Charming Ophelia

by Rachael Miles

  “I’m sure Ophelia is reserving her judgment until the play is concluded,” Sidney said, then leaning into her ear, whispered, “You’ll have to pay attention after intermission or Ariel will know you haven’t seen a bit of Betty’s performance thus far. Would you like to accompany me for refreshments?”

  Ophelia nodded and began to stand, but Sidney, looking past her, put his hand on her elbow, stopping her. “Don’t turn your head. Pretend to be fascinated by something I’ve said.”

  “Why?” But even so, Ophelia stilled.

  “I’ll explain in a moment.” Sidney’s eyes were focused across the theater, somewhere past her.

  “If I’m not to move, should I imagine myself a rabbit? I could crinkle my nose and sniff the air for danger. No, not a rabbit: they are entirely too toothy. I prefer a deer. Then, when I determine the danger is passed, I can stalk away gracefully.”

  “If you are a deer, then I must be your hart.”

  “Ah, clever, Sidney.” Ophelia grinned. “Has the danger passed? Can I stalk away to the refreshment booth?”

  “Not yet. Ah, now. Yes, to the refreshment booth.” Sidney rose and extended his hand.

  Kate and Ariel had already made their way from the box with Tom, followed by Millicent and her friends, leaving Sidney briefly alone with Ophelia in the box.

  “Or, rather, would you like to forego lemonade to do a little spying?” Sidney picked up Millicent’s Spanish lace shawl. “One of your suitors arrived at his box several moments ago. He didn’t see you, and I might be mistaken in what I thought I saw.”

  Ophelia’s heart quickened. “But you think it might be worth pursuing. Then, yes.”

  “Luckily, your hat is modest.” Sidney drew out the lace in his hands. “Can you wear this as a veil, obscuring your face?”

  Ophelia took the shawl and wrapped stylishly over her head and neck. “Like this?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Sidney looked over her approvingly. “This row of boxes curves at the end of the hall. Two boxes past the curve we are going to stop as if we are deep in conversation.”

  “Then what will we do?”

  “We will listen and hope for something useful.”

  * * * *

  Outside the box, Ophelia and Sidney listened to the conversation within.

  “You promised you would wait for me. You promised you would never marry.”

  “Your voice. Speak low. It is too easy to overhear conversations in these boxes.”

  “The world wants their lemonade. No one will hear.”

  “We must be careful. If someone were to see you…”

  “They would think I’m what I appear to be: a footman.”

  “But your husband…”

  “Run away with me, to the East, to America, anywhere as long as we are together. Your father always wished for you to go abroad and build your fortune. A packet leaves for New York on Friday. I have the tickets here.”

  “It’s not that easy. He would never accept that I stole another man’s wife.”

  Don’t tell him. I can travel with you as your servant. Lady Mardly will simply disappear, as her predecessor did before her. Choose a place where we can be together. Not as we would be here, with you married, escorting your wife to balls and dinners, and me waiting, hoping, you can slip away.”

  “Father suggested I court her, so I did. He likes her connection to the duke. He thinks she is exactly the sort of woman I should marry.”

  “Which duke?” Ophelia mouthed.

  “Just listen.” Sidney mouthed back, touching his ear to make his instruction clear.

  “I never thought I’d find her congenial, but I do,” the man continued. “She’s all practicality and good nature. She has no rosy ideas that marriage is anything other than a beneficial economic arrangement. I don’t think I could marry some other debutante who would expect to have her heart engaged.”

  “Would you love her?”

  “I feel a strong affection for her. She’s clever, funny. We always end up laughing, and I think that sort of companionability would lend to a comfortable life.”

  “Would you love her as you do me? As I do you?” The woman’s voice sounded plaintive and hurt.

  “That’s not possible. Nothing about her stirs my blood. Yes, she’s handsome enough with such lovely auburn hair. I told her yesterday how much I’d like to paint it.”

