by M C Beaton
Female society made as much as they could out of the Season, for they were shamefully neglected by the men for the rest of the year. The little dancing and gossiping world of Almack’s assembly rooms was the hub of society, and many and bitter were the tears shed by those whose applications were rejected by the despotic patronesses.
The rest of the year, the men vanished onto the hunting field or into politics or into their mysterious clubs, and once more the women were abandoned to their own society. It was the heyday of the six-bottle men, and near the end of a dinner party most of the male—and female—guests were fit for nothing but bed.
The style of beauty with which Lady Rennenord was blessed reigned supreme. Fair hair was considered “unfortunate” and red hair “a disgrace.” A beauty of the ton must have dark brown hair, a round, dark, soulful eye, a small mouth, a full swelling bosom, and that pearly complexion “which seems to be concomitant with humidity and fog.”
Second to the man he had helped raise to the top of the pinnacle of fashion—Beau Brummell—was the Prince of Wales, only but lately appointed Prince Regent, since it was feared King George III would no longer recover from his bouts of madness.
The prince really preferred the company of people he could patronize. He had an unfortunate habit of losing his heart to ladies old enough to be his grandmother. Yet the prince’s love of clothes and gossip and fine wine and good food had given society the lead they craved after all that dreadful liberty, freedom, and equality of the last century.
The parade ground of society was Hyde Park, a rural area with entrances from Piccadilly and Oxford Street, with cows and deer grazing under the trees. The company that congregated around five in the evening was composed of dandies and women of the best society as well as ladies of the Fashionable Impure. The dandy’s dress consisted of a blue coat with brass buttons, leather breeches, and top boots, and it was the fashion to wear a deep, stiff white cravat which prevented a man from seeing his boots while standing.
There was a much uglier face to London—sprawling slums and dreadful poverty—but if you lived in the West End in a lord’s townhouse, as Freddie did, you were insulated from any sight other than society at play.
Freddie was dazzled, bewildered, and nervous. How could she expect to keep such an important man as the earl by her side when there were so many beautiful women about?
She was further troubled by the intelligence that Lady Rennenord was in town. Freddie had been taken driving in the park by the earl. She could not help noticing some of the bold looks that were cast in the earl’s direction. She could not help also noticing the scandalous dress of these ladies. She did not know she was looking at some of London’s high-class courtesans.
And so the first evening that the earl was to escort Freddie to her very first ball started disastrously.
Miss Manson had allowed Freddie free rein when it came to choice of dress. Freddie had modeled her choice on the gowns of the high-flyers she had seen in the park. Accordingly, when the earl turned around in his drawing room with a smile on his lips to greet his ward, his face froze in horror.
From the zebra-striped feathers in her red hair to the transparent damped muslin of her gown and down to her painted toenails, Freddie looked more like a Cyprian dressed for a ball at the Argyle Rooms than a young lady attired for a fashionable affair.
He closed his eyes and opened them again. Miss Manson stood nervously behind Freddie. She had felt sure that Frederica’s gown was sadly shocking, but then so many society ladies dressed like courtesans.
“How could you?” raged the earl. “You look like the veriest trollop. I am here to present a virginal debutante to the ton. Not a… a doxy.”
Freddie’s face flamed scarlet.
“Do you realize you are practically naked?” her guardian fumed on. “You leave little to the imagination.” He pulled out his quizzing glass and stared at the blushing girl from head to foot. “Go and take those things off immediately. Have you no other ball gowns?”
Freddie shook her head miserably.
“Then in that case you will need to stay at home this evening. I am sorry, but you cannot possibly appear like that. I must go myself. Lady Rennenord has no one to escort her to the Spencers’ ball. I am already a trifle late.”
Freddie let out a choked sob and fled from the room. A moment later he could hear the door of her room bang upstairs.
“I am so sorry,” Miss Manson stuttered.
