by Pinki Parks
Charlotte readied herself for bed and looked out over the village green which was now bathed in the dusky light of a summer evening. Opening the little window, the smell of roses and hollyhocks hit here and she breathed in its scent, life here was so very different from New York. She imagined opening her own apartment window up on the fourteenth floor of her building. Inhaling there would give a lung full of petrol fumes mixed with a smell of fast food and uncollected rubbish, not to mention the noise, which not even the triple glazing kept out. Here though a beautiful and peaceful silence reigned over everything, and leaving the window a little ajar she climbed into bed and fell quickly into a deep and peaceful sleep.
The next morning dawned bright and early and with no lady’s maid on hand, a luxury which Charlotte had rather got used to over the previous months, she washed and dressed herself before descending to the parlour where she found Lady Carshaw already at her breakfast.
‘How did you sleep dear?’ she asked.
‘Ever so comfortably thank you,’ Charlotte replied, ‘and yourself?’
‘I always sleep well here, it’s so peaceful.’
The two ladies concluded their meal and with food for the rest of the journey provided by the Landlady they were sent on their way. They would overnight there once again on there return home, and so it was that now the carriage took the Brighton road, once more taking them through the pastoral landscapes of the English countryside.
Charlotte felt more relaxed with Lady Carshaw now, and it seemed that the older woman felt the same. They chatted about the weather and the various goings on in the district at home before turning their attentions to what lay in store for them in Brighton.
‘It is a magnificent house,’ Lady Carshaw said, ‘quite close to the pavilion and with the most beautiful gardens attached, you shall love the town too, the promenade and the opportunities to shop and socialise.’
‘It sounds just wonderful,’ Charlotte said, ‘and to think we shall be there so soon.’
‘In just a few hours I hope.’
‘Maria is so kind to have invited me, I hardly know her really.’
‘She took quite a shine to you that day at tea, and in her correspondence your name is always mentioned to me, and enquiries made as to your well being.’
‘I can’t possibly think why,’ Charlotte said.
‘I think you remind her a little of herself in her younger days, such free spiritedness, so happy to speak your mind, your looks too are similar to hers,’ Lady Carshaw said.
‘Well I am delighted to be here,’ Charlotte said as the carriage sped on.
It was the late afternoon when they finally caught sight of Brighton for the first time, its seafront and imposing houses stretching on towards the pavilion. As they travelled down the main thoroughfare into the town Charlotte was impressed by the many fine ladies and gentleman promenading and taking the air. It seemed as though every fashionable person was out that afternoon enjoying the warmth of the sun, and taking time to stop and greet one another to pass the time of day.
At length they came to a halt outside a wisteria clad villa, surrounded by exquisite gardens. It was much smaller than Langburn, but it had a certain charm about it, and if a house could ever be said to personify its owner then this house certainly reminded Charlotte of its occupant who now appeared at the door to greet them.
Stepping down from the carriage Charlotte was met with the scent of roses, warmed in the sun, coming from the surrounding gardens, and as she embraced Maria Fitzherbert she felt immediately at home here in this beautiful place.
‘You’ve arrived in ever such good time,’ Maria said, ‘I trust your journey was a pleasant one? Constance, so wonderful to see you,’ and she embraced Lady Carshaw before leading them inside.
The house itself was furnished with only the best, and most modern, of furniture and Maria led them into a long gallery looking out over the gardens, which also functioned as a sitting room.
‘Now tell me about your journey,’ she said, ‘you must be tired, I always find I am tired after a night on the road, even with the most amicable company and surroundings.’
‘It was a most pleasant journey,’ Lady Carshaw said, ‘we stayed the night at St Mary Allington, the Inn there is most congenial.’
‘Well I hope our hospitality here can be just as comfortable, Maria said, smiling, ‘now Charlotte, you must be looking forward to the ball tomorrow evening.’
‘I certainly am, and to think that the King will be there too, and to see the guests in their finery. I have thought of nothing else since the invitation arrived.’
