by Molly Tanzer
When they got back to Henry’s, they all three called for baths, and after shedding a few outer garments sat shivering, wrapped up in blankets in Henry’s warm kitchen with a pot of steaming-hot ginger-scented tea to stave off any ill effects of going out in such weather.
“I really can’t recall the last time I had such a good time,” said Dorina, freshening Henry and Jonas’s cups.
“Ah, to be young again,” said Henry. “There was a time when running through the rain and getting wet feet would have charmed me too.”
“Tosh,” said Dorina. “You loved it.”
“Good company makes just about anything better,” said Jonas.
“Lady Henry, your bath,” said one of her servants, poking her head in, and then withdrawing.
“Oh, you take it,” said Henry to Dorina.
“Let’s take it together,” suggested Dorina. “It’ll be less work for the servants, and after all, we’re both girls.”
“The tub isn’t big enough,” said Henry smoothly as Jonas grinned into his cup.
Dorina tried not to show her disappointment. “All right,” she said lightly. “But I don’t know the way to your room.”
“I’m sure Beth is waiting outside the door to help whoever emerges. Go on, Dorina.”
Henry’s bedroom was large and lavishly appointed, though—unsurprisingly—not as feminine a space as Dorina might have chosen for herself. The furniture was of rather plain, dark wood, though the linens and wallpaper were both delightfully floral, giving the room a rather jungle-like feel. A canopied four-poster was the most ostentatious piece in the room. It was so tall there was a little step to get into it.
Dorina did not waste any time. The steam emerging from the attached bath was too tempting, and anyway, Beth was already helping her out of her underclothes. She had shed her dress earlier, but still had to remove her camisole, corset, knickers, and so on before she could step into the tantalizingly hot, scented water. The help was much appreciated.
The tub, she noted, could absolutely have held the two of them.
She wasn’t too disappointed. She hadn’t yet met a nut she couldn’t crack, given enough time. And pressure.
“Ginger,” she remarked as she identified the unusual odor of the steam. “Always ginger!”
“I thought it would be the lady who would be bathing first,” said Beth. “Does it not suit you, miss?”
“It’s perfectly lovely,” she assured the girl. “Thank you.”
“Let me help you with your hair, miss,” said Beth shyly. “It’s so long, and I know the difficulty of managing it all.”
A glorious half-hour later, Dorina was swaddled in fluffy golden-yellow towels and a thick slub-silk robe, her cheeks pink, her hair clean and drying before the fire in Lady Henry’s room. Beth filled the bath again, and after turning off the taps, went to fetch her mistress. Though Beth hinted that Dorina could situate herself in a guest room, Dorina lingered in her comfortable chair until Henry appeared.
“Ah! For a moment, I thought perhaps Jonas had picked out some charming new statue for my chambers,” she said.
“A statue would be nude,” said Dorina, loosening the neck of her robe. To her surprise, this actually drew a blush from the unflappable Henry, who then elected to undress with the bathroom door shut—and locked. Dorina took this as a hint, and when Beth re-emerged with Henry’s trousers and shirt over her arm, she acknowledged it was time she moved to another room.
The guests were expected at eight o’clock; by the time Dorina’s hair had dried it was only six, so with Beth’s help she changed into a light cotton robe Henry called a yukata. Henry wore one, too. They were very convenient; the sleeves were short enough that they could cull a few blossoms from Henry’s greenhouse and set them in among the blooms delivered by the flower shop without needing to roll them up.
By the time they’d finished the arrangements it was time to dress, and Dorina was excited to do so. She would be wearing a delightful scarlet and jade caftan that Henry had lent her, after Jonas had declared her wardrobe charming, but not nearly comfortable enough for the sort of intimate evening they had planned. Dorina had had her doubts . . . but when she saw what Jonas had picked out she was ever so glad to don it. It was so comfortable it seemed almost sinful—the yukata had been too much like a robe for Dorina to feel as though she could meet strangers in it, but the caftan was structured and modest while feeling like she was wearing nothing at all. Beth pinned her hair minimally, just enough to keep it out of her face, and set a little matching hat on her head that completed the ensemble beautifully.