“So am I,” he said curtly, drawing his gloves on. “I am surprised at you, Miss Manson. How could you let her buy such things? I will take her with me to Madame Verné tomorrow. She looked the veriest quiz.”
Which all went to show, thought Miss Manson dismally as she climbed the stairs to join Freddie, the wisdom of not betraying Lady Rennenord.
Freddie was lying facedown on her bed, weeping bitterly.
She had dreamed of nothing else but this first ball. Time after time she had imagined appearing before the earl in all her finery and seeing the look of love and admiration on his face. Now he had gone off with Lady Rennenord, alone.
“He will probably propose to her,” wailed Freddie.
Miss Manson comforted her by nodding gloomily in agreement and then bursting into tears.
“Oh, Miss Manson, do not cry. It will not be as bad as that. Just think! All this time has passed, and he is still unwed.”
“There is something I should tell you about Lady Rennenord,” said Miss Manson.
“Oh, what can you tell me about her that I don’t know already?” said Freddie crossly, jumping from the bed and dashing the tears from her eyes. “If only I could be there all the same, just to spoil her fun.”
“Frederica,” said Miss Manson desperately, “I really must tell…”
“I think I will go to bed,” said Freddie abruptly. “Good night.”
Miss Manson opened her mouth, but her courage failed her. She trailed miserably from the room.
Freddie listened until her footsteps had died away, and then she locked the door and started rummaging feverishly in closets and drawers. She had not told the servants to throw away her boy’s clothes, so they surely must have packed them.
She found them hanging in the back of a large wardrobe in the dressing room which adjoined her bedroom.
There was one fairly good suit of evening clothes, although she always thought they made her look a little like a solicitor’s clerk since they were of rusty black silk. She hurriedly changed out of the despised ball gown and into knee breeches and jacket and cambric shirt. The cravat seemed to take an age to tie since she had not been accustomed to wearing boy’s clothes since Lamstowe. She searched frantically for her black wig and then remembered leaving it on the harbor wall the night Captain Cramble had thrown the stone at her. Then she saw a box of hair powder on the dressing table and a jar of pomatum.
The servants were all safely in their quarters when Freddie crept down the stairs and through the hall, a slim boyish figure in black coat, knee breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes. Her hair was powdered and tied back at the nape of her neck with a black silk ribbon.
She had been unable to find her sword.
The earl’s townhouse was in Berkeley Square, and the Spencers’ ball was to be held at Lord Spencer’s townhouse, which was situated in Berkeley Street. Thus, Freddie had to walk only a short distance.
Freddie nervously walked up the strip of red carpet which was laid across the pavement, took a deep breath, puffed out her buckram-wadded chest, and walked into the hall.
A large, stately-looking butler swooped down on her. “I wondered where that extra footman I asked the agency for had got to,” he growled. “Don’t you know better than to enter by the front door? Never mind. Now that you’re here, you may as well come along with me to the refreshment room and I’ll give you your duties.”
Freddie was about to protest that he had made a mistake, that she was, in fact, one of the guests, when she caught a glimpse of her appea
rance in a long looking glass in the hall. She looked drab and shabby. A group of young men crossed the hall, and the light winked on their jewels.
Freddie meekly followed the butler. At least she was inside. She gazed about her as she followed the butler’s broad back, dazzled by the banks of flowers, the glittering jewels, and the beautiful gowns.
If only she could have been here on Lord Berham’s arm.
Freddie glanced into the ballroom as they passed one of the entrances to it. Lord Berham was performing a Scotch reel with Lady Rennenord. Lady Rennenord was in white silk and diamonds. She looked beautiful and radiant; the earl looked enchanted.
“Come along, lad,” snapped the butler over his shoulder, “and stop gawking like a rustic.”
He led the way into the refreshment room and turned Freddie over to the care of the first footman, who was called John.
John was over six feet tall and as haughty as one of the patronesses of Almack’s. He looked down his long nose at Freddie’s slight form and sighed. “Don’t know what the agencies think they’re sending us these days. You’d best do something simple. This is by way of what we calls a boofy. They comes along and fills their plates. They points to various things, and we gives ’em what they points to.