  Hambenth. She felt the truth of it like a pang near her heart, but it was a prick, not a stab.

  “What about children?”

  “What man doesn’t want an heir? But each time I hold her in my arms, I will be thinking of you.”

  That’s not enough.”

  “It has to be. If she accepts me, I will marry. It’s gone too far to do otherwise. Father wouldn’t understand: I’ve courted her so assiduously. Even he believes I’m smitten.”

  “And if she doesn’t accept you?”

  “I will be surprised if she doesn’t choose me. My offer—”

  “Your offer?!”

  “Father submitted it to her aunt this afternoon. He was disappointed that he couldn’t negotiate with the duke directly, but it’s a very fine proposal.”

  “What if she discovers…us.”

  “Of all the women I’ve met in London, I think she might be sympathetic to our plight. Or at least not question it. I can give her the freedom to pursue any interest she wishes.” Hambenth took a deep breath. “But marriage will never change that I love you. We can continue as we have…”

  “You might not think marriage will change you, but it will. I will not remain here. I will travel, perhaps tour the Crimea as Lady Craven did.”

  “If she refuses me, Clara, I will go with you. I’ll tell my father that only a tour of the colonies will ease my broken heart. But she won’t refuse me, I’m certain of it.”

  “I can’t stay here.” A chair scraped against the floor, and Ophelia stepped closer to Sidney. “If she accepts you, I will see it in the newspaper. And I will leave London that very day.” A pretty footman hurried from the box, brushing past Ophelia and Sidney as she went.

  Not wishing to risk Hambenth seeing her, Ophelia walked back to Sidney’s box swiftly. The box was still empty, but the house crier was calling for the end of intermission.

  “How do you feel?” Sidney’s eyes were filled with empathy.

  “I’m trying to decide.” She rubbed her hands together. “How could I be deceived in the same way twice?”

  “He intends to marry you, not her. It’s not the same. Besides, the other was years ago.”

  “But his heart is engaged. That much is the same.” She stared at Sidney, half ready to be angry with him as well. Another failed courtship with Sidney as her witness. “How did you know?”

  “I saw the expression on his face when the footman entered the box. It’s a disguise she used to slip into his rooms at university, but I thought their affair had ended some time ago. They were childhood sweethearts.”

  “And her marriage?”

  “It was arranged, but she agreed. Her family needed funds, and his father disapproved of her as a match. His father wants, as you heard, for him to marry a woman with aristocratic connections.”

  The sound of Ophelia’s sisters’ voices carried down the hall toward the box, and Sidney spoke quickly.

  “When you arrive home tonight, you will find three boxes in your bedroom. I took the occasion of your family being together here to have my valet deliver the boxes directly into your room, with the help of your maid, of course. There are instructions in each box. We will no longer need the contents of Box One, so tomorrow night open Box Two. I would recommend that your aunt not discover the boxes.”

  “Box Two. Any other recommendations.”

  “Yes, if I were you, I’d pay enough attention to the end of the play to convince Ariel you e
njoyed it.”

  Chapter 3

  The next night, Ophelia met Sidney at the gate to the mews at midnight as instructed, wearing the costume that she’d found in Box Two: a man’s court dress, old and long out of fashion. If it were anyone but Sidney—kind, exasperating, delightful Sidney—she would have had second thoughts about meeting him in the dark. Many a foolish heiress had lost her reputation in such an act.

  But she wasn’t foolish. She would make this decision with reason only. Even if it meant she would have to forever ignore the way Sidney’s hair curled boyishly at the base of his neck.

  He held his finger to his lips as he ushered her through the gate. His carriage stood only a few feet away.

  The carriage was lit by a single lantern, and the curtains were drawn. Sid’s presence made the dark feel companionable, cozy.

  “Where are we going that I need to wear a man’s court dress?”

  “We’re going to court, in a sense. But your costume isn’t complete…yet.” Out of a sack, Sidney produced a large mass of thick hair, tied back in a bow.

