by M C Beaton
At supper that evening, Mrs. Bliss’s voice rose and fell remorselessly as she regaled her husband with every bit of the duke’s visit. “He even took away one of Lucy’s little drawings, and do you know why he did that, Mr. Bliss?”
“Because she is a very fine artist,” suggested her husband.
“No, no! ’Tis because Belinda said Lucy was a good artist, and it was obvious to me that he would do anything to please our Belinda.”
“Except dance with her at the Harbys’ ball,” put in Lucy.
Mrs. Bliss looked at her in amazement. “I beg your pardon!”
“You suggested he would dance with Belinda, or that was what you meant,” said Lucy patiently, “and he would not be drawn. I think he called out of mischief. All society knows you have been bragging about your visit to the duke’s home. I feel he was maliciously raising your hopes just in order to snub you before everyone at Lord Harby’s.”
“And I think you have been addling your brains with too many novels.”
Mr. Bliss found his voice. It was a dry and dusty voice, as if it did not get much use. “You must remember, my dear,” he said, “that Wardshire does have a vile reputation.”
“Pooh!” Mrs. Bliss snapped her chubby fingers in disdain. “He is a fine man and will make Belinda an excellent husband.”
“And what has Belinda to say to that?” asked Mr. Bliss.
Mrs. Bliss looked at him with the same astonished expression that might have crossed her face had the fire irons decided to ask a question.
“Belinda is too young to know her own mind,” she said firmly. “She will be guided by me!”
Chapter Three
Fog.
Who in society could ever have believed that the Almighty would have allowed fog to descend on London on the day of Lord Harby’s ball?
Lucy, used to the gentle white mists of the country, was fascinated. Mrs. Bliss was occupied in overseeing the dressmaker who had called to make some last-minute alterations to Belinda’s gown, so Lucy persuaded Feathers to go out walking with her.
Everywhere fog gripped the throat and set the eyes watering. Linkboys scurried past, their lights little bobbing sequins in the Stygian gloom. Street traders had become bloodcurdling monsters, misshapen black bundles looming out of the darkness and shrieking their wares. London had been turned into a city of ghosts.
A fop with a painted face appeared in front of Lucy with the startling suddenness of an apparition and then was gone.
In Oxford Street two carriages had locked wheels. Fifty grim and muffled ghosts stood about, watching the battling drivers trying to free themselves. Farther on, crossing the road, a monster with two yellow eyes bore down on Lucy, who let out a yelp of fright until she realized she was looking at an approaching carriage. In Hanover Square, men were putting down cobbles on a tarry base. Except they were no longer men. The thick fog turned them into demons pushing flaming caldrons of tar about. A flurry of wind blew the flames this way and that, lighting up the faces of the men, glittering on their belt buckles and turning their bare arms red.
Lucy was enchanted. She wished Belinda were with her. How could Belinda be so… stoic, Belinda, who endured pinnings and fittings and her mother’s voice without a murmur of complaint. I hope she gets a man worthy of her, thought Lucy suddenly. Not Wardshire. He belongs in this setting, where the whole of London has been transformed into the pit. “I say, Feathers,” she said aloud, “surely no one will hold a ball in such weather. The fog has entered the houses. We shall barely be able to see our partners.”
“Don’t see as how it can be canceled,” said Feathers practically. “Can’t manage to tell everyone not to come.”
“But surely a great deal of them won’t come,” said Lucy eagerly, “and it will not be nearly so terrifying an occasion.”
“I hear a lot of servants’ gossip,” said Feathers, “and believe me, miss, they would walk through fire and water this night to get a look at the wicked duke. Now we’d best be getting back. Madam will be shouting for me.”
They were met in the hall by a furious Mrs. Bliss. “How could you go out on such a day, Lucy? Look at your hair! Look at your clothes! Filthy. Feathers, you should have had more sense. Go to Miss Belinda immediately. She needs you. Lucy, I do not approve of baths except in dire circumstances, and this is one of them. John,” she said, turning to a footman, “carry the bath up to Miss Lucy’s bedchamber.”
Lucy made for the stairs and Mrs. Bliss followed, her voice loud with complaint.
