by M. C. Beaton
The earl returned during the interval. “Come, Fitz,” he said. “We have much to do. I am giving a rout—an impromptu rout at midnight.”
“But everyone will stay for the ball after the opera! No one will come.”
“Oh, yes they will. All declare themselves anxious to make the acquaintance of London’s latest star—Princess Anastasia Moussepof.”
“Never heard of her. Who is she?”
“You, my dear chap. You.”
“Do you really think I should attend Fleetwood’s rout?” Emily asked Mrs. Middleton.
“I think it would be wise, Miss Goodenough. Fleetwood is admired by all. The Prince Regent himself might come, if he hears of it.”
“Then we must go,” cried Mr. Goodenough. “I have long been an admirer of the Prince Regent, and it has always been my dream to meet him.”
“But I fear Fleetwood may be mocking us,” said Emily anxiously. “Another princess! He had that funny droll look in his eyes when he issued the invitation. I am so weary of being thought a princess. Unless something happens to divert society’s attention from me, then someone is going to become over-curious and unmask me.”
“Perhaps this new princess will be just the thing,” said Mrs. Middleton.
“But what if I am introduced to her as another princess and she starts questioning me?”
“Then you must do what you have done with everyone else,” said Mrs. Middleton. “Deny that you are a princess. So far, no one seems to have believed you, but perhaps when they hear you tell this Princess Anastasia so, then they will come to accept you as Miss Goodenough. But you must admit, it was a good idea. You would not have met anyone in society had it not been for Lizzie’s idea.”
“Who is Lizzie?”
“The little scullery maid. A most superior person. Shhh! The opera is about to recommence.”
Emily barely heard any of it. She felt the strain of being an impostor. It was bad enough being an ex-chambermaid—but to pretend to be a princess! Only the other week, some unfortunate had been hanged outside Newgate for pretending to be a peer of the realm. But that was an English peer. They surely could not hang someone for pretending to be a foreign princess. Why did Fleetwood look at her with that mocking, amused expression in his eyes?
Poor Emily’s worries went on and on while the undistinguished opera by a little-known Italian composer dragged on to the end. The opera was followed by a farce, and then it was time to go to the Earl of Fleetwood’s house in Park Lane.
As they left the opera house, Emily glanced at herself in one of the long mirrors. A beautiful and elegant lady looked back. “If only I could feel like a lady inside,” mourned Emily.
On the way to Park Lane in their rented carriage, with the tall figure of Joseph clinging to the backstrap, each occupant was immersed in his and her private thoughts. Emily was deciding that it would be a relief, in a way, to be unmasked. This Season had been a great mistake. How could she have ever dreamt of marriage to one of them? Better to retire to the country with her dear friend and live a quiet and comfortable existence. God put us in our appointed stations the day we were born, and to try to move up or down was a heinous sin.
Mr. Goodenough was praying that the Prince Regent would be there. If only he could make his bow, and look on those famous features, he felt he would die a happy man.
Mrs. Middleton was deathly tired. She hoped they would only stay a short time at the rout. Her feet were swelling inside her new shoes, and her new corset was pinching her above the waist. Emily had not uttered one coarse phrase during all the socialising before the opera began. Mrs. Middleton had enjoyed her brief elevation to the ranks of society, but now all she wanted to do was to get back to her comfortable parlour and become a housekeeper again.
The earl’s house was a blaze of lights from top to bottom. The Goodenoughs and Mrs. Middleton had to wait and wait while their carriage inched forward through the press.
When they finally alighted, Emily called Joseph and told him to accompany them inside. She was quickly coming to rely more and more on the Clarges Street servants and felt Joseph’s tall presence behind her at the rout would be a comfort.
Joseph was thrilled at the idea of having a look at a real-live princess. It almost took his mind off his nagging worry about Lizzie and why Luke should suddenly have become interested in her.
