The Girl in the Mask

by Marie-Louise Jensen

Storing the knowledge up for an unspecified future occasion, I slipped out of the coach house, under the arch, and walked towards the city.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The city by night was a different place. Torches flickered outside many houses, with pools of deep darkness between them. Sedan chairs hurried to and fro, carrying the well-to-do to their places of amusement. There was drunken singing from the taverns, and groups of young men lounging in doorways.

  I was out of place in my petticoats as I hadn’t been by day, and mourned the loss of my boy’s clothing. I kept out of the lights, stayed mainly in the back streets and the quiet alleys and avoided people. As I explored, I found the city was a small, overcrowded, jumbled maze of streets, alleys, and squares, confined by the city walls.

  Despite the labyrinthine maze of narrow ways, I gradually got my bearings. My wanderings led me at last to the river. I sat down upon the bank, stared at the still, black water, thinking about my cousin Jack. Where was he now? He couldn’t possibly be as miserable as I was. I missed him badly. I wished I could talk to him about what I should do.

  Running away would have been my preferred option, if only I’d had somewhere to run to. But the only place I knew was my home, and even that was to be let to strangers. I sighed. I was trapped here. I had an escape from my room, which was better than I’d hoped. But by day I was at the mercy of my father and aunt. I gritted my teeth. ‘I won’t let them get the better of me,’ I muttered. ‘I won’t submit to my father. I won’t let him marry me off. And I will punish him. I haven’t forgotten my vow to do so.’

  I threw a stone into the dark water, by way of confirming my resolution. It fell with a dull splash. A breeze stirred, wafting the rancid scent of the river towards me. I longed for my country home, where the air and the streams were clean and fresh.

  The memory of home stirred some half-forgotten words of my father’s in my mind. He’d brought me here … what had he said? Because I’d disgraced myself so that no one at home would marry me.

  The implications of this dawned on me: to prevent any offers of marriage being made for me, I needed to disgrace myself publicly at the Bath. How hard could that be? Of course, I didn’t yet know exactly what kind of things would be considered most shocking here. But I could soon find out.

  The dancing master arrived at six o’clock the next morning. He was short with thin legs and a weak chin. I disliked him on sight. He was ushered into the downstairs drawing room by the butler and bowed to me. I made an awkward curtsey in return. His eyes fixed on my feet for a painful moment. Raising his eyes to mine, he said: ‘You need to wear shoes, Mistress Williams, to learn to dance. Not … whatever those are.’ He indicated my footwear with a wave of one limp hand and an exaggerated shudder. I looked down at my flat, patched shoes, scuffed and dirty with climbing over roofs and walking about the city.

  ‘I don’t have any oth—Oh yes, I do. Must I wear them now?’

  ‘If you wish to benefit from my expertise, certainly,’ he said.

  ‘Please wait a moment,’ I asked him, and ran swiftly back upstairs. My aunt had bought me new shoes, hadn’t she? I hadn’t seen them since, and couldn’t remember anything about them. I rummaged in my closet and found neat stacks of cardboard boxes one of the servants must have placed there. I pulled them out and tipped them higgledy-piggledy onto the floor in my hurry not to keep the master waiting.

  The first boxes contained a selection of gloves, shawls, brushes, fans and cosmetics. The shoes were stacked at the bottom: leather shoes, damask shoes, kid slippers, shiny buckles, ties, bows, red, pink, cream, beaded and stitched and all with monstrous high, waisted heels, two or three inches at least. I searched in vain for a flatter pair. Which ones were for dancing? I had no idea.

  ‘What a waste of good money,’ I said aloud, ‘to buy such impractical shoes.’ I selected a pair at random, left everything else in a heap and ran downstairs in stockinged feet to present them to the dancing master. He nodded his approval and I buckled them on. I stood up and nearly fell over again. ‘Must I truly learn to dance in these?’ I asked, perturbed. ‘I can scarcely walk in them.’

  ‘You must,’ was his curt reply. The master led me through the steps of the minuet without music in the impossible shoes. I added bad breath to his list of faults and kept my distance from him as much as was possible, and my face averted. I had barely memorized a single step of the minuet before he switched to a country dance. I gave up concentrating, simply wobbling and stumbling through the sequences without trying too hard. I had no wish to learn to dance.

