by Carola Dunn
He obviously recognized her, though the tall, conical hat and veil hid her hair. The white, vaguely medieval gown she wore was skimpy but decent, at least so she had thought until his eyes widened. She wished she had insisted on another two inches of muslin around the neckline.
A space had been cleared for the mummers in the centre of the floor. Thither the piper proceeded, followed by a splendid two-man dragon in green with gold spangles. The children, allowed to stay up late and come down for the treat, squealed and clapped. It was not for their benefit that the first of the captive princesses, led in chains by the dragon, swayed her hips and clasped her hands to her ample bosom in an excess of terror.
The gentlemen certainly appreciated Aimée’s act, thought Prudence, walking behind with more dignified alarm and considerably less exposed bosom.
Spouting bad verse to explain that the princesses were tomorrow’s lunch, the dragon arranged a row of Windsor chairs and imprisoned his captives behind them. In worse verse they bemoaned their fate. Then he emptied a heap of gaudy baubles from a sack he carried, crouched down and went to sleep beside his treasure.
Seated on the thick, soft carpet, Prudence peeked between the chairs at the audience. A dazzlingly beautiful young lady with golden curls, elegantly dressed in celestial blue, had joined Lord Rusholme. She must be Lady Anne Winkworth, another of the earl’s prospective brides, Prudence guessed. Why on earth should Rusholme look twice at Prudence when he had a diamond of the first water at hand? She must have imagined his interest. Even if she had the bluest blood in the realm, she could not compete with Lady Anne.
The rumour that he was leading her a merry chase must be false, Prudence decided. Then Lady Anne threw a spiteful glance at the plain Lady Estella, gestured dismissively at the performers with a supercilious expression, laid a possessive hand on Rusholme’s arm. No doubt he had seen through the lovely face to the less lovely character within.
Unlike Lady Anne, Lady Estella seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the show, with childlike enthusiasm. “St. George!” she bellowed. “Bring on St. George!”
Rusholme smiled at her, the same sort of indulgent smile he had bestowed upon his excited nephews.
St. George duly appeared. Ben Dandridge, in a papier-mâché helmet and tinfoil armour, came in backwards on a hobby-horse berating the two sheepish varlets who skulked after him. Scurvy knaves they were, afraid to face the dragon with him, he announced, waving his sword.
Before he could turn to face the dragon himself, a stout woman bustled in. The varlets, looking terrified, turned tail and ran.
“Did you remember to sharpen your sword, George?” she demanded.
“Yes, Mother.”
“And polish your armour?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And feed your horse?” Hands on hips, she frowned at the hobby-horse. “He looks a bit thin to me.”
The audience loved that part. When St. George’s mother made him wait while she went off to fetch his muffler, the gentlemen roared with laughter and even the most refined ladies tittered. Ben Dandridge’s resigned patience made Prudence hide a smile though she had watched him practise the attitude a dozen times.
Lord Rusholme had deserted his ladies and moved forward to join the children at the front, sitting on the floor. Lady Estella, intent on the show, did not appear to have noticed his defection. Lady Anne glared after him with an angry pout, which quickly changed to a flirtatious smile as his place was taken by a good-looking, fair-haired gentleman. He whispered something in her ear which made her rap his hand with her fan, then spread it before her face as if to conceal a blush.
Watching, fascinated, Prudence almost missed her cue. As St. George, swathed in a red and white muffler, approached, she and Aimée reached out towards him through the bars of the chairs.
“Save us, Sir Knight,” they pleaded.
The dragon did not stir. St. George poked it with his sword.
“Go away,” it grumbled sleepily. “It’s not time to get up yet.”
“Rise and fight, O baleful beast,” cried St. George.
Roused in the end by a threat to steal its treasure, the dragon, roaring horridly, chased the knight around among the audience. Lord Rusholme’s older nephews cheered it on, while two of the smaller children turned to him in fright. Prudence saw him put an arm around each and speak to them comfortingly. Perhaps he really was fond of them, she thought, not just using them as an excuse to avoid his own pursuers.