“Now, this here is a bowl o’ negus for the ladies.” He indicated a large silver bowl of hot sweetened wine and water which was set on a small spirit lamp with a low flame. “Named after Colonel F. Negus, what invented the plaguey stuff. No wonder he’s dead. Rot your guts, that will. Anyways, when madam asks for a glass, you take this ladle here and one of these little glasses here, and you fills it up. Now, you can’t go wrong with that, can you?”
Freddie shook her head.
“All right, then. Take your position. They’ll be coming in here in a minute.”
Very grand balls had as many candles as it was possible to have, and this was a very grand ball indeed. The refreshment room was a blaze of light. When the earl entered, Freddie resolved to keep her head down. She would not feel impelled to do anything other than serve negus. She should not have come, she chided herself. He would not propose marriage in the middle of a fashionable crowd like this.
The orchestra in the ballroom struck a loud chord, and the music ceased. The doors to the refreshment room were opened by two tall liveried footmen, and the company began to crowd in.
Freddie was kept very busy for the first half hour. Every lady in the company wanted negus. She served and served, keeping her head down and her eyes averted, blessing the fact that society did not notice servants as human beings.
Then she seemed to feel a pair of eyes boring into her, and an all too familiar voice asked for a glass of negus. Freddie served the earl with her head almost buried in her cravat, not daring to look up until he had moved away.
When she finally found the courage to raise her head, she saw the earl seated quite near her at a table with Lady Rennenord. He seemed in high spirits. His normally harsh features were relaxed. Lady Rennenord was sipping negus and flirting with her eyes over her glass.
Freddie was consumed by a terrible and violent rage. Jealousy seared through her.
She bent under the table and fumbled under the leg of one of her breeches for the woolen garter which was keeping her clocked stocking up.
Standing with the garter in her hand, she looked for a missile. A bowl of fruit caught her eye. On top of the bowl was an overripe peach.
Freddie hesitated, appalled at the enormity of what she was about to do. Lady Rennenord said something and leaned towards the earl in such a way that the top half of her voluptuous bosom was exposed. Freddie ground her teeth.
Placing the peach in the garter, she swung it around her head like a sling and let fly.
The peach struck Lady Rennenord full in the face. Peach juice spattered all down the front of her gown as she screamed. Freddie dived under the table and began to crawl on her hands and knees, all down the length of the long table, towards the door and freedom.
Voices were crying for explanations. Suddenly, above the hubbub a man said clearly, “It was that little footman chap who was serving the negus. He slung the peach right at her.”
Freddie doubled up, erupted from under the table, and ran for the door. Twisting and turning, avoiding grabbing hands, she bolted down the staircase and dashed out into the night.
She fled as if the devil himself were at her heels. She bolted around the back of the earl’s mansion, hearing the chase behind her. Diving into the stables, she ran slap-bang into one of the grooms, Henry.
“‘Ere, wot’s all this?” growled Henry, pinning her arms to her sides.
“It’s I, Frederica,” panted Freddie. “Let me go before they catch me, Henry. I am in such terrible trouble.”
“Why, miss!” gasped Henry, picking up a lantern and holding it to her face. “Wot you dressed like that for? You look like you used to, ’fore we was told you was a female.”
“I can’t answer questions, Henry. Please get me into the house and up to my room without my lord seeing me. If he knows I have been out this night, Miss Manson will lose her employ and my lord will send me away. Oh, Henry!”
“All right, miss,” said the groom. “Come along and I’ll let you in by the kitchen door.”
The kitchen door led directly to the back stairs. Freddie muttered a hasty “thank you” to Henry and darted up to her room.
She tore off her clothes, rolled them into a ball, and threw them out the window into the garden. She brushed as much of the powder out of her hair as she could and then stuffed her tresses up under a nightcap. Into her nightgown, into bed. Just in time.