  “What’s that?”

  “A wig. I was certain you would object to shaving your head just for a single outing, so I had to find one big enough to fit over your hair.”

  “I know it’s a wig. But what is it made of?” She leaned in to peer at the hair. “One can’t be too careful about a wig…and especially when the hair looks like the back of an American buffalo.”

  “Where have you seen an American buffalo?”

  “Moore’s Voyages is filled with engravings of wildlife. It was one of my favorite books as a child.”

  “Ah, my beloved bluestocking.” Sidney reconsidered the mass. “I’m certain that the secondhand dealer promised natural hair.”

  “Yes, but natural can mean almost anything: buffalo, pig, goat, horse, sheep. I’ve even seen some continental ones advertised with the hair of a yak, whatever that is.”

  “No, I’m sure he said it was human.” Sidney looked at the wig with increasing scrutiny.

  “Oh, human. Then, I vote it is hair taken from the mangled body of an executed prisoner.” She looked at it with suspicion. “You expect me to put my hair under that?”

  “Don’t worry: my housekeeper boiled it this afternoon. She assured me it’s free of fleas and lice. I purchased the pomade and powder from a dealer near Lincoln’s Inn.” He opened a packet of waxed paper and inhaled deeply. “I had the choice of several oils: bergamot orange, rosewood, or macassar.”

  Ophelia sniffed at the thick goo. “You chose macassar.”

  “It seemed the more masculine of the three. And the powder is made of the finest white clay and scented with nutmeg.” He held out another packet. “I’ve even brought all the necessary tools.” He held each up in turn. “So, my dear sir, let me prepare your hair.”

  * * * *

  Ophelia typically found having her hair dressed frustrating, and it should have been doubly so in the swaying cabin of the closed carriage. Straight and heavy, her auburn hair wanted nothing more than to lay in a thick plait down her back. When she could twist it into a simple knot bun, she was happiest. But the more elaborate hairstyles required hours of curling with hot irons. Her one vanity was to hire a lady’s maid who could heat the irons without burning her hair.

  “How long will this take?”

  “When I appear in Parliament, it takes several hours to prepare my wig.”

  “And you sit through it…patiently?”

  “Often, I have reports to read, so I sit in my underclothes reading until my valet is done.”

  “In your underclothes?” Ophelia desperately tried to not let her mind dwell on that image.

  “Otherwise, I risk the pomade and powder dirtying my clothes before I leave my bedroom.”

  Giving up, she wondered what he might look like in his underclothes, but said nothing.

  “Now hold your breath.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to pull this rug from the front of your face backwards to ensure we catch every slip of your hair.”

  He worked efficiently, resting the wig over her face, then pulling it back tight to rest solidly on top of her head. His hands tucked her hair up. The brush of his hands, warm against her neck, made her wish that he had reason to put his hands elsewhere. The nearness of him, so much closer than ever before, was heady. Yes, she’d taken his arm on occasion, but nothing like this, his body behind her, his hands brushing her shoulder, her ears, her neck, little glancing touches that made her anticipate the next.

  “I’ve tried not to add more powder than necessary, but you’ll feel the weight of it by the end of the evening.”

  “I once attended a masquerade, wearing a hat designed by the most famous milliner in town: it involved a small pear tree and, I suspect, a partridge.”

  “I wish I had seen that.” Sidney stepped back to view his creation. “Tonight, I’m taking you to the secret meeting of a very old and private club. Everyone wears the old powdered wigs because it is the tradition.”

  “Even when wearing wigs causes them to pay the tax on powder?”

  “Having enough money to pay the powder tax is a distinction in itself. While we are there, you must do exactly as I tell you. Remain at my side. Do not speak. Do I have your promise?”

  “I could promise and just as easily break it. How do you know I can be trusted? I might reveal everything I see, just because I can. How do you know I am not a flibbertigibbet who will blurt out all your secrets at the next ball?”

