“Still—”
“Still, nothing,” Marcelline said. “You’re overworked. You had quite enough to do, merely looking after our interests. But now you’ve taken on this trouble of Lady Clara’s. And there’s her brother, making love to you at the same time you’re trying to conduct a delicate, elaborate, and risky scheme.”
Sophy met her sister’s gaze over the brandy decanter.
Schemes and dodges and subterfuge and other forms of machination were part of the family inheritance. If there was one thing her sisters understood as well or perhaps even better than they did the art of dressmaking, it was the art of deception.
“And there are my sisters,” Sophy said, “carrying on the business, slaving over dresses and indulging spoiled ladies—while I’m at the Clarendon Hotel pretending to be the Queen of Sheba at my brother-in-law’s expense.”
Marcelline laughed. “Ma foi, you can’t be so mad as to let that trouble you! Clevedon’s thrilled to be part of our plot. And do try to remember that he doesn’t care about money. He’s not like us. He never had to think about it, let alone worry about it—and it’s extremely unlikely he ever will. Pray don’t fret about the Clarendon and Madame’s servants and such. My husband’s friends will have won or lost as much at Ascot this week as he’s spent on you. And they won’t have had nearly so much fun doing it.”
A weight lifted.
Sophy grinned at her sister. “It is great fun,” she said. “I get so caught up in worrying about Lady Clara that I forget I’m doing what I was born to do—and it makes a pleasant change from waiting on tiresome women.”
“That’s the only drawback,” Marcelline said with a little sigh. “I love designing clothes. I love making clothes. I don’t even mind the dreary, boring repetitive parts.”
“They’re soothing,” Sophy said. “One doesn’t think. One simply does, and takes pleasure in doing it beautifully.”
“I love everything about it,” Marcelline said.
“Except the customers.”
Marcelline laughed. “If only each customer could send a mannequin in her place. Well, not all of them. Some are great fun. Lady Clara is a delight—even when she’s arguing with me about things of which she knows nothing. But most of them—really, when one thinks about it . . .” She sat for a moment, staring at the decanter. “There must be a way.”
“My dear, if you’d rather be a duchess, and design dresses in your private castle purely for yourself and your own entertainment, you know Leonie and I can manage the shop.”
“I’d die if I gave it up,” Marcelline said. “Something inside me would shrivel. It’s too bad, but Cousin Emma did something to us. In spite of Mama and Papa and all the others.”
“She inspired us,” Sophy said. “We were meant to be knaves like the rest—and we are. But Cousin Emma made us something more. And now we can’t be less, that’s all.”
Marcelline raised her glass, and Sophy did, too.
“To Cousin Emma,” Marcelline said.
“To Cousin Emma,” Sophy said. They drank.
“And I must wear the blue dress,” Sophy said, “because—”
“Because the other will make Longmore swoon, and we need him to keep his wits about him,” Marcelline said. “And speaking of Longmore . . .” She raised her eyebrows at Sophy.
We make love, he’d said.
“Yes,” Sophy said. “Yes, I did. That. The thing you explained about.”
“The family matter,” Marcelline said.
“I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” Sophy said. “But there hasn’t been time. Lately we see each other for such short intervals.”
She told her sister now, what had happened on the way to and from Portsmouth.
She knew Marcelline wouldn’t be angry or disapproving. Noirots weren’t like other people. There were rules they didn’t understand and didn’t care about.
She only listened and smiled now and again, and when Sophy had finished, she shrugged a perfect French shrug, which also happened to be a perfect Noirot shrug. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she said. “Purity and virtue don’t agree with Noirots, do they? And you’re all of three and twenty. It’s remarkable you kept your virtue for so long.”
“Lack of opportunity, probably,” Sophy said.
“You barely have time to sleep,” Marcelline said. “Where is there time for love affairs? Yet we manage to make the time when we have to.”
“I’m not sure I had to,” Sophy said.
“I am,” Marcelline said. “I know it’s damned inconvenient, and I don’t blame you for crying, considering what an extremely difficult and complicated situation it is with him.”
“Difficult and complicated? Impossible, you mean.”
“It does seem rather impossible, I’ll admit.” Marcelline smiled. “But my dear love—ma soeur chérie —I really must commend you on your excellent taste.”