  My father and aunt returned from an early morning bathe in the famous waters just as the dancing master was leaving. ‘How did my daughter do?’ asked Father as he climbed from the sedan chair.

  ‘She has some natural grace and rhythm, sir,’ the teacher replied waspishly, his temper sorely tried by his time with me. ‘But she wants application and must learn to walk in the correct footwear before she can dance in it. Until tomorrow.’

  He bowed and left, and father turned his frowning gaze upon me. ‘You want application, do you, Sophia?’ he demanded, pulling off his nightcap. His closely-shaven head looked very naked without its usual covering, giving him an altogether more menacing aspect. ‘You try my patience too far. I think you’ll find missing breakfast will give you all the motivation you require for tomorrow. Go to your room.’

  ‘But, father, truly, I tried as hard as I could,’ I protested. ‘But he went through the steps so fast and it was all so new to me!’

  ‘I’m not interested in excuses,’ was his answer. With a dragging step, I climbed the stairs. My father had won again. I was condemned to more hunger. And what was worse, I’d never been so bored in my life. Shut in this tiny bedroom with no books and no exercise. There were so many things I’d love to be doing. Walking, riding, shooting, or managing the estate. I wondered how our tenant farmers were getting on without me. No doubt my father had frozen all expenditure on the estate, perhaps even raised the rents, and in effect our tenants were paying for our stay here.

  I kicked off my uncomfortable new shoes, climbed out onto the roof, and lay on the tiles in the sunshine watching the comings and goings far below in the street. I didn’t dare go further afield, in case my absence betrayed my escape route.

  In the late afternoon there were footsteps on the stairs followed by a sharp rap at my bedchamber door. I only just had time to scramble back in through the window before the door opened and my father stood before me. He looked at me suspiciously before standing aside and saying: ‘This is Dawes, your new lady’s maid, Sophia. She is to begin at once. Show her your room and your wardrobe, such as it is, and then … ’

  His voice tailed off as he noticed the mess in my bedchamber, all my new possessions tumbled and kicked all over the floor and my spare gown lying on the chair where I’d dropped it. He surveyed it all in undisguised disgust and then brought his gaze to bear upon me.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you chose to live like the pigs, Sophia,’ he said. ‘If we had a sty here at the Bath, I should send you out to sleep in it for the night. I’m sure you’d feel very much at home. Meanwhile, you’ll eat your dinner in your room tonight; a simple dish of bread and milk will suffice. That will give you a chance to tidy this disgraceful mess and to reflect on the virtues of orderliness.’

  I groaned inwardly at the thought of another hungry night. Meanwhile, father turned back to the maid: ‘Dawes, remove any unfashionable shoes from this room and dispose of them in the fire, would you?’

  My heart jumped into my mouth. My shoes! I couldn’t possibly do without them. My climbing and night-time wanderings would be at an end. I wondered where they could be in all this mess, and resolved to hide them the moment the new maid had left the room.

  ‘I’ll leave you to sort things out,’ said my father and left us. Dawes and I stared at each other as his footsteps receded. I felt compelled to speak:

  ‘There isn’t much dressing to do just yet, as you can see, Dawes,
’ I said, indicating my shabby gown and my bare feet, annoyed to find my voice apologetic. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve never had a maid. I’ve always looked after myself.’

  ‘So I should suppose, Miss,’ she said with barely-concealed disdain. ‘But I can see that gown you have on wants mending. I’ll take that now, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘Yes I tore it on a … well, yes, I tore it a few days ago. Thank you … ’ I untied the gown and handed it to her, picking up my spare brown one and wrapping it around me instead.

  ‘And the shoes your father mentioned, Miss?’ asked Dawes, unsmiling. She was a large woman with a sour expression on her face. ‘I’ll take those with me now too.’

  I froze in horror. I glanced involuntarily towards the pile of scattered belongings. My colour rose as I spotted the toe of one shoe sticking out of a jumble of boxes in front of the closet. I looked away again quickly, praying she wouldn’t see it.

