had once been a stable and parked it. The rest of the party soon followed in their own vehicles, and Lord Gareth tipped a half-asleep porter to watch them.
“While you were on the other side of the Atlantic, did you manage to make it to South America?” asked Lord Gareth.
“You’re still teasing me. South America is as far from New York as New York is from London. But I bet you have.”
He just gave her a mysterious smile. “What we’re seeing tonight is a sort of circus, a troupe from Argentina. There will be singing and dancing and other acts. It will be rather unusual.”
The Heathcote party entered the theater and milled about with the other patrons, who ranged from ladies and gentlemen in eveningwear to artistic types in worn tweeds flecked with paint. Everyone rubbed shoulders without a fuss; no one seemed to resent sharing the lobby with those much richer or poorer.
As she took in the crowd, she heard a familiar voice address her from behind. “Lady Frances, what an unexpected pleasure.” It was Colonel Mountjoy.
“Colonel, I didn’t take you for a lover of theater. Especially rather obscure entertainments like this.”
“As a retired bachelor, I find time for many interests.” She saw his eyes light on Lord and Lady Heathcote. “But I never took you for a member of the Heathcote set.”
“I am not a member of any ‘set,’ Colonel. My friend, Lord Gareth, invited me to join some friends of his in a theater party.” She found the colonel’s assumption a little bold, as if he were cataloguing her.
Frances introduced the two gentlemen—the colonel as belonging to her brother’s club and Lord Gareth as a government colleague of her brother’s. This was all completely respectable.
“It’s a trifle warm in here, Lady Frances. May I get you a glass of water?”
“Thank you, Lord Gareth.” His meaning was clear. He was going to give the colonel a few moments alone with her out of politeness, but he was her escort for this evening, so it would be just a few moments. The colonel understood this too. He leaned in close to Frances when they were alone.
“It is not my place to comment on your choice of friends, my lady, but you should know that no one is invited to a Heathcote party unless the Heathcotes want something from them. Whispers about the Colcombe manuscript, and your interest in it, have made their way around Society. I advise you to think carefully before becoming too deeply involved in them.”
“I assure you, I have no intention of being taken in by anyone,” said Frances coldly. “Maybe you’re right. But they don’t seem to want to speak with me at the moment. I am really here at the invitation of Lord Gareth,” she said.
“Yes—I haven’t met him. I only know of him as the second son of the Duke of Carrolton. Perhaps you should ask what the Heathcotes want from him, as well.”
At that, Lord Gareth returned with the water. The colonel told them to enjoy the show and bowed out. A few minutes later, Lord and Lady Heathcote led the way into the small theater.
“Unusual” didn’t begin to describe the evening. First some vocalists sang a tune accompanied by the strums of a guitar. She listened to the lovely songs in Spanish, which she didn’t understand, but the emotion in the singers’ voices affected her powerfully. There were dances that Lord Gareth told her were from native tribes, older than any European influence. Some juggling acts appeared as well, and everyone was dressed in bright lavish clothes. They reminded her of the ornately colored parrots and other tropical birds she knew only from pictures.
At the end, the small band began playing a seductive piece with a strong beat—alien, as much of the music had been that evening. A man and woman appeared on the stage. He was slim and wore tight black pants and a red shirt. The woman was stunningly beautiful and wore a dress of the same color as the shirt that shockingly left much of her leg visible. And then they danced to the music, a ballroom dance, but like nothing Frances had ever seen. They flowed with each other—it was almost indecent, she thought—and yet it made even the most graceful waltz in her memory seem awkward.
The couple went through several numbers, and at the end the applause was enthusiastic.
“It’s called the tango,” said Lord Gareth. “It came out of the slums of Buenos Aires, where the Catholic Church has spoken out against it.”
“If they continue to perform it here, I’m sure the Anglicans will follow suit,” said Frances.
“Come with me,” said Lord Gareth. He took Frances’s hand in his own. His hand was much larger than hers, cool and strong. Lord Gareth led her through a door near the stage, and they found themselves backstage. Dancers and singers were in a state of half-dress, and only the fear of looking unsophisticated in front of Lord Gareth kept her going. He knocked on the door of a dressing room. Frances heard Spanish, and Lord Gareth opened the door.
The tango dancers were the only occupants. The man was lounging against the wall and smoking a cigarette that filled the room with a blue haze. The woman was taking off her makeup. Up close, she was even more exquisite. Lord Gareth surprised Frances again by speaking to them in Spanish. They both answered, and the man laughed while the woman smiled.
“They are Matias and Dolores. I told them that you found their dancing both magnificent and shocking. Did I tell them right?” Frances just nodded. She had Lord Gareth tell them she had never seen anything like that, and words couldn’t describe . . . When he translated, the two dancers briefly bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment. Matias said something to Lord Gareth and laughed again.
“He said he will give the pretty English girl tango lessons, if she would like.”
Frances rallied. She wasn’t going to come off as cowed in this exotic setting.
“Ask them how much would it cost.”
“He says, for the beautiful señorita, there would be no cost.”
“Tell him he’s a flatterer,” said Frances.
But Dolores didn’t like the exchange. She frowned at Matias, and the Spanish between them was so fast, even Lord Gareth had trouble following. But then they stopped. Dolores rolled her eyes, and Matias shrugged. He thanked them for coming, but it was late and they had to go to
their rooming house . . .
Frances managed a simple “adios” and let Lord Gareth lead her out again. The audience was almost gone from the theater. She saw Colonel Mountjoy exiting and fancied he looked at her before heading out of the door, but she couldn’t read his expression. It suddenly felt very warm in the room, and Lord Gareth seemed so close. It was delicious to step outside again into the cool evening air.
For the moment, they had the empty stables to themselves. Frances was still flushed from the tightly packed theater, and all the evening’s memories came together: bandying words with Lord Gareth in his car, laughing over his “marriage proposal,” the achingly beautiful melodies, the tango dancers with their legs weaving in and out . . . and now he bent down and kissed her, and she kissed back. Frances almost forgot how to breathe; she held him tightly, with her arms around him, and they kissed again. He kissed her neck. “Franny, Franny, Franny,” she heard him say and wanted to say something back, but her voice was gone.
She didn’t know if thirty seconds or thirty minutes had passed, but then others came looking for their rides home, and without realizing how it happened, Frances was back in the two-seater, and they were driving through dark London streets in absolute silence.
Lord Gareth drove the car directly to Miss Plimsoll’s. He hopped out and walked around to help Frances out, which was just as well, as her legs were weak. She was about to thank him for the evening, as a proper young lady should, but under the light of the doorway, he silenced her with another kiss, this time much more tender.
“Good night, dearest Franny,” he said. Once more she was left speechless.
She vaguely remembered walking upstairs and letting Mallow help her get ready for bed. Mallow, for her part, at first wondered if her mistress had perhaps taken a little too much drink, which would’ve surprised her greatly, as her ladyship never had more than a drop, just to be sociable. No, Mallow had seen plenty of those who had overindulged, from kitchen maids to dukes, and this wasn’t it. Overtired perhaps? Her ladyship could hardly focus on what Mallow said or asked, and her eyes seemed to be looking at something else.