At last Lucy was able to sink into a rose-scented bath in front of her bedroom fire and listen to her mother’s voice, muted by distance as it sounded faintly from Belinda’s room. After she had finished her bath, Lucy ordered more cans of hot water and washed her hair thoroughly, something she knew would have shocked her mother could she have seen it. Washing one’s whole head was regarded as a dangerous practice, leading to toothache at the least, and at the worst, dampness of the brain.
Feathers appeared two hours later complaining that her own clothes had been ruined by the fog and she did not know how she was ever going to get them clean. Lucy stood obediently while Feathers dressed her. She had little interest in her own appearance. This was to be Belinda’s coming-out, not her own.
Her gown was of white muslin but threaded with silver at the neck and hem. A small coronet of silver roses with silver leaves was placed on her hair. “Hope that dressmaker knows what he’s about,” grumbled Feathers. “You don’t look… well, bless me, you don’t look like the other young ladies are going to look.”
“I am sure you are wrong,” said Lucy calmly. “I am wearing white muslin. Very correct.”
There was a scratching at the door and then the dressmaker, Monsieur Farré, entered. He walked slowly around Lucy. “Something else,” he murmured. “I have it.” He darted out and was shortly back, bearing a box of silver sequins and silver thread. He deftly stitched sequins here and there among the silver roses and leaves of Lucy’s coronet. At last he drew back, satisfied. “You look like the frost fairy,” he said with satisfaction.
Lucy laughed. “I declare you are a success due as much to your clever compliments as to your art with the needle.”
When both Feathers and the dressmaker had gone, Lucy thought about that compliment. Frost fairy. She had a longing to run to the long glass and look at herself properly for the first time. But how much better, she reflected, not to look, to imagine herself beautiful for just one whole glorious evening.
Belinda came in to join her, and Lucy was immediately glad she had not studied her own reflection. Belinda was a picture in rose muslin. She had a Juliet cap made of tiny roses on her glossy pomaded curls. Her small and pretty mouth had been delicately rouged. The whiteness of her excellent bosom swelled above the low neck of her gown. She looked like a Meissen figure, thought Lucy, perfect in every detail, full of color, while she herself felt like a wraith in comparison.
“How beautiful you look, Lucy,” said Belinda in awe. “It is the very first time I have ever seen you look beautiful.”
Lucy felt a rush of excitement. Belinda in her quiet way always spoke her mind. “I have not really dared to look properly,” she said with a laugh.
“Then go to the glass,” urged Belinda. “Look now.”
Lucy approached the long glass cautiously. Bands of fog lay across the room, and her reflection appeared to waver in the candlelight. Her large gray eyes stared back at her; the fine white and silver muslin appeared to float about her slim body, and the candlelight sparked silver lights from the sequins in her headdress. And then Belinda’s reflection appeared behind her. Belinda glowing in rose pink. I am part of this fog, thought Lucy. Insubstantial. She wished she had not looked at herself, but comforted herself with the thought that this was Belinda’s great evening.
As the hour to leave approached, even the usually calm Belinda became nervous. “What if they all cut us to teach Mama a lesson?” she worried.
“They may plan to
,” said Lucy, “but one look at you and the men will crowd around you. For me it will be different. If only one were allowed to take a book along.”
They fell silent until Belinda threw an anguished look at the clock and exclaimed, “We should be on our way. Ring the bell, Lucy dear.” Feathers answered the summons, rustling in wearing her best black silk.
“Where is Mama?” demanded Lucy.
“Resting in her room.”
“But does she not realize the time?”
“I believe Mrs. Bliss wishes to make an entrance.”
“Oh, she would,” said Lucy crossly. “Mind you, all she is doing is making sure that she will be snubbed as publicly as possible.”
It was another hour before Mrs. Bliss, resplendent in gold taffeta, bustled in and commanded them to make themselves ready. “We may leave,” she said, “for Wardshire will have made his entrance by now. We could not go before, because everyone is waiting to see him and would not have time to concentrate on us.”
It was then that the maid, Feathers, chose to drop her bombshell. “Lady Fortescue will be there, madam.”
“Who? And what is Lady Fortescue to me?”