Warford House
Thursday 18 June
“Pray listen to this, Mama,” Lady Clara said. She gave the Spectacle a little shake, cleared her throat, and began, “ ‘It would seem that the rift which had opened a few days ago between a certain lord and a young French widow has been bridged, and all is billing and cooing once more. The couple dined at the Clarendon Hotel last night with the duke and duchess who had introduced them, as our readers will recollect, last week at the Queen’s Theater. Madame wore a dress of pink velours epinglé, the corsage draped in folds across the bosom, the back close-fitting. Very short, full sleeves cut open in front to display . . .’ ”
When she got to the “billing and cooing” part, Lord Adderley left his chair and walked to the chimneypiece, where he stared at Lady Warford’s collection of Murano glass flowers. He paid no attention to the rest of the recital, which consisted of every last pestilential detail of what Madame wore and what the duchess wore.
He’d dutifully called today as he did every day but Tuesday, when the family was not at home to callers. It was rather like going daily to have a tooth pulled, he thought. He wasn’t sure he could endure much more of it: Clara’s incessant prattling and her mother’s icily patronizing politeness.
“Billing and cooing, indeed,” Lady Warford said. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Longmore broke Tom Foxe’s jaw for his impudence.”
“Harry’s more likely to laugh,” Clara said. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, Lord Adderley, that all is mended between them.”
“I can’t help but believe the engagement for dinner must have been made previously,” he said. “No doubt the lady didn’t wish to inconvenience her friends. The duke and duchess are friends of long standing, I believe.”
“Then my brother obviously took advantage of the opportunity to make up to Madame,” Clara said. “He can be winning when he wants to be.”
“If Longmore wishes to be winning, one can only conclude that he’s decided to fix the lady’s interest,” Lady Warford said. “I had a feeling it would come to this, from the moment I saw him with her in the theater. Ah, well, it might have been worse, I’m sure.”
A barmaid or a ballet dancer.
“I think you’ll like her, Mama,” Clara said. “She seems good-natured. At least she won’t make a disagreeable daughter-in-law.”
“Daughter-in-law?” Adderley said. “Have you got them to the altar already?”
“I believe it’s only a matter of time,” Clara said.
“But you seemed to take her in dislike the other day,” he said.
“That was before you told me that Harry had hurt her feelings. I know how provoking my brother can be.”
“Shockingly tactless,” Lady Warford said. “Unfortunately, Longmore can be tactless quite fluently in several languages.”
“In any event, Lady Bartham will ask to introduce her to Mama tonight, and it seems we must like it or lump it.”
“I see no alternative but to agree to know the lady,” Lady Warford said. “One can never be sure with Longmore, but in the event he t
urns out to entertain serious feelings about this young woman, I prefer to begin the acquaintance amiably. And if it all comes to nothing—” Lady Warford made a dismissive gesture. “No harm done. The Season is nearly over, and one needn’t see her again until next year. By then, who knows what will happen?”
“Indeed,” Lord Adderley said. “Who knows?” He came away from the chimneypiece. “I had better not trespass on your time. I know you ladies will wish to rest and prepare for the ball this evening.”
They didn’t try to keep him.
He made his farewell with great politeness if not great warmth. As he was leaving the room, as glad to be gone as he knew they were to see him go, he heard Clara say, “I can’t wait to see what Madame de Veirrion will be wearing.”
He swallowed a smile and went out.
Billing and cooing, was she?
The wicked little coquette.
Let the Spectacle print what it wished. Let them think what they liked.
He knew the truth about her.
Countess of Bartham’s ball
Thursday night
Longmore watched Lady Bartham approach. “Whatever you do,” he said in an undertone, “do not treat my mother to that curtsey.”
“But what curtsey is this?” Madame said.
“You know the one I mean,” he said. “The ballet dancer dying swan Queen Mab curtsey.”
“This is absurd,” she said. “Why should I do these things?”
He hadn’t time to answer because Lady Bartham was upon them, all smiles. A moment later she was leading Madame to meet his mother.
He let them go ahead, while he watched everybody watching Madame. The blue dress had been pretty enough in the shop. Now it was breathtaking, Delicate silver embroidery made a twining pattern over the top layer of blue crepe, which floated upon the satin layer beneath. Gossamer lace fluttered and brilliants sparkled in the sleeves. Under the chandeliers, it was like watching sunlight shimmering on a blue sea.
The dress was cut low, the better to display the eleven tons of diamonds she wore—and which, with any luck, no one would discover had been charged to the Duke of Clevedon’s account at Rundell and Bridge.
Longmore glanced about the room, casually taking note of Lord Adderley, lounging near the refreshment room, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
“My dear Lady Warford, may I present Madame de Veirrion,” Lady Bartham said.