  ‘Oh … I … you see, my father was mistaken, Dawes,’ I faltered. ‘The shoes he so dislikes have already been thrown away.’

  We stared one another out, and eventually Dawes dropped her eyes. ‘If you say so, Miss,’ she said. I knew she didn’t believe me. She would almost certainly search my room at the first opportunity, but that would give me the chance I needed to hide my valuable footwear.

  I didn’t dare use the chimney and there were no loose boards in such a new house, so I merely laid the shoes outside on the parapet, out of sight of the window. I would need to find a box or a piece of oilskin to protect them before it rained next. But Dawes certainly wouldn’t climb out there looking for them; she had enough trouble with the stairs. I grinned to myself at the image of Dawes attempting to squeeze herself through my small window.

  My days resolved into a pattern for the rest of the week. Dancing for an hour and a half before breakfast was a regular torture, my meal dependent on my teacher’s comments at the end of the session. The first few days I had no breakfast, and found myself forced to concentrate hard on pleasing the dancing master to avoid the long, hungry days that followed if I didn’t. The rest of my tedious waking hours were spent deliberately wrecking some piece of stitching foisted on me by my aunt or leafing through the book of religious discourses my father had given me in the vain hope of distraction.

  My nights on the other hand were entertaining, out roaming the city which I began to know well. I explored every alley and path until they were all familiar to me. Once I thought I spotted Jenny, and called after her, but she ran from me and disappeared over the city wall. Every night I wished I had money so that I could satisfy my hunger with the wares from one of the street vendors or taverns, but I had not a single coin and no way of obtaining any.

  ‘Father,’ I asked with as much politeness as I could muster over breakfast one morning. ‘I should like to write a letter to my cousin Jack. Will you post it for me?’

  My father finished the last of his egg and toast and then laid down his cutlery neatly. He dabbed his mouth on his napkin and looked across at me. I could read his answer in his eyes before he spoke. ‘You have nothing to write to young men about,’ he said. ‘The suggestion is indecorous.’

  ‘But father … ’ I began to protest. He rose from the table abruptly, pushing his chair back and speaking to my aunt as though I wasn’t present: ‘Amelia, a word with you in my study when you have finished eating, if you please!’ He swept out of the dining room.

  ‘You shouldn’t cross your father, Sophia,’ said Amelia accusingly as she followed him. ‘He is so good to you! New gowns, dancing lessons and all the expenses of a Bath season. You’re a lucky girl.’

  I wished for none of the things my father was providing me with so lavishly. He wanted me well-married and off his hands. It was an investment.

  If father was so strongly opposed to my writing to my cousin, I dreaded to think what he would say to a letter to Bill Smith. With no money, I was completely in his hands and he knew it. It was a problem that urgently needed solving.

  We were just finishing breakfast a week later when there was a knock at the door. We heard the butler open it, and the voice of the delivery boy: ‘The goods ordered for Miss Williams.’

  ‘Sophia! Your gowns have arrived!’ cried my aunt in great excitement. ‘You must try them on at once!’

  ‘I shall leave you to it,’ said my father hastily, seeing mountains of boxes and packages being carried into the house. He disappeared upstairs to dress, saying he was going out to his coffee house and would be back for luncheon.

  My aunt was in raptures. I watched her unpacking the boxes, radiant with delight. ‘Look at this pink brocade!’ she exclaimed holding it out to me. ‘Isn’t it exquisite? Oh, and this primrose walking gown, for the promenade—quite ravishing! How I envy you, my dear!’ She unpacked and exclaimed, but some of the boxes she just glanced into and laid aside without showing me the contents. I caught a glimpse of a soft grey fabric in one and a pale lilac in another.

  ‘What are those?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, those are just a few trifles I was obliged to order for myself,’ she said deprecatingly. Her pile grew as we went through the boxes.

  ‘Goodness, Aunt Amelia!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m sure you have even more new clothes than I have!’

  ‘Nonsense, child! No such thing! But, if I am to launch you, it is important I’m correctly dressed too. I can’t go to balls in my blacks. These new gowns are half mourning, you see; it’s six months now since my dear husband passed on.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I said, watching her as she laid her own gowns aside. ‘So my father has paid for these too, has he? Does he know?’