  “Because you never have. Now, the final touch. Let me tie this bauta to your wig.”

  “I have to wear a wig and a mask? I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked for your help.”

  “But in the end if you are well-married, will you mind this inconvenience?”

  “That depends on how well-married I am.”

  “At the door, when the porter asks your house, answer Forster.”

  “Am I pretending to be the duke? Must I stoop a little and smell of tobacco? Or perhaps bellow for wine periodically?”

  “You’ll need to show his proxy.” He held out a heavy medallion bearing the Forster seal. “When my uncle died, the duke explained that I had inherited a membership in this society, and since then, if he misses a meeting, I carry his proxy and cast his vote as well as mine.”

  “A secret society whose membership is hereditary. Let’s see, what might that be? I’ve heard that the Hell-Fire club is no longer accepting members.”

  “It’s a club where citizens can debate the condition of England without fear of being charged with treason or sedition. In many cases, these discussions pave the way for new laws and reform of the old ones. Forster’s proxy admits you to the meeting, but as there are no votes being held, you will not be called upon to use it. But before we go, we must finish your costume.”

  The carriage slowed in front of an elegant storefront.

  “Your family’s perfumery?”

  “You always smell delicious. And we can’t risk anyone recognizing you from a hint of that perfume.”

  “It’s not perfume, it’s soap. The one you always give us at Christmas and on our birthdays. I keep it in a dish by my wash basin for my face.”

  “It’s not only the soap. You also wear a more complicated scent with interesting layers. Rosewater and something else, something delicate, and altogether heady. The fragrance has teased me for some time.”

  “Judith will be pleased that she’s confounded a perfumer’s son. For years, Aunt Millicent allowed us only rosewater. But Judith began adding other scents to our rosewater infusions, until she developed a fragrance for each of us. But she keeps the ingredients quite secret.”

  “My grandfather will enjoy teasing it out. He can wrestle out the recipe of even the most complex fragrances.”

  A footman standing watch at the door
held it open at their approach. The interior of the store was all elegance, from the rich wood counters to the rows of glass jars of various sizes. Two clerks stood attentively behind the counter. Neither one reacted to her odd appearance.

  “I assume he’s in his workroom?”

  “As usual, sir.” The elder, a white-haired man with a meticulously clean apron, nodded them to the back of the room.

  Sidney ushered her back past the two clerks and through a doorway.

  Sidney’s grandfather sat on a stool behind a long table. Jars filled with liquids of various colors were connected by tubes to glass beakers. Beside the apparatus stood sealed jars of various powders, herbs, and spices. The old man, his white hair making a shaggy halo, looked up in welcome. “Ah, my boy, is this your friend?”

  “I’ve told Grandfather about your dilemma,” Sidney explained quickly. “We need something to mask the scent of her perfume, and if you can predict its ingredients, we would be interested in knowing them.”

  “Ah, it’s delicate, isn’t it? Let’s see.” The old man leaned near to her and breathed in slowly. “Rosemary. Orris root.”

  “Orris root?” Ophelia said. “As in the rhizome of an iris?”

  “Yes. In powder form, orris root carries a fragrance like violets, but it is more stable. The scent of violets is a flirtation, offering sweetness but disappearing in an instant. Orris root is faithful, fulfilling every promise.”

  “I believe you are a philosopher, sir.”

  “To make a perfume is to face every day the transiency of life and its vagaries. See those four jars on the shelf over the door?”

  Ophelia followed the line of his finger to four small bottles, each half full of a colored liquid.

  “Those remind me that life is infinitely inventive. The first two jars are delightful individually, but if you combine them, you create a stench worthy of the London docks.”

  “And the second pair?”

  “Separately, each of those is vaguely pleasant. But together they become exceptional, a combination that surprises you, again and again. No, nothing is so remarkable as a happy marriage of unexpected elements.”