Refining Felicity

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Pray go on playing, Lady Felicity,’ said Effy, after the guests were seated and more cups and cakes had been brought in. Effy was proud of Felicity’s prowess.

  Felicity gratefully turned back to the piano.

  ‘And where was you yesterday, Ravenswood?’ she heard Mrs Andrews ask.

  ‘I had business to attend to,’ said the marquess.

  ‘We saw you last night,’ said Betty Andrews rather shrilly. ‘We were leaving the Georges’ rout and stood on the step when you went past with Lady Felicity and she was dressed in men’s clothes!’

  Felicity forced herself to continue playing.

  ‘You do Lady Felicity an injustice,’ said the marquess. ‘Why on earth would she be dressed in masculine clothes? I was merely bringing that reprobate of a cousin of hers back to Town. The family resemblance is striking, I’ll admit.’

  Betty Andrews smiled, and then flashed her mother an I-told-you-so look. ‘You must forgive us,’ said Betty. ‘But, as you say, the resemblance is striking. I told Mama it was probably some relative of Lady Felicity, but she would have it otherwise.’

  ‘That is all very well,’ said Mrs Andrews sharply. ‘But we are all become the subject of lampoons in the print-shops.’

  The marquess stiffened. Had Bremmer talked? The print-shops were notorious for making artists work all night if necessary in order to lampoon the latest victim as soon as possible.

  ‘What are they saying?’ he asked.

  ‘Only that this house is being called Ravenswood’s harem and they are saying that you are Turkish in your tastes and prefer older women.’

  The marquess laughed, as much with relief as anything else. ‘If that is all they have to say, let ’em,’ he said.

  ‘But you must admit it looks very odd,’ pursued Mrs Andrews, a high, whining note of complaint entering her voice. ‘You have a perfectly good Town house which—’

  ‘Which I have let for the Season,’ said the marquess in a flat voice.

  ‘Do not go on, Mama,’ said Betty quickly, seeing the look of increasing irritation on the marquess’s face. ‘Lord Ravenswood is quite right. There is no need to make a fuss. The lampoonists will find another subject on the morrow. Let us talk of other things. Shall we see you at the playhouse tomorrow?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ replied the marquess. ‘I attend the opening ball at Almack’s.’

  Betty Andrews turned pink. She had not received vouchers to the famous assembly rooms and was still smarting from the snub. The stern patronesses might have unbent and given her the vouchers after her engagement to Ravenswood had not Mrs Andrews met the Countess Lieven, one of the assembly rooms’ sternest despots, in the Park, and harangued that lady, who had obviously delighted in giving Mrs Andrews a magnificent set-down.

  ‘I am surprised you go, Ravenswood,’ said Mrs Andrews, raising her eyebrows. ‘Why, pray? As you know, my poor Betty has been most disgracefully snubbed.’

  ‘I have promised various friends I would be there, that is all,’ said the marquess repressively, wishing now he had not given in to the sisters’ pleas that he should escort Felicity and make sure the girl was well and truly launched on her first Season.

  Betty felt miserable. She wished Felicity would stop playing and turn around. There was something which rankled about the expertise of her playing and the elegance of her back presented to the company.

  Then the door opened and Amy walked in. Mrs Andrews tittered. Betty stared, wide-eyed. Effy let out a sort of bleating sound. Felicity stopped playing and turned around.

  Amy looked like a guy.

  She had bullied Yvette into making her a thin muslin gown with puffed sleeves and flounces, a gown more suitable for a miss in her teens than for a leathery lady of uncertain years. Amy’s hair was frizzed and pomaded and decorated with flowers. Her bony arms hung uselessly at her sides, the short gloves revealing elbows like nutmeg graters.

  ‘Whatever have you done to yourself?’ cried Effy.

  Amy’s large feet, clad in pink silk slippers, flapped miserably as she crossed the floor and looked in the glass over the fireplace which had replaced the ruined portrait. Sunlight flooded the room and cruelly showed Amy her own tired and lined face below the ridiculous arrangement of frizzed hair and flowers. What had looked attractive in the candle-lit shadows of her bedchamber now looked grotesque in the full glare of the sunlight. Like many ladies of her age, Amy never prepared her toilet or did her hair with the curtains drawn back, finding the softer light of candles presented a more flattering image of herself to carry through the day. An ugly blush stained her cheeks, and she turned and looked at Mr Haddon like an old dog who has been whipped.