‘I am so glad it has elicited such excitement on your part, I was eager for you to come, I think you will find Brighton a most evocative place. Now, we shall show you to your chambers and then once you have settled in perhaps we will take a walk before dinner, the gardens at the pavilion are really at their best at this time of year.’
The housekeeper showed them to their rooms, an interconnecting suite with a sitting room overlooking the gardens. The windows had been opened so that the scent of roses once more filled the air, and the warm breeze from the sea, which gently blew into the rooms, reminded Charlotte of her parent’s home overlooking the bay in San Francisco.
‘Oh, it’s so lovely,’ she exclaimed, ‘I love Brighton already.’
Lady Carshaw had indeed tired from the journey, and she decided to take a rest, not understanding Charlotte’s agreement that ‘a siesta’ would be a good idea, nevertheless she settled herself into her bedroom and slept for much of the afternoon.
Meanwhile the maids assisted Charlotte with her unpacking and once this was accomplished the young lady made her way downstairs where she found Maria Fitzherbert seated once again in the long gallery completing some correspondence.
‘I do hope the rooms are to your liking Charlotte dear,’ she said.
‘They’re just perfect ma’am,’ Charlotte replied.
‘There’s no need for such formalities with me,’ the elder woman said, ‘Maria will be just fine, I’ve answered to worse over the years.’
Charlotte didn’t like ask any questions as to what was meant by Maria’s words but she knew that the lady had not been treated kindly, her Catholicism and her love for the King could not go hand in hand and thus she had been always on the margins of acceptability, though now her life was somewhat quieter than it had been in the past.
‘Shall we take a little walk?’ Maria said, ‘I fear we shall not see dear Constance until this evening, but you and I can take the air without her, I am sure she would not mind.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Charlotte said.
They made their way out into the gardens and took a turn around the house, the sun was still warm and the formal beds were a mass of colour, the gardeners having worked hard in preparation for the ball.
At length they made their way into the gardens of the pavilion and it seemed that most people walking there knew Maria Fitzherbert by sight, many greeting her and wishing her the best of the day. The gardens here were also spectacular, laid out according to the King’s own direction, exotic looking plants, and intriguing patterns of flowers, brought an air of mystery and excitement to the grounds of what was an astonishing building in its own right.
‘Does the King spend much time here?’ Charlotte asked.
‘He likes to escape here when the affairs of state become too burdensome,’ Maria said, ‘the parties he hosts can be most lavish.’
‘I can only imagine,’ Charlotte said, ‘and tomorrow at the ball, will there be many of the aristocracy present?’
‘Indeed,’ Maria said, ‘some of which you shall know well,’ and she smiled.
‘But I hardly know anyone,’ Charlotte said.
‘Well you know the Duke of Hareburn I believe.’
Charlotte failed to disguise her delight at hearing that Cecil would be present at the ball, it had been some weeks since she had seen him when he had last
visited Langburn for a weekend back in April. The two had been inseparable throughout his time there, leading her mother to remark on several occasions that it seemed as though the Marquess of Collingdale was rather losing her daughters’ affections, despite the fact that he had never had them. When Cecil had departed each had written to the other expressing their sorrow at having been apart, with Charlotte’s sisters suggesting that a proposal was imminent.
‘I am glad that news of his presence brings you joy, dear, I thought it would.’
‘Thank you for engineering our meeting in this way,’ Charlotte said.
After almost six months amongst her Regency friends Charlotte’s demeanour and turn of phrase had become almost that of her contemporaries and except for the occasional slip up when Melissa’s New York twang, or turn of phrase, emerged without warning she had largely found herself able to converse in a manner suitable to the setting.
The two women now returned to the house, Charlotte herself was tiring by now and the fresh air had given her over to yawning. Dinner would not be served until eight O’clock giving her time for a ‘siesta’ (as her mind insisted upon calling it) before the maids assisted her and Lady Carshaw in their preparations for dinner. It was to be a quiet affair, with no additional guests, the excitement of tomorrow night’s ball enough distraction for now.