At last the dragon was slain, the maidens released from durance vile. St. George’s mother reappeared.
“Well done, my boy,” she said, picking through the treasure, “but you needn’t think you’re bringing any hussies home with you.”
“In that case, Mother,” cried the hero, “by George, I shall simply have to marry ‘em both!”
Amid laughter and applause, the players took their bows, the dragon splitting in the middle for the purpose. Then pipe and tabor struck up again. They gathered in a group facing outward and started to sing “Here we come a-wassailing.” When they reached the verse, “We have got a little purse...,” the two scurvy knaves passed among the guests collecting tips.
They went on to “Past Three O’Clock,” Bob Dandridge nudging Prudence in the ribs at the words “Seraph choir singeth.” Next the audience was encouraged to join in “The First Nowell,” before the troupe ended with “We wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Now bring us some figgy pudding...,” they carolled. “For we all like figgy pudding!”
Prudence met Lord Rusholme’s eyes. He grinned and winked. Bother the man! What on earth had possessed her to tell him her real name? She might have guessed he’d consider it a hint of a desire for intimacy.
She was glad to slip out with the others as footmen brought in platters of hot mince pies and steaming wassail bowls of mulled ale and cider. Supper was laid on for the players below-stairs, where they belonged.
Chapter 4
The panelled gallery rang with raised voices as the first reading of She Stoops to Conquer, on Boxing Day, degenerated into an argument.
“Well, I shall bloody well go,” said Kate Hardcastle in Aimée’s obstinate tones.
“But a Servants’ Ball,” Mrs. Hardcastle protested. “We’re not servants.”
“We haven’t been invited to the nobs’ ball,” pointed out Young Marlow, the juvenile lead.
“Nor we won’t be,” Hastings seconded him.
“It’s just a bit of fun and gig,” said Tony Lumpkin, “and one or two of the maids are devilish pretty.” Bob Dandridge had kissed the girl who carried his coat while he showed off atop the Yule log, Prudence recalled. She herself had had to give him a stiff set-down when she first joined the troupe. Fortunately he was not one to hold a grudge.
“No wenching with the maids,” commanded Mr. Hardcastle, owner, manager, and director of the company. “We don’t want to go looking for trouble. But I don’t see why them that chooses shouldn’t go to the ball. Now let’s get some work done, if you please, ladies and gentlemen.”
The reading continued. Prudence was quite satisfied with her secondary part as Constance Neville. Some of the things Young Marlow said to Kate Hardcastle when he believed her to be a servant were decidedly improper. Though Aimée took it all in her stride, Prudence was sure she herself would have been disconcerted, not to say embarrassed. Hampered by her upbringing, she began to wonder whether she was really cut out to be an actress.
Constance Neville and her betrothed, Hastings, were much more decorous. The worst they did was plan to run away together to be married.
Admittedly Prudence had to flirt with Tony Lumpkin, Mrs. Hardcastle’s good-natured but loutish son, pretending to be in love with him. However, she had already made it plain to Bob Dandridge that where the stage directions said: “They retire and seem to fondle,” he was to observe the “seem,” not the “fondle.”
All the same, she winced when she thought of Lord Rusholme watching that particular scene. It
could only reinforce his assumption that she was a wanton lightskirt.
The reading ended, with Tony Lumpkin jubilantly renouncing Constance Neville’s hand in favour of her faithful Hastings, and Aimée coyly accepting Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle sent them all off to start learning their lines. Prudence and Aimée retired to their small shared chamber, perching on the bed for want of chairs.
For a while silence reigned, broken only by occasional mutters. Prudence had no difficulty with this part of the acting business, since many hours of her childhood—the majority, she sometimes felt—had been spent learning Bible verses by heart. To Aimée it was agony, and she soon asked for help. In tutoring, too, Prudence had experience. Aimée was duly grateful.
“I’ll lend you a gown for the ball tonight,” she proposed. “You haven’t got anything pretty.”
“I wasn’t going to go.”
“Course you’ll go, Sera! It’s not like it was the Cyprians’ Ball in London, with all the Fashionable Impures parading about and the gents looking for a new convenient. It’s only a bunch of servants, all of ‘em as seraphic as you, I daresay. Most, anyways.”