  ‘You look very fine, Miss Amy,’ said Felicity in a clear voice, ‘but it lacks a few touches.’ She unpinned and untied the huge Kashmir shawl from her own dress and went up to Amy. ‘Now,’ said Felicity, ‘if we unpin all these flowers, so, and put the shawl, so . . .’ She swung the gaily coloured shawl about Amy’s shoulders like a cloak and belted it at Amy’s waist. The shawl with its glorious, barbaric colours covered most of Amy’s gown. The glowing design of the shawl and its heavy gold fringe immediately gave Amy dignity and style. It was a master-stroke.

  Mr Haddon leaped to his feet. ‘I have brought several fine shawls back with me from India, Miss Amy,’ he said. ‘I shall send them round to you and you may have your pick. I declare, I never before saw any lady who could wear the fashion so well.’

  Amy blushed with pleasure this time. She sat down beside Mr Haddon and began to talk.

  The marquess went over to Betty and then led her to the window. ‘You must forgive me,’ he said. ‘But I did promise the Tribbles I would help to launch Lady Felicity by taking her to Almack’s.’

  Betty bit her lip. ‘But it will look most odd,’ she protested.

  ‘I do not think so. Anyone can see I have no interest in the chit whatsoever.’

  Betty smiled up at him tremulously and he pressed her hand. She felt reassured, and yet, when Felicity had put that shawl of hers around Amy Tribble’s shoulders, there had been a certain warmth in the marquess’s eyes when he looked at Felicity that Betty did not like.

  Betty wished she could feel more at ease with her fiancé. Her father was a very wealthy squire who had made his fortune by buying a profitable sugar plantation in the West Indies. Her family was of the gentry, not the aristocracy, and very moral and staid in their ways. Securing the marquess had been a great triumph, and that triumph had been better than any love or passion. But for the first time, Betty began to wonder what life would be like after they were married. The marquess was heir to a dukedom. His father was the Duke of Handshire. The idea of being a duchess one day had seemed like a fairy-tale. But now Betty found herself wondering what it would be like to have to control the complicated running of a ducal mansion and a whole army of servants. Her father preferred female servants, strong countrywomen who were not in the least intimidating. In the country, Betty had felt secure in her social position. She knew herself to be the prettiest girl for miles around and a very rich heiress. But in London things were different; her family’s wealth ensured her an entrée to most places – but not all. Betty thought it a very unfair world where a hoyden like Felicity could be ensured vouchers to Almack’s when she herself could not.

  ‘Lord Bremmer,’ the butler announced.

  Betty noticed the sudden stricken look on Felicity’s face and the wild exchange of glances between the sisters and wondered what was wrong.

  ‘What brings you here, Bremmer?’ asked the marquess sharply.

  ‘You asked me to call,’ said Lord Bremmer, colouring up.

  ‘I had forgot,’ said the marquess. ‘We had something to discuss, had we not? I had better wait until another time.’ He introduced his fiancée and Mrs Andrews.

  ‘But we have met before!’ cried Betty.

  ‘I d-do not think so,’ stammered Lord Bremmer, looking in a bewildered way at the beautiful face turned up to his own. ‘I
could not possibly have forgotten.’

  ‘We were both ten years old at the time.’ Betty laughed. ‘My parents were staying with relatives near your home and Papa decided to call and make a tour of the house and grounds. I wandered off and climbed an apple tree and became stuck and screamed for help and you got me down.’

  ‘By George! So I did,’ cried Lord Bremmer, remembering that sunny day and the plump little girl who was crying dismally from a branch of the apple tree.

  They sat down together and began to talk like old friends.

  The marquess crossed to the piano. Felicity’s hands faltered on the keys. ‘What are you playing?’ he asked.

  ‘It is a composition of my own.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  ‘But I cannot develop it any further.’