“Lady Fortescue was Clarinda Bellingham.”
“And?”
“The Duke of Wardshire proposed to her when he was an army captain. She said she would wait for him but went off and married Lord Fortescue, old enough to be her grandfather. ’Tis said the duke never got over it.”
“Well, well, so she is married.”
“She is a widow, and her maid told Lady Jessy’s maid who told Mrs. Hardcastle’s maid who told me that he had called on her at her town house in Manchester Square, and on the very day he called here. She peeped round the door and he was holding her hand. Lady Fortescue is now putting it about that marriage to the duke is in the offing.”
Lucy felt sorry for her mother. Mrs. Bliss looked shattered. Then she rallied. “He was calling on an old friend, that is all. I am persuaded of it. Just look at Belinda. He will not have eyes this night for any other.” And so she talked on and on until she had talked herself back into a good humor. Mrs. Bliss was her own best friend, and she herself was the only person she ever really listened to.
Hoarfrost was glittering on the streets as they stepped out into the fog, all carefully wrapped like packages to keep their gowns from getting dirty.
Lucy began to feel tremendously excited. She was young and she was going to her first London ball. Their carriage inched its way through the gloom. For once, Mrs. Bliss fell silent. Opposite her sat Mr. Bliss, uncomfortable in his evening clothes and high, starched cravat behind which his face, seen fitfully in the swinging carriage lamp, looked miserably at the world like a small gray animal peering over a snowdrift. He obviously longed to be back with his beloved books and out of the naughty world of society.
They all alighted at Lord Harby’s house and walked up the red carpet to the door past a double guard of liveried footmen. From the ballroom at the back of the house came the sweet sound of a waltz. In the room set aside for the ladies, Feathers unwrapped them from their cloaks and calashes and fussed over them. Lucy was the first to join her father in the hall.
He gave her a startled look and raised his quizzing glass. “I’ faith, Lucy,” he said, “you are quite beautiful.”
Lucy felt a warm glow spreading inside her, and when they were joined by Mrs. Bliss and Belinda, she walked almost jauntily up the stairs.
She heard her mother’s cluck of dismay. Mrs. Bliss had mistimed their entrance. Lord and Lady Harby were not waiting to receive them. They had joined their guests, and when they entered the ballroom, they were faced with a crowd of backs.
“This will never do,” said Mrs. Bliss, and then, like the Grand Old Duke of York, she marched them down again.
“Now what?” asked Lucy impatiently. She had been all set to enter that dreadful ballroom buoyed up by her father’s compliment, but her mother’s action had given her time to reflect, time to think sadly that her father had been trying to be kind.
“What is the point of squeezing in now?” demanded Mrs. Bliss. “We will wait until this dance is finished.”
And so they waited… and waited… for it was a country dance which lasted quite half an hour.
“Now!” said Mrs. Bliss as the music died away, and up they went again.
They hesitated on the threshold, and society turned and stared while Mrs. Bliss edged Belinda forward and visibly preened.
Lucy was to learn that society always stared openly. Hard eyes looked at them through quizzing glasses and over fans. One lady near them said loudly, “’Tis that Bliss creature,” and turned away.
Mr. Bliss, for once in his life, took over. He appeared to be angry. Deaf to his wife’s protests, he ushered the girls across the floor and found them seats.
“I wouldn’t have recognized the older one,” said Mr. Graham. “Your artist. Out of the common way. I am glad the father has found them places to sit down, because the buzz has it that no one is going to dance with the Bliss girls because the pushing mama has put everyone’s back up.”
The duke studied them. Belinda was looking enchanting, he thought, fresh and lovely and endearing. Lucy was leaning protectively toward her. He then looked round the room and caught the eye of Lady Fortescue. She gave him a slow, seductive smile over her fan and waited expectantly, obviously expecting him to join her.
But he was all at once sorry for the Bliss girls. It was their first London ball.
“I think we should ask them to dance,” he said to Mr. Graham. “I do not like being dictated to by society.”