“Frederica!” The earl’s imperative voice sounded from the doorway.
“Mmmm?” came Freddie’s mock-sleepy voice.
The earl strode about the room, lighting candles, and then stood and surveyed Freddie, who was blinking owlishly in the light and looking for all the world as if she had just been roused from a deep sleep.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded, struggling up against the pillows.
He began to search the room.
“You are frightening me,” exclaimed Freddie. “Say something.”
“I am looking for a suit of clothes,” said the earl grimly. “Do you still have your boy’s clothes?”
“In the wardrobe, in the dressing room,” said Freddie faintly.
He disappeared into the dressing room and returned with an armful of clothes. “You will not be needing these again,” he said. “Now, get some sleep. You are going with me to Madame Verné’s tomorrow.”
“Very good, my lord,” said Freddie meekly. He flashed her a suspicious look and strode from the room.
His first thought when he heard a description of the footman who had assaulted Lady Rennenord was that Freddie had somehow gained entry to the ball with the sole intention of humiliating his partner. Now he felt ridiculous. It obviously had been the work of some madman.
The evening was ruined. Lady Rennenord had gone home in tears. The earl did not know they were tears of frustration.
Freddie was such a child, he mused after handing the clothes to a footman to burn. It was a pity he was not married. A wife would be a good companion to a young girl.
He thought of Lady Rennenord. When he was actually with her, he felt enchanted by her femininity and beauty. But now, when he was not, he found it hard to think of her with any degree of warmth. Niggling little questions about Captain Cramble and the seminary would begin to surface in his mind.
At last he came to the conclusion that it would be better to put all thoughts of marriage from his mind until he was shot of Freddie.
She had not yet met any young men. First he must get her some suitable clothes.
While Freddie’s wardrobe was being prepared, the earl contented himself by taking her during the day to all the sights of London. Soon he found that he was enjoying himself.
Freddie’s enthusiasm was infectious, but it was a childlike enthusiasm, and the e
arl thought of her more and more as a schoolgirl.
Perhaps it was the desire to reward himself with more mature companionship that prompted him again to suggest that Lady Rennenord should be of the party on the evening they were to go to a ball at the duchess of Hadford’s.
The Season had not yet begun officially. He had been able to secure vouchers to Almack’s for Freddie. He had taken a box at the Italian opera. He had supervised the delivery of Freddie’s gowns. In all, he felt he had done very well for the girl.
By diligently asking his friends in the clubs of St. James’s about suitable young men in town, he had secured a beau for Freddie’s first ball. His choice had fallen on James Cameron, a wealthy young Scot only a year older than Freddie. He was on leave from the wars in the Peninsula. He had a friendly, open manner and a pair of laughing blue eyes.
The earl thought Freddie would be delighted with his choice.
Freddie was privately furious. Her one dream was to walk into a ballroom with the earl on her arm and be the envy of every lady in the room.
On her drives in the park, on her strolls down London’s fashionable thoroughfares, Freddie had not seen one man as handsome as the earl.
Perhaps she would have philosophically accepted James Cameron as her partner with good grace had not the earl been escorting Lady Rennenord. Perhaps Freddie would have made up her mind that it was time she seriously grew up and considered the idea of marriage. But some fifteen minutes before she was due to join the earl and Mr. Cameron in the drawing room, after she had been dressed by the maid and coiffured by the hairdresser, Freddie sat at her toilet table, looking at herself in the glass and fighting down the awful realization that she had fallen in love with her guardian.
Maybe it was the sight of her own face and figure, looking very much like a woman at last in all the glory of white spider gauze over a white silver-embroidered silk slip, that brought all these maturing and mature thoughts flooding into Freddie’s startled brain.
Her skin was translucent and faintly tinged with healthy pink. A sapphire pendant hung between her breasts, and small sapphire earrings ornamented her little ears. Sapphires and silk roses formed a kind of coronet on top of her burnished hair.