  ‘It is enchanting as it is. Of course, you could symphony-ize it by putting a lot of chords and flourishes in the left hand. See, like so.’ He sat down on the long music stool next to her. ‘Now you play the melody and I shall add the dramatics.’

  Felicity began to play and he began to elaborate with chords and cadenzas. Felicity began to laugh. ‘We should perform at the Argyle Rooms,’ she said. ‘See, now we cross hands in quite the best manner.’

  The marquess laughed too and leaned across her. His arm brushed her bosom. His hip on the music stool was pressed against her hip. His fingers suddenly stumbled over the keys.

  ‘I cannot play anymore,’ he said. He got up and walked away.

  Felicity felt suddenly cold. She sat for a few moments with her fingers resting on the keys. Then she raised her hands and began to play a Bach movement with great verve and style.

  * * *

  The Duke and Duchess of Handshire sat discussing their son’s forthcoming marriage and agreeing that it was the first time he had ever caused either of them any worry. The marquess had inherited his estates and fortune from an aunt, which had made him independent of his parents. They had mourned their loss of control over him but had been pleasurably surprised when he had continued to lead a fairly quiet, respectable, and hard-working life. They themselves never went to Town, preferring the world to come to them.

  Then there had been the letter from the marquess telling them of his engagement, and now there was a letter from old Lord Chumley, informing them that Ravenswood had taken up residence with a couple of old maids and was under the same roof as the wild and beautiful Lady Felicity, which the whole of the world thought most odd.

  The duke and duchess found it all most odd as well.

  ‘This Andrews girl is not of our station,’ said the duchess at last. ‘A fiancée of his own rank would never have allowed such a state of affairs to exist. He must not marry this girl.’

  ‘But we have no power over Charles,’ said the duke, Charles being Ravenswood’s first name.

  ‘If he saw the Andrews girl in these surroundings, he would soon realize he was about to marry beneath him,’ said the duchess. ‘It is so long since he has paid us a visit, he has forgotten what the place is like. He forgets what is due to his name. We shall summon them all here – these two old maids, the Tribbles, and Miss Andrews and Lady Felicity. When he sees them all against the background of his family home, he will soon change his mind.’

  Amy and Effy were to take Felicity to a concert at the Argyle Rooms that evening. But Felicity found herself suffering from a terrible headache. It had been lurking at the back of her temples all day, and when the Andrewses took their leave, it burst on her with full force. Alarmed, Amy would have decided to stay at home, but Felicity said weakly that all she wanted was to lie down and be left alone. Effy was desperate to go to hear the latest male soprano and Mr Haddon was to go as well, so Amy was easily persuaded to leave Felicity to be looked after by her maid. As soon as the sisters had left, Felicity dismissed Wanstead, saying that if only she could be left entirely alone and without anyone fussing over her, she was sure the headache would go away.

  And as soon as she was alone, that is exactly what happened. The headache miraculously disappeared, leaving Felicity wide-awake and strangely restless. The events of the day before now seemed like some awful dream, the Felicity who had run off with Lord Bremmer a completely different person. She thought about the Marquess of Ravenswood and tried to feel some of the hate she had felt for him the day before, but all she could feel was curiosity about this man who could be such a Tartar one minute and so unexpectedly kind the next.

  She rose and dressed, wishing now she had gone to the concert. She wandered out of her room, wondering whether to go down to the drawing room and pass the evening practising the piano. She hesitated in the corridor outside, listening to the hush of the house. An oil lamp on a stand at the end of the passage shone on the closed door of the marquess’s room. What sort of man was he? she wondered. It would be interesting to take a peek inside his room and look about. There could be no harm in it. From the silence of the house, she judged the servants had already retired to their quarters. The Tribbles did not expect servants to sit up for them, not even Baxter, their stern maid.

  The Marquess of Ravenswood was lying in his bath in front of the fire in his room, reading a book. He did not look up when the door softly opened, assuming his valet had come back, although the marquess had told him not to enter until he rang for him.