The first thing Emily noticed was that there were no refreshments, no cards, no music. She blushed as she thought of her own efforts and wondered whether she had been considered parvenu to have supplied food, drink, and an orchestra.
Emily, Mr. Goodenough, Mrs. Middleton, and Joseph queued on the staircase that led up to the drawing room on the first floor.
There was a great deal of pushing and shoving as some members of the ton shoved their way up and others who had had the glory of meeting the princess pushed their way down.
At last, Emily’s party reached the double doors of the drawing room.
Mr. Goodenough scrambled for his card case, could not find it, and gave their names in a shaky voice.
The little party walked forward.
Emily’s heart sank.
For here, surely, was a real princess.
She was a tall, elegant lady wearing an enormous powdered wig. Her face was a mask of white blanc with a circle of rouge painted on each cheek. She was wearing a long, flowing, crimson velvet robe heavily encrusted with gold embroidery. Heavy barbaric necklaces of huge rubies and sapphires set in old gold hung about her neck and fell almost to her waist over her flat bosom.
The earl was standing behind her chair.
“And who is this?” demanded the princess in a surprisingly deep voice.
“Miss Emily Goodenough,” murmured the earl, “her uncle, Mr. Benjamin Goodenough, and Miss Emily’s companion, Mrs. Middleton.”
“You are very beautiful, child,” said the princess. “You may kiss me.”
Emily shyly walked forward, sank into a deep curtsy, and then made to kiss the princess on the cheek. She found herself seized in a strong grip and then, to her consternation, the princess kissed her full on the mouth.
“I should call you out for that, you old ratbag,” said the earl.
Blushing furiously, Emily retreated backwards and looked at the earl and the princess in surprise.
Mr. Goodenough made his bow and Mrs. Middleton dropped her best curtsy.
Just as they were about to leave, there came a great stirring and rustling and exclaiming from those waiting to be presented, and then Giles called out, “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent; Mr. George Brummell; Lord Alvanley.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed the earl.
The Prince Regent waddled forward. He was wearing skin-tight knee-breeches and his evening coat was strained across his shoulders. Slim, elegant, and amused, the famous Beau Brummell stood behind him with the squat and powerful Lord Alvanley.
“Princess Anastasia,” said the prince, “we are delighted to welcome you to our country.”
The princess stood up and dropped an awkward curtsy.
“We were not informed of your arrival by your ambassador,” pursued the prince.
“My regrets,” murmured the princess.
“He being the ambassador of…?” The prince looked enquiringly at the princess, who looked wildly to the earl for support.
“I am afraid, Your Royal Highness,” said the earl, “that our princess is …” He reached forward and lifted the wig from Princess Anastasia’s head. “None other than Mr. Jason Fitzgerald, at your service.”
Fitz bowed from the waist. The Prince Regent gazed at him, outraged.
Then, from behind them, Emily began to laugh. It was a clear, ringing, infectious laugh. The prince turned about and surveyed her. She was holding her sides and laughing whole-heartedly.
“Gad’s ’oonds!” cried the prince. “You devil, Fleetwood.” He began to laugh as well. Everyone began to laugh helplessly, and those that did not know what the prince was laughing at, for
they were still jammed out on the staircase, nonetheless began to laugh as well. For if something amused the Prince Regent, then it followed that everyone else must be amused, whether they knew the joke or not.
“Who is this?” demanded the prince, when he had finished laughing, looking at Emily.
“May I present London’s famous beauty,” said the earl, “Miss Emily Goodenough.” He looked to where Mr. Goodenough stood behind Emily, trembling with hope and excitement. “And her uncle, Mr. Goodenough, and her companion, Mrs. Middleton.”
Emily, despite her beauty, was forgotten as the prince looked at the shaking awe and admiration on Mr. Goodenough’s twisted face.
His portly chest swelled. He extended two podgy fingers. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Goodenough,” he said.
White with excitement, Mr. Goodenough shook those royal fingers. “Your Royal Highness,” he gasped, “I shall treasure this moment until the day I die.”