“It looks well on you, miss,” said Beth.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Dorina smiled at herself in the mirror. “I suppose I can see what my sister sees in those awful bloomers she loves . . . I feel delightfully free in these trousers.” She spun round, keeping an eye on herself, pleased.
“When you’ve finished, Lady Henry said to meet her by the door.”
“By the door!”
Henry insisted on receiving her guests that way when her society met—“We are all of us equals, and I am perfectly equal to opening a door a few times” was her explanation.
“You look well,” said Dorina, though to be honest, Henry looked decidedly odd in her swanky London foyer; she had donned a tweed country suit. But they were all to be comfortable that night, she reminded herself. “Do you like the caftan?”
“Charming,” Henry replied. The way she said it reminded Dorina of a cat’s purr. Oh, how she longed to hear Henry say her name in that tone!
The doorbell rang. Feeling suddenly nervous, Dorina felt herself begin to perspire. She dearly hoped to impress Henry and her friends by being witty and interesting and possessed of intriguing opinions on subjects people cared about . . . The problem was, she still had no idea what this little gathering was all about, save that it was an appreciation society. Henry had avoided her questions all day when she’d tried to ask anything about it, even who would be attending. She’d decided, therefore, that it must be a group of the most famous artists and musicians and actors and bons vivants of the age, and Henry wanted to surprise her.
“Ah, Mrs. Dhareshwar!” cried Henry as she opened the door to reveal a stout, handsome Indian woman in an electric-pink sari trimmed with intricate loops of gold braid. Her umbrella, too, was colorful—a bright blue with floral pattern in silver. “Welcome, welcome!”
“Harry,” she said, kissing her hostess on the cheek. “How are you this evening? You look absolutely ravishing, as always.” She turned to Dorina after shaking out her umbrella and placing it in the stand. “And who is this? A new protégé?”
“May I present Miss Dorina Gray. Miss Gray, Mrs. Kamaladevi Dhareshwar,” said Henry. “Miss Gray is to be our guest this evening, Kamaladevi. She’s Basil’s niece.”
“Fantastic!” Mrs. Dhareshwar embraced Dorina. “You’ll have such a good time, my dear; Henry always puts on absolutely delightful programs. Never the same thing twice.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it since the moment she mentioned she curated an appreciation society,” said Dorina.
“An appreciation society! Well, that’s as appropriate a description as anything, isn’t it?” Mrs. Dhareshwar winked at Henry.
“If you’d like to go in, Jonas is pouring champagne,” said Henry, studiously avoiding Dorina’s curious gaze.
Mrs. Dhareshwar laughed a light, tinkling laugh. “I wonder which of those two things you think will tempt me more. Jonas is—” A knock at the door cut her off, and Henry opened it to reveal a tall, thin man with thick brown muttonchops and a stoop. Except for his height he was unexceptional in every way; Dorina thought he would not look out of place in a shop or bank. He boasted no colorful umbrella, just plain black.
“Mr. Seward!” Henry greeted him with a handshake. “So glad you could make it; I know your back has been troubling you.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said in a nasal drone. Dorina couldn’t imagine this ma
n appreciating anything beyond a Sunday roast and the evening papers. But, remembering how she’d told her sister not to be a snob, she pushed the thought aside.
“Mrs. Dhareshwar!” he said, embracing her. “And a new member!” he said, turning to Dorina. “Enchanted, my dear.” He shook her hand in a gentle, avuncular manner.
“She’s not a member yet,” said Henry. “She is my guest. Basil’s niece.”
“Oh, is Basil here?” asked Mr. Seward.
“I’m afraid not,” said Henry.
Dorina wasn’t the only one to notice the shift in Henry’s mood. “Mr. Seward, will you escort me into the parlor? I hear there is champagne,” said Mrs. Dhareshwar diplomatically. With a nod, Mr. Seward took her arm and led her through.