Dinner was indeed a simple affair, a soup followed by Dover Sole in a parsley sauce served with new potatoes and to follow the most exquisite jelly that Charlotte had ever tasted.
The dining room of Maria Fitzherbert’s home, which Charlotte had now learned was called Steine House, was, like the rest of her abode, beautifully furnished. The long-polished table, now laid for dinner, was surrounded by exquisite chairs with gold leaf arms and legs, along one side of the room windows looked out onto the garden, whilst along the other long wall a set of sideboards in mahogany sat beneath paintings of Maria Fitzherbert herself.
The paintings seemed to tell the story of her life with her fashionable youth depicted alongside portraits of her in her riper years.
‘I keep my most valued objects in this room,’ she said as they sat finishing the dinner, ‘some are gifts from abroad, that little box there a gift from the German ambassador.’
‘So many beautiful objects, it’s impossible to take it all in,’ Charlotte said.
She was enchanted by Maria Fitzherbert, and by her home, it was such a seemingly magical place, full of beauty and happiness. Yet Maria herself was a figure whom she knew to have suffered tragedy in her life, but it was perhaps that suffering which now gave her the gifts of empathy to others, and she had clearly taken a shine to Charlotte whose company she delighted in.
The party retired early to bed that night, the expectation for tomorrow’s ball and all that it would bring ensuring that it took Charlotte some time before she drifted off to sleep. She thought of Cecil and how it would be for them to spend tomorrow evening together at the ball, away from her mother’s watchful eye and the ever-possible presence of the Marquess of Collingdale. Even her sisters could, at times, intrude upon her privacy, but she felt certain that tomorrow would be different, and that she and Cecil would finally have the chance to speak what their hearts longed to say.
The maid did not come in until a little later in the morning, Maria Fitzherbert had instructed that the household was to sleep late that morning in preparation for the ball that evening and so it was 9 O’clock when Charlotte was disturbed from her slumber by the curtains being drawn back.
Immediately the smell of the roses and the fresh scent of the box hedge hit her as the sunlight poured in through the open windows.
‘Good morning ma’am,’ the maid said, ‘it is a beautiful day.’
‘It seems Brighton is beautiful always,’ Charlotte said.
‘In the winter, when the sea mist comes in, and the waves crash against shore it can sometimes be a hard place to live ma’am, but on a day like today, why I would not be anywhere else.’
‘Particularly today,’ Charlotte said, ‘what time do the guests arrive?’
‘I believe for 7 O’clock and thirty minutes past the hour ma’am, though some will no doubt arrive earlier, they always do.’
Charlotte was already up and dressed by the time Lady Carshaw had readied herself and the two made their way down to breakfast where a light collation had been laid out. The lady of the house had already gone out on business leaving the housekeeper to explain that she would return soon from town.
In the meantime, preparations for the ball continued at a pace. In the centre of the house was a fine, though quite small, ballroom whose carpet had been rolled back and chairs placed at intervals around the side. The ballroom led out onto the terrace at the rear of the house, looking out over the gardens where birds sang, and the sunlight cast its favour over the mass of flowers and greenery.
Charlotte watched as the servants began to prepare the room for the evening’s celebration, huge bunches of freshly cut flowers were brought in to adorn the tables, and polished glassware was laid out ready for the punch to be served in.
The day passed uneventfully and at length Maria Fitzherbert returned from town where she had been seeing to her correspondence, and ensuring that final preparations for tonight were in hand, for now she had a surprise for Charlotte.
‘Now dear,’ she said as the three ladies sat on the terrace in the early afternoon fanning themselves and drinking elderflower cordial for refreshment, ‘I am sure you have bought a selection of dresses to choose from tonight.’
This was indeed the case, her mother having insisted on her taking four possible outfits to ensure she didn’t clash with whatever wall paper Maria had installed for that season.
‘But I’ve taken the liberty of purchasing a little gift for you,’ she continued, ‘I believe that it is arriving now, I’m sure I heard the bell just now, come and see.’