“Tol rol,” said the prince, waving a dismissive hand, but looking vastly pleased. “And Mrs. Middleton, is it not? Charmed.”
Mrs. Middleton looked at him with hero-worship in her eyes.
Becoming more pleased by the minute, the prince chucked Emily under the chin. “Indeed a beauty,” he said. “Going to snatch her up, hey, Fleetwood?”
“If Miss Goodenough will give me a chance to do so,” said the earl smoothly. “Giles! Champagne for His Highness, if you please.”
The laughing crowd moved around the prince and cut him off from Emily’s view.
Emily stood stunned. She had met the Prince Regent! What was more important, Mr. Goodenough had met the Prince Regent. Surely they needed nothing more from this Season.
Voices rose and fell about her. “We shall have to plan something different for our rout,” said one. “Princesses are quite exploded, my dear. I suppose that Miss Goodenough was playing a joke on us as well. Still, now she has Prinny’s favour, she can do no wrong. I never thought she was a princess anyway.”
“But she is high ton,” said another voice, “or Fleetwood would never have proposed to her in front of the prince.”
“He never did!”
“Not in so many words, but that is what he implied. And Fleetwood is a very high stickler. Goodenough. Never heard of them. Must hail from the untitled aristocracy.”
Emily heaved a sigh of relief. At least she did not have to pretend to be a princess any more.
She signalled to a dazed Mrs. Middleton that they should take their leave.
Joseph followed them down the staircase, muttering, “Oh, my! Oh, my! Wait until I tell Rainbird. Our own Mrs. Middleton meeting the prince. Oh, my!”
Joseph could hardly wait to get to the servants’ hall to tell everyone the news. But Emily, elated and delighted that her role as princess was over, summoned the staff into the front parlour and asked Rainbird to serve them all champagne.
“I am behaving in a very common way,” she thought, “by entertaining servants, but I am tired of being a lady. From now on I am going to be myself.”
And in all the relief and excitement, Emily forgot she was still an adventuress, still an impostor, and that, if society ever found out she was an ex-chambermaid, they would hound her out of Town.
Chapter
Seven
We missed you last night at the “hoary old sinners,”
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners—
His soups scientific—his fishes quite prime—
His pâtés superb—and his cutlets sublime!
In short, ’twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaimed, between mouthfuls, “A He-Cook, of course!—
While you live—(What’s that under that cover, Pray, look)—
While you live—(I’ll just taste it)—ne’er keep a She-Cook
’Tis a sound Sallic Law—(a small bit of that toast)—
Which ordains that a female shall ne ’er rule the roast;
For Cookery’s a secret—(this turtle’s uncommon)—
Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!”
—Thomas Moore
In the week that followed, Lord Fleetwood did not call. Emily tried to tell herself she was relieved, although he had—unwittingly, she was sure—saved her from having to maintain her pose as a princess. She had many beaux and plenty of invitations. She and Mr. Goodenough decided to relax and enjoy a little more of the Season before deciding what to do next. Emily had more or less made up her mind not to find a husband, and that decision had made life easier. She made no more slips into common speech and soon found she was able to converse naturally without guarding her tongue every minute.
It was Lizzie, Lizzie the scullery maid, of all people, who shattered Emily’s equanimity. It was part of Lizzie’s duties to wash down the stairs and keep the doorstep outside whitened with pipe clay.
So one afternoon, just as Emily was leaving, escorted by Joseph, to go and potter about the shops in Oxford Street, she came across Lizzie, who was dreamily pipe-claying the front steps while she read a book, spread open on the steps in front of her.
Lizzie jumped to her feet and bobbed a curtsy.
“You seem to be enjoying that book,” said Emily with a smile. “Who wrote it?”
“It doesn’t say, ma’am,” said Lizzie. “It only says ‘by A Gentleman.’ It’s ever so funny but a bit crool.”
“Cruel? How so?”