“Well, maybe.” Prudence did not want to be thought prim or above her company. “But I don’t know how to dance.”
Aim‚e gaped at her. “What, not at all? Never mind, me ‘n’ Bob’ll teach you a few steps quick as winking. That’s settled then. Lessee, you can wear the lemon-yellow crêpe. You’re thinner than me so we’ll have to take a tuck or two.”
“I’m taller, too.” And Aimée wore her gowns well above the ankle.
“It won’t take but a minute to stitch a ruffle round the hem. There’ll be summat in the wardrobe box we can use. Come on, let’s go look.”
To Prudence’s relief they also found a lace fichu to be pinned into the alarmingly low bodice of the lemon crêpe. The result was not exactly elegant, but prettier than any of her own clothes, she had to admit. Thus arrayed, refusing rouge and powder, she set off for her first ball.
The servants’ hall was bedecked with holly and evergreens. Just inside the main doors, a big bunch of mistletoe dangled from the old minstrels’ gallery. Opposite the doors, in the vast fireplace, the remains of the Yule log still smouldered, supplemented by a dozen faggots. At each end of the room, stood a trestle table laden with food and drink.
The smell of tallow candles was overlaid by the odours of woodsmoke, pine, spiced ale, and oranges. At Christmas Lord Easthaven always provided an orange as a treat for each member of his huge staff and visiting servants.
Entering the crowded room, Prudence managed to dodge Bob Dandridge’s kiss, though he landed a peck on her cheek. His breath was redolent of brandy. Aimée’s lips met his and she recoiled with a “Faugh!” wrinkling her nose.
“Come on,” she said, “you’d better dance it off.” She pulled him out onto the floor.
Hastings, at his most gentlemanly, offered Prudence his arm and they took their place in a set as the fiddlers struck up a lively air.
After her single brief lesson, Prudence lost her way at once, but neither Hastings nor the marquis’s servants cared. They steered her about, calling out the steps and encouragement equally. Breathless with exercise and laughter, she survived the first dance and went on to accept First Footman Samuel’s invitation to stand up with him for the second.
Her arm linked with his, she was in the middle of a turn when Lord Rusholme appeared under the mistletoe.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Oh no!”
“What’s the matter, Miss Savage?” Samuel peered down at their feet. “I didn’t step on your toe, did I?”
“No. It’s just.... I didn’t know any ladies and gentlemen came to your ball.”
“Some o’ the family generally puts in an appearance for a while.” He guided her to one side while another pair took their turn. “That’s Lord Rusholme, that’ll be the next marquis. You had a word with him out in the woods this morning, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Prudence admitted unwillingly. “He needed help with the children.”
“Lady Maria’s children. That’s her beside him, and Lady Julia, his other sister, and the gentlemen they married. T’other fellow’s Lord Rusholme’s friend, Mr. Denham. His wife’s sister’s after his lordship. Leastways, Miss Wallace is too bashful to chase him like them other two do, but her ladyship’ll set her onto him.” He laughed. “Looks like he’s slipped the leash for half an hour. Hey, come on, it’s our turn again.”
He tugged Prudence into the centre of the set. Her clumsiness, which had been a joke, was suddenly painfully mortifying. She wished she had never come. She wished she could leave without affronting Samuel. She wished she might at least go to sit with the scullery maid, Rosie, in an inconspicuous corner where Lord Rusholme would not see her.
Concentrating on the steps, she tried to avoid looking in his direction. Nonetheless she was instantly aware when he spotted her. At once she turned away, but she felt his gaze burning into her back through the thin, silky crêpe.
When the pattern of the dance made her face that way again, she dared a peek. His head was bowed, speaking to Lady Julia. Prudence scolded herself: what vanity to imagine he was watching her! His interest was of the most casual kind, a matter of chance proximity. All she had to do was keep out of his way.
The dance ended. She could not leave since Rusholme still stood in the entrance and she did not know where the other doors led to, so she made for the farthest corner of the room.