“But you’ll never get that mother off your neck,” expostulated Mr. Graham. “Everyone is waiting to see who you lead to the floor. If you take up one of her girls before anyone else, it will go to Mrs. Bliss’s head and she’ll have you in church before you know what has happened. Oh, well, I see by that martial light in your eye that you are determined. The next dance is the quadrille. I’ll take up the fair Belinda and leave you with your artist.”
“No,” said the duke. “I’ll take Belinda. I bring out the worst in Miss Bliss, and she should be on her best behavior this evening.”
Mr. Graham was uneasily aware of all eyes watching them as they made their way toward the Bliss family. The duke courteously introduced him to Mr. Bliss. He asked Lucy to dance while the duke asked Belinda.
As they led their partners to a set, the duke noticed the fury on Lady Fortescue’s face. Why! I am having my revenge without even having to court her, he thought, and set himself to be particularly kind to Belinda. She was an artless creature, he thought, good-natured and quite unspoilt. He wondered what Lucy was saying to Mr. Graham, for Mr. Graham was looking amused.
“Why on earth did you do it?” Lucy was asking.
“Do what?” asked Mr. Graham innocently.
“Why, ask us to dance, of course.”
“Why not?” countered Mr. Graham gallantly.
“You are the prettiest girls in the room.”
“Pooh! I trust you, sir, but I fear your friend means mischief. What he thinks of Mama is easy to guess.”
Mr. Graham laughed. “Are you always so forthright?”
Lucy wrinkled her brow while he watched her with some amusement. “Yes, I think I am,” she said at last. “I think it comes from being plain. One does not expect compliments of any kind, and when one receives them, well, one simply does not believe a word of it.”
“We are about to begin,” he said. “I trust you know the steps. It is a difficult dance.”
“Oh, Belinda and I dance very well,” remarked Lucy.
And so they did, thought Mr. Graham with some amazement as the dance progressed. Lucy was particularly good, light and graceful. He found he was proud of being her partner. He reflected that he liked her honest manner. The duke had made sure that the Bliss girls would be a success that evening. But he found he wanted some more of Lucy’s company.
When the dance finished,
he bowed low before her and begged her to let him have the supper dance. “Now, that is kind of you,” said Lucy, “for I am very hungry and I feared if no one asked me, that I might have to sit with Mama and starve, for she would be so piqued, she would not move at all.”
“So how did you fare?” asked the duke when he had delivered Belinda to her mother.
“Very well,” said Mr. Graham. “Miss Bliss dances like an angel. In fact, I have the honor of taking her in to supper.”
The duke felt a twinge of annoyance. “There is no need to go that far, Rufus.”
“I asked her to please myself, I assure you. Oh, it is the waltz and there is Lady Fortescue, obviously looking for you. She is coming toward us.”
“I wonder if Miss Bliss dances the waltz as well as she does the quadrille,” said the duke, and before Lady Fortescue could reach them, he approached the Bliss family again. Mr. Graham, not wanting to be left with Lady Fortescue, hurriedly followed him, and while the duke asked Lucy to dance, he asked Belinda.
The gentlemen at the ball who had planned to hold themselves aloof from the Bliss family watched in amazement. Mr. Anstruther turned to a friend and said, “But we were all told that Mrs. Bliss is so awful that no one would dance with her girls, and yet Wardshire chooses to dance with them, and for a second time, too.”
“Well,” remarked his friend, Mr. Joseph Messenger, “you must admit the younger one is beautiful beyond compare. Family is well-to-do, ain’t they? You can snub ’em if you like, but I’m going to have a dance with that dazzler as soon as I can.”
The duke looked down at Lucy as she twirled under his arm. The thin silver muslin floated about her body. She obviously enjoyed dancing, so much, he thought a little crossly, that she had almost forgotten with whom she was dancing.
But Lucy was desperately aware of him, aware of the feel of his strong hand at her waist. That touch of his caused all sorts of suffocating emotions in her body, emotions she had not known she had, and she thought he must be truly evil. As they danced together and wound around each other in the intricate steps, he was conscious of the grace and beauty of her body, of her slim hips and small, high breasts. Plumpness was all the rage, but he found Lucy’s beauty more appealing. And she did have a kind of beauty, he thought. Not fashionable, but with her wide, expressive gray eyes and baby-fine hair, infinitely appealing.