  Felicity did not see the marquess. Not expecting him to be there, she did not even look in the direction of the fireplace, but crossed to the dressing-table and studied the contents displayed on top. There were silverbacked brushes and a jewel box, lying open to display rings and pins and seals and fobs. There was a gold watch, bottles of pomade, and a pile of letters.

  The marquess looked up from his book and saw Felicity picking up the top letter and beginning to read it.

  He stood up, stepped out of the bath, and crossed to where she stood just as she swung about, a look of shock on her face as she saw the naked, dripping-wet marquess. She let out a small scream as he grasped her arm.

  ‘What the deuce do you think you are doing? Spying on me? Reading my letters?’ He gave her a shake.

  ‘I thought it was Miss Amy’s room,’ lied Felicity.

  ‘You did no such thing!’

  ‘My lord,’ said Felicity, closing her eyes. ‘You are naked.’

  ‘So I am. Do you know what is likely to happen to you if you go about prowling around gentlemen’s bedrooms?’

  Felicity was tired of feeling guilty. ‘No,’ she said crossly, opening her eyes and glaring at him defiantly.

  ‘This,’ he said, jerking her against him. Felicity was too shocked to cry out or protest. His hot, naked, wet body was pressed tightly against her. She could feel the water soaking through the thin muslin of her gown. She was a tall girl but he was taller still. His eyes glinted wickedly down at her in the candlelight. A log fell in the fireplace and flames shot up and his wet body gleamed red in the light of the dancing flames.

  ‘Please let me go,’ said Felicity with dignity. But her mouth trembled, that mouth which was too generous for fashion but promised more passion that any primped-up little rosebud.

  He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth firm and cool against her own. Shock kept her passive in his arms. His lips caught fire and suddenly Felicity and the marquess were fused hotly and wetly together. With a heroic effort the marquess surfaced from a boiling sea of passion to find he was disgracefully aroused, and that if he let her go, she might see it and it might shock her out of her wits. Of course, she could feel it, but then he could only hope, in her innocence, she did not know what it was. As she shook and trembled in his arms, he looked wildly over his shoulder to where a fleecy towel hung on a rack near the fire. Still holding her, he waltzed her over to it, released her, swung about, grabbed the towel and knotted it about his middle.

  ‘Get out of here!’ he shouted.

  And Felicity ran.

  She locked herself into her room, and then sat by the fire, hugging her trembling and burning body. It was a long time before she
calmed down.

  But when she did so, a little smile began to curve her lips.

  For the Marquess of Ravenswood had behaved every bit as shockingly as she had done herself. That comforted her for a while, until she remembered the feel of his lips and the hard feel of his body against her own.

  She rose and looked at herself in the looking-glass, at her dishevelled hair and strangely swollen lips.

  ‘Slut!’ said Lady Felicity fiercely to her reflection. ‘Complete and uttermost slut!’

  ‘Have you noticed a certain atmosphere in this house?’ demanded Amy, striding up and down.

  ‘No, I have not,’ said Effy crossly. ‘You have too much imagination, Amy.’

  The sisters were waiting in the drawing room for Felicity before going to Almack’s. Effy was furious at Amy’s appearance. For Amy had surrendered to Yvette’s wishes and was wearing one of the French dressmaker’s designs. It was of green-and-gold brocade and cleverly trimmed with gold fringe to give Amy a bust where she really had none and hips where she had none either. On her head was a gold taffeta turban ornamented with a topaz brooch. She looked very grand, and Effy’s nose was quite put out of joint. She herself was dressed in thin, rose-coloured silk, having insisted that Yvette make the gown to her, Effy’s, design. It had little puffed sleeves out of which Effy’s arms appeared like white sticks. On her head was a nut-brown wig that made her appear older than her own cloud of silver hair would have done.

  Amy poured herself a glass of port and downed it in one gulp. ‘I tell you, Effy,’ she said, ‘something happened last night when we were at the concert. Ravenswood saw Felicity this afternoon when she was going out driving with us and he looked deuced uncomfortable and Felicity blushed to the roots of her hair, but her body seemed to go all soft and yielding. I don’t like it. She ain’t tamed yet, not by a long chalk, and if Ravenswood queers our pitch by throwing his leg over, I’ll never forgive him.’