“Well, the main character is this chambermaid called Emilia, who steals her mistress’s jewels and takes herself off to London, where she pretends to be a lady and trick this lord into marriage. He first becomes suspicious when he begins to notice a certain coarseness in her speech, and—”
“Thank you,” said Emily stiffly. “Return to your work.”
She swept off down Clarges Street, with Joseph behind her.
Joseph found he was having to trot to keep up with her. Emily felt confused and frightened. It did not dawn on her that a writer could hardly have managed to use her for a model for one of the characters in his book and get it published, all in the short time she had been in London. She felt that someone in society had pierced her disguise and was sitting somewhere watching her, like a cat watching a mouse.
But by the time she reached Oxford Street, her panic was dying down. It was a coincidence, that was all. She, Emily, had not stolen anything. She would go to Hatchard’s in Piccadilly and buy a copy of the book and prove to herself that all her worries were over nothing. Joseph groaned inwardly and wondered at this sudden decision to go back to Piccadilly, when they could easily have gone there in the first place.
At Hatchard’s, Emily was told the book was sold out. Although she did not know the title, the bookseller assured her that there was only one book out by ? Gentleman’ and that it was called Above Her Station or The Vain Folly of a Presumptuous Servant.
Emily returned to Clarges Street. As she rounded the corner from the Piccadilly end, she heard a stifled exclamation from Joseph, but assumed his feet were hurting as usual. Joseph always wore shoes two sizes too small for him. He was not alone in this folly. Small feet were considered aristocratic, and there were many bent and twisted toes and fallen arches in London to bear witness to the fact that a surprising number of people were prepared to suffer in the name of vanity. But it was the sight of Luke, leaning casually against the railings of Number 67 and talking to Lizzie, which had caused Joseph to exclaim.
Luke saw them approach, said something to Lizzie, and then darted off down the area steps of Number 65.
Emily saw the book now lying closed at the side of the steps.
“May I borrow your book?” she asked Lizzie when she came up to her.
“Certainly, ma’am,” said Lizzie, dropping a curtsy. “It’s not really my book, being as how we club together when we all want to read a new book. Mostly, we buy them second-hand.”
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She handed Emily the book. Emily murmured her thanks. She brushed past Rainbird, who was holding open the door, and walked quickly upstairs, clutching the book. Rainbird looked after her in surprise. It was unlike Miss Emily to walk past without so much as a smile or a “good day.”
Emily tore off her bonnet and then sat down in a chair by the window and began to read.
The maid in the book, Emilia, had dark-brown hair and blue-grey eyes, just like Emily. She was aided and abetted in the theft of her mistress’s jewels by the butler— “a man whose twisted and sinister face betrayed his low character.” With a sinking heart, Emily read on. In the author’s opinion, a member of the servant class must always betray herself. Low origins and common blood will always unmask the impostor. Not only was this Emilia portrayed as a beautiful girl with the heart of a conniving slut, but all the servants in the book were described as being greedy, gossiping, tale-bearing monsters. The fact that the author was equally acid about the posing and double standards of society escaped Emily’s terrified eyes. Emilia’s lusty, earthy passions were also held up as an example of her low origins. The author appeared to assume that ladies did not feel any urgings of the flesh.
But Emily did. All her romantic yearnings and her sometimes shocking dreams now appeared to her as an example of the whole unladylikeness of her character. Ladies, it appeared, married to increase the fortune of some man and bear his children. Women at the mercy of their passions belonged to the lower orders or to the Fashionable Impure.
Rainbird scratched at the door from time to time to say there was this or that gentleman waiting below to present his compliments, but Emily replied each time that she had a headache. She did not want to leave the room until she had studied the book thoroughly.
The book was quite short, only one volume, unlike most novels, which ran to at least three, but Emily read it slowly and carefully.
By the time she had finished it, she became convinced someone knew about her and Mr. Goodenough. She crossed to the window, as if dreading to see a mocking face watching the house.