“Mrs. Dhareshwar runs a successful textile-importing business. She took it over after her husband passed away and has done fantastic things with it,” said Henry before Dorina could ask. “The coverlet on my bed—if you noticed it—that’s one of hers . . . Oh, and that robe you had on, the golden one, I had that made up out of something special she brought back for me the last time she was abroad.”
Dorina was surprised to find that Mrs. Dhareshwar was a businesswoman; she didn’t seem the type at all. Then again, Dorina didn’t know so very much about merchants. Maybe they were all bright and bubbly and elegant and interested in . . . appreciation, whatever that might mean.
“As for Mr. Seward, he’s my banker,” said Henry, her good mood apparently restored by Dorina’s surprised expression.
“A banker!” she cried.
“Yes, he’s fantastic at it. At least, I think he is . . . I always have enough money to do what I like, so that seems a good indication of his prowess. He’s also such fun to go to the opera with. Tremendous ear. In fact, if you have a good time tonight, one of our meetings later this summer is to be musical in nature. We always have a theme, you see . . . and tonight is to be the first in a series called ‘The Five Senses.’ The theme is scent, and I’ve arranged a program around that, with Mrs. Hill’s help—the florist we met, earlier. Mr. Seward is arranging everything for sound in a month or so. It should be fantastic, I’m so looking forward to it.”
“I see,” said Dorina. She was now acutely aware of her own snobbery, as well as how mistaken she had been about the nature of this gathering. It made her uncomfortable, realizing both things at once.
But she was simultaneously thrilled to hear that Henry was already amenable to her attending a second time . . .
Mrs. Hill soon arrived, with another large bouquet under her arm, which Henry gratefully received. As they took them into the back together, Dorina was left alone to greet a German gentleman by the name of Dr. Sauber, who made Dorina giggle when he announced that he studied “the female orgasm.”
“My dear girl,” he explained to her as she covered her mouth with her hand, “you may think that in the modern world we need not concern ourselves with such matters, but I assure you, female sexual pleasure is still tragically disregarded in most marriages. In fact, I would assert that sexual enjoyment in women is less valued today than it was one hundred years ago, which is a terrible step backwards for society. In the eighteenth century, it was believed that women needed to orgasm to conceive. Sadly, as our understanding of biology advanced, we gave up the idea of orgasm being necessary, and now consider it a happy accident—if we consider it at all!”
“That is a tragedy,” said Dorina, with as straight a face as she could manage. She’d never heard anyone speak so openly of such things in her life.
“Thus, I have made it my life’s work, researching and publishing on this very topic—and tangentially, discrediting the notions of hysteria and frigidity—in order to help women assert themselves in and outside of wedlock, rather than accepting a life of sexual deprivation and—”
“Doctor! Miss Gray is seventeen years old,” said Henry, looking rather miffed as she rejoined them.
“Good! Good!” he cried. “I have observed that a sexually satisfied young person is more likely to become a sexually satisfied older person. She cannot begin at a better age!”
“Begin?” Dorina arched a single eyebrow. “Who said anything about beginning?”
“Ah!” Dr. Sauber took off his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief, peering at her intently. “Do I take this to mean you are already familiar with how to induce an orgasm in yourself?”
“And in other women, whom I believe would all consider themselves quite satisfied.” Dorina was enjoying herself, and Henry’s reaction. She’d never seen her friend look so uncomfortable!
“Fascinating! A sapphic seducer! Miss Gray, I would love to interview you. Would you consent to talk to a researcher about your experiences?” He leaned in. “I come up with pseudonyms and identities for all my subjects, so if you are worried about your parents or friends, I assure you, no one will know it is you. You could be anyone you like!”
“But I’m already exactly who I wish to be,” replied Dorina, shooting a sidelong glance at Henry.
“Charming!” cried Dr. Sauber. “Henry, your friend is delightful.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Dorina. “And I would love to help you in your very important researches . . . but I must confess some trepidation. I would need a chaperone, I think, especially if I will be talking about intimate matters.”
“Ah, perhaps Lady Henry will consent?” cried Dr. Sauber.