  My aunt quickly changed the subject.

  The dressmaker arrived to help us try on the gowns and to see if any adjustments were required. Dawes was called and together they fastened the hoop around my waist. I bore it in rigid silence, my fists clenched. When I’d first seen my aunt’s hoop, I’d thought that it looked like a cage. Now I was wearing one myself, I knew that my first impression had been correct. I was trapped inside it, my movements restricted. Once the layers of petticoats had been tied around my waist and the heavy, open-fronted brocade gown pulled over my head, I could barely move. I walked a few steps with difficulty.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked the dressmaker eagerly. ‘You look very fine.’

  ‘I feel utterly ridiculous,’ I said bluntly.

  ‘Oh, hush, Sophia,’ exclaimed my aunt, scandalized. ‘It’s a beautiful gown. You don’t know how lucky you are! Indeed this all works out most fortunately, for there is a ball tomorrow, and now we shall be able to attend.’

  * * *

  I had to admit Dawes had some skills the following evening as she dressed my soft, brown hair simply but elegantly. She pinned it up with just a few locks arranged with curling irons to tumble down to my shoulder. Then my hair was powdered. Dawes helped me into my new linen shift, my dancing shoes, my hoop, my layers of laced petticoats and my ball gown of cream brocade, tugging and adjusting them so they sat just right. She fastened a pearl necklace about my neck and I exclaimed in surprise. ‘Where did that come from?’ I asked.

  ‘From your father, Miss,’ said Dawes. ‘I’m to tell you it was your mother’s, like the other jewellery in this box.’

  I touched the necklace lightly. I could barely remember my mother. It was a strange thought that this had belonged to her. Dawes dusted my face with powder to whiten it, applied a hint of rouge to my cheeks, fixed a patch high on one cheekbone, and said: ‘There. You’ll do nicely now, Miss.’

  I regarded myself gravely in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself in the least. The hairstyle I didn’t dislike, though the powder made me look like an old lady. The gown was ludicrous, but I could see it had a certain beauty, especially the way the short train fell in shimmering folds to the floor behind me. The front of the gown was open, the fabric caught back on either side to reveal layers of cream and gold petticoats in front; a froth of lace.

>   The patch on the other hand was monstrous. I pulled it off and put it on the dressing table. ‘I don’t want to wear such a thing,’ I said. ‘There’s no need for me to look like a ghost, either,’ I said, critically regarding my face before rubbing it clean of cosmetics with a damp cloth. ‘I’m quite pale enough after all these days indoors.’

  Dawes didn’t argue, and I descended the stairs, ready to face the people of Bath. My aunt and father awaited me, attired in evening finery, powdered, painted and patched. My father looked at me critically, but then nodded his approval. ‘A natural look. Yes, you judged rightly, Sophia. It suggests youth and innocence. Good. Let’s go.’

  Annoyed at having inadvertently won his approval, I vowed that I would behave as badly as I dared tonight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The upstairs ballroom at the Guildhall was far smaller than I’d expected; less grand and extremely crowded. When we arrived, a group of musicians was already playing, though no one was dancing yet. I moved warily into the room, my heavy, unfamiliar gown and petticoats swaying and quivering about me.

  ‘Take smaller steps, Sophia,’ my aunt ordered under her breath. ‘Don’t stride about like a man!’

  I tried to do as she said, noting how the other ladies appeared to glide effortlessly about, as though they were in skates rather than shoes. I sighed a little and looked around me at the sea of faces and figures in bright garments that made up the world of high fashion, gathered at the Bath for the summer months. I knew no one. This was nothing I ever wanted to be a part of.

  Beau Nash made us personally welcome and promised me a partner for the first dance. I felt my courage draining slowly away. The first dance began, the minuet, very slow and formal. Only one couple danced at a time, in order of social rank, while everyone else stood crowded against the walls and watched. I dreaded having to perform under the gaze of so many pairs of eyes, and clutched my hands together in their cream kid gloves, twisting the strap of my fan until it snapped. My aunt scolded me in a whisper.