Rosie sat there on a bench against the wall. “You’re looking ever so pretty, miss,” she said, her thin face lighting as Prudence joined her.
“Thank you, my dear.” Prudence fanned herself with the fan borrowed from the props box. “I wish I knew the steps properly! Do you?”
“Oh yes, miss, only there’s none but the stable-lads’ll dance wi’ the likes o’ me.” She glanced down at her red, chapped hands. “It takes ‘em a few pints to get up their courage,” she explained with a wisdom beyond her years. “I ‘specs I’ll be dancing later. Meantimes, I likes to watch.”
“So do I.”
A gentleman’s gentleman, stiffly proper in black, approached and begged Prudence for the honour of the next dance. “His lordship has requested a waltz,” he said, “which being a new dance and foreign, the lower servants haven’t had no opportunity of learning.”
“Nor have I,” Prudence excused herself. “I’m sure you will be able to find a proficient partner.”
But the valet considered it not at all correct to desert a lady he had invited to stand up with him simply because she chose to sit out the dance. He fetched her—and, at her prompting, Rosie—lemonade, then hovered over her until she asked him to be seated.
Lord Rusholme waltzed past, Lady Julia in his arms. A wave of longing swept over Prudence. If she could dance, if she was well-born and beautiful and beautifully dressed, if she was one of the young ladies chosen by the marchioness as a suitable bride.... What she wanted was to feel his strong arms about her without in any way compromising her principles and that was clearly impossible.
She turned her attention to the man at her side.
He was employed, he revealed, by Mr. Denham, a good master but without the figure or the style, he confessed, of his friend Lord Rusholme. His lordship was a Corinthian of the first stare, a Nonpareil, equally at home on horseback or in the ballroom and always elegant, always impeccable. As the valet waxed enthusiastic, Prudence recalled Rusholme in the woods, bareheaded, hair ruffled, a child on his shoulders; Rusholme wobbling on the lurching Yule log, arms waving wildly; Rusholme seated cross-legged on the floor in his mother’s drawing room. She stifled a giggle.
Those were the images in Prudence’s mind when the waltz ended and Rusholme, impeccably elegant, swirled Lady Julia to a halt just in front of her. Thus, instead of freezing him with glance as she had intended should he approach her, when he bowed to her she smiled up at him.
She quickly came to her senses when he failed to introduce her to his s
ister, whose eyes passed over her as if she were not there. Lady Julia murmured something to her brother and sailed off, the crowd parting deferentially before her.
“Miss Savage, may I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
“Pray excuse me, my lord,” Prudence said coolly, “I do not know the steps.”
Lord Rusholme looked taken aback. “You don’t know yet what it will be,” he pointed out, clearly aware she was snubbing him.
She had to make sure he understood that her excuse was the truth, as well as a rebuff. “I don’t know any of the steps,” she explained.
“I saw you dancing earlier.”
“My partner and the others in the set all told me what to do as we went along.”
“Do you think me less capable of instructing you than my father’s footman?” His smile was quizzical, her snub forgotten or disregarded. “I promise to steer you right and not to tread on your toes. Come.” He held out his hand.
Half unwilling, half glad to be overruled, Prudence rose, venturing a last protest: “I may tread on yours. You cannot wish to stand up with anyone so clumsy, my lord!”
“I believe my toes and my credit will survive. Besides, however inaccurate, your movements were never less than graceful, I assure you.”
“I don’t care for Spanish coin, sir,” she said tartly, laying her hand on his arm.
He laughed. “I should have guessed that of you, which is why I’d not dare offer it. I shall not, for instance, tell you your gown becomes you.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“I suspected as much, having already complimented your taste. Your cloak was a good colour. Sophie was right, you looked like a wood elf.”
Prudence hurried to change the subject. “The children all seem very fond of you.”
“I am told I spoil them abominably. The advantage of nieces and nephews is that one need not fear to ruin their characters by overindulgence. That’s for their parents to fret about. Children are a great responsibility.”
“I daresay there are rewards to having one’s own children,” said Prudence dubiously. Her father had certainly never appeared to think so.