With great excitement Charlotte and Lady Carshaw followed Maria through the house. The bell had indeed rung and the housekeeper was escorting a most fashionable looking young man into the long gallery. He gave an exaggerated bow when he saw the ladies and addressed Maria.
‘Your Ladyship,’ he said, ‘it is my honour and pleasure to bring this dress to you, I will say it myself, but the fabrics are just fabulous, such exquisite choices as ever.’
‘Charlotte this is Mr. Dawlish’ Maria said, ‘he runs the most wonderful outfitter down on the promenade, and has been making dresses for me for the past ten years. I asked if he could take on this little project for me and he graciously obliged.’
‘It has been my pleasure ma’am,’ Mr. Dawlish said.
Charlotte had many gay friends back in New York City and she couldn’t help comparing Mr. Dawlish to one of her closest friends Joshua who was a fashion designer and lived with his partner Alistair in an apartment in Manhattan. It was not just his mannerisms but his looks too. Indeed, she had encountered many people, not just the Marquess of Collingdale, who reminded her of people from back home in New York City.
But her attention now turned to the dress.
‘Isn’t it just stunning,’ Mr. Dawlish said, as he opened the box containing the dress and drew it out, holding it up for them to see.
Charlotte had to admit that the dress was indeed fabulous, it was golden with a white satin sash, the embroidery was exquisite, and it looked as if it would be her exact fit.
‘How did you know my measurement?’ Charlotte said.
‘When you’ve been doing this for as long as I have you get an idea for lady’s sizes,’ Mr. Dawlish said, ‘aristocratic ladies are essentially all the same size. If you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I’d love to try it on,’ Charlotte said.
‘Then you must. I’m sure Mr. Dawlish has brought his sowing kit in case any last-minute alterations are required.’
‘Pins at the ready,’ he said, smiling.
Charlotte took the dress and changed in the small ante-room off th
e gallery, there was no mirror there but looking down at the folds of silk and satin she knew it fitted perfectly. Whilst in New York she had hardly ever been seen in a dress, her sensibilities offended by the mere idea that women should dress in one way and men in another, here in this time and place she felt entirely comfortable by the social expectations. Maria Fitzherbert’s kindness overwhelmed her, and as she stepped out into the gallery the gasps of delight from the assembled gathering confirmed to her that the dress did indeed fit perfectly.
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ Lady Carshaw said, ‘if only your mother could see you now, why you look like a princess.’
‘I feel like one,’ Charlotte said.
‘No pins required,’ Mr. Dawlish said.
‘None whatsoever,’ Maria said, ‘you look beautiful Charlotte, and tonight all of Brighton society shall see you.’
‘If the King asks where the dress is from,’ Mr. Dawlish said.
‘The King knows that I get all my dresses from the finest tailor in Brighton, Mr. Dawlish, I can assure you of that,’ Maria said.
‘Perhaps one day I’ll even get an invitation.’
‘Perhaps you will, now we must be getting on.’
They bid goodbye to Mr. Dawlish with Maria’s assurances that she would see him soon, and with the afternoon now drawing on, it was time to make ready for the ball that evening.
Charlotte had removed the dress and was back in her day clothes whilst the maids fussed round preparing hot water and her dressing table. Things always seem to take longer in a strange place, and it required Lady Carshaw’s assistance to ensure her hair was just as it should be. At length she put the dress back on, and now stood to admire herself in the long mirror in her room, the final addition of the necklace given her by Cecil for Christmas adding a crowning to the final look.
‘You will certainly turn the gentleman’s heads this evening,’ Lady Carshaw said as Charlotte stood before her. But her mind was interested in only one gentleman, and unbeknownst to her, a short distance away, that certain young man was preening himself, nervously anticipating his meeting with Charlotte. For despite his personal prowess the Duke of Hareburn was still terrified of women, and though he was deeply in love with Charlotte the knowledge that soon he would be in her presence gave him a feeling in his stomach far worse than any he had had on any battlefield or great state occasion.