“We’ll discuss it later,” said Henry. “Won’t you go in, Doctor?”
“I will,” he said, winking at Dorina as he bowed.
Henry had a rather prim look on her face after the doctor left them. “Don’t,” she said when Dorina opened her mouth.
“How many more?” she asked, all innocence.
“Three.”
Momentarily, Dorina was introduced to a Miss Hyacinth Travers, a columnist for a women’s magazine who published helpful household hints and tips for homemakers. She was wearing bloomers and a large, shapeless shirtwaist Evadne would have found no fault with, and was taller and rather more masculine than her companion Mr. Robert Blake, a graying man of about Dorina’s height who illustrated children’s books. Dorina immediately got a strange feeling about them, as if they were in some sort of relationship, and wanted to know more, though of course she didn’t ask.
More importantly, the presence of a writer and a visual artist reassured Dorina that she hadn’t been totally mistaken with her assumptions about the party, even if they weren’t quite the sort of writer and artist she’d thought to meet. Before she could remark upon this, the final guest arrived.
“Mr. Walmsley,” said Lady Henry. “Good of you to come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and refusing her aid, used his cane and the doorjamb to step up into the entryway.
Dorina was startled by his appearance. Not because of his cane—her uncle had come back from the Sudan with a wooden leg—but because this fellow looked as if he suffered from some sort of wasting disease. Unlike the rest of the guests, who had, like Henry, been attractive and healthy-looking, Mr. Walmsley’s sandy hair was without vibrancy, hanging limply over his forehead; he had flesh, but it looked unwholesome, bloated even. His color was bad and his face careworn, lined—no, creased, like a dog-eared page in a book. And he walked as if he felt pain with every step, and from every part of him.
“Let me introduce Miss Dorina Gray, who is my guest for the evening,” said Henry, shutting the door behind the final arrival. “Dorina, this is Bertram Walmsley.”
“A pleasure,” he said, but did not extend his hand. Dorina didn’t find this surprising; it seemed to take all his effort to remain upright.
“The pleasure is mine,” she said.
“Go on in, Bertram; we’ll join you in a moment.” The man nodded, and disappeared after a brief and awkward fumbling with the parlor door.
“What is he, a greengrocer? A poet? Both?”
Henry took Dorina’s arm. “Neither. He’s a gentleman—another
client of Mr. Seward’s. Now, Dorina, before we go in . . .”
She sighed. Another lecture!
“There is only one thing I insist upon: be satisfied with what you receive.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are my guest, yes, but you must not request anything other than what you will be given. And I must insist you not take anything you are not personally served, or ask to see anything more than you are allowed to see. And I ask that you apply this behavior to everything, including leaving if you are asked to.”
Dorina was actually surprised by this. “All right,” she said. “I promise.”
“Good girl. And you’re not alone—so don’t feel like this is because of your age, or your sex. Mr. Walmsley is also a junior member, and must follow the same rules. All right?”
Dorina was too excited to argue. “All right,” she chirped.
“Then let us go in,” said Henry.
And they did.
Henry’s chinoiserie parlor was always impressive, with its black lacquered wooden furniture and golden wallpaper adorned with scenes of fecund fruit trees and bright-plumed exotic birds, but in the candlelight it really came to life. Modern electric bulbs illuminated the space efficiently from the corners, but the long tapers still cast their warm, flickering light over everything from the deep-upholstered chairs and sofas to Jonas pouring drinks for Miss Travers and Mr. Blake. He was doing something with sugar cubes, a clear glass bottle with a dropper, and champagne. Everyone had a glass of the stuff, which fizzed delightfully and produced the most intoxicating aroma of spice and sweetness as they talked to one another. Save for Mr. Walmsley, everyone was already deep in conversation; he sat alone on a settee, observing, not only without a companion, but also without a beverage. Thus, when Henry went to talk with Dr. Sauber, Dorina decided instead to be a good hostess, and gently sat down beside the wracked-looking man.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked. “I’d be happy to fetch you something.”