Lady Warford sat up a degree straighter and a shade more stiffly. Her blue gaze bored straight into Madame as though she were prepared to read entrails, without the usual preliminaries.
For a moment Madame wondered whether Lady Bartham had made a mistake or misunderstood. Ladies were supposed to ask other ladies if they desired such and such an introduction, to avoid awkward moments. Maybe Lady Warford had agreed but had changed her mind.
Mon dieu, I’m about to be snubbed, she thought. The cut direct—at the biggest event of the Season.
But nothing of what happened inside Madame showed on the outside. Outside she wore enough of a smile to be amiable but not at all fawning.
After all, Madame de Veirrion had a great fortune, and in Paris she was Somebody.
Lady Warford gave a gracious nod. “Madame.”
“Lady Warford.” Madame didn’t return the nod. She sank into a Noirot curtsey, the one Longmore had told her not to perform.
She heard everybody in the vicinity catch their breath.
When she rose, Lady Warford was wearing a speculative look.
Longmore appeared at Madame’s elbow. “Good gad, madame, it’s my mother, not Louis XIV. You French, always carrying everything to excess.”
“What is this excess you speak of?” said Madame. “This is madame la marquise, yes? What is wrong in this way I make my courtesy to your so elegant maman? Of whom, yes, I beg the pardon.” She turned her attention to Lady Warford. “You will pardon, I beg you please, Madame de—ah, no. It is Lady Warford I must say. My English is not yet of perfection.”
“I’m sure you’ll master it in time, Madame de Veirrion,” Lady Warford said. “As you seem to have mastered . . . other things.” She shot a glance at her son before returning to his companion. “I believe this is your first London ball?”
“Yes, Madame—Lady Warford. I make my debut, thanks to the great kindness of your friend Lady Bartham.”
“But of course I must have you,” Lady Bartham said. “Unthinkable not to have the most-talked-about lady in London at my party.”
“Of course you must,” Lady Warford said, smiling sweetly.
Lady Bartham said, with a laugh. “And I must have, too, the second most-talked-about, the Duchess of Clevedon.”
“Since most of the talk is in English,” Longmore said, “Madame is in the fortunate position of not understanding most of it. I daresay she barely comprehends three words in ten of the present conversation. Madame, you’re looking a trifle dazed. I think you need a drink. Lady Bartham—Mother—Clara—if we may be permitted to exit your exalted presence?”
He swept her away.
Chapter Seventeen
Had Mr. Brinsley Sheridan been a low, worthless, extravagant profligate, whose marriage was a skilful arrangement with his impatient creditors, we should have been the first to condemn and deplore the step which has been taken.
—The Court Journal, Saturday 13 June 1835
They danced.
It wasn’t what Sophy had expected. She’d been so fixed on her scheme and playing her part that she’d almost forgotten she wasn’t an actor in a stage drama but a lady attending a ball.
The music had started as Longmore was leading her away from his mother. In another moment, Lord and Lady Bartham began to dance, not with each other but with the partners etiquette dictated.
Then Longmore was saying, “Ah, the perfect excuse not to make polite conversation.” He led Sophy out among the swirling couples, and his arm went round her waist, and she caught her breath and said, “I’m not sure . . . It’s been an age since I—”
“I’ll lead,” he told her in French. “Leave it to me, Madame. Trust me.”
Moments later, he’d swept her into the waltz, and she forgot business and schemes and villains. For this time, there was only this man, and the motion of his athletic, confident body, as sure and thoroughly masculine in dancing as in everything else.
Round and round the ballroom they went, and it seemed she was floating among clouds of silks and satins, whites and pastels and vivid jewel tones and black and grey, all swirling about her, while rainbow stars sparkled among the clouds: emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and diamonds—above all, diamonds—glittering under another thousand stars in the crystal chandeliers.
It was like a fairyland.
How many such events had she attended, playing a maid? How many times had she described such scenes for the Spectacle’s readers?
But always, she described from the outside looking in.
She hadn’t danced in ages, as she’d tried to tell him. Not since Paris. And then she’d never attended a gathering like this. She’d never before danced in the arms of a man she . . .
Loved.
She looked up and found him gazing down at her, wearing a hint of a smile while amusement glinted in his dark eyes: amusement and something else she couldn’t read.
“You naughty girl,” he said in French. “What did I tell you about the curtsey? And why did I imagine you’d pay me the slightest heed?”
“I had a reason,” she answered in the same language. It was much easier to converse that way than in Madame’s mangled English. French came naturally. Murdering the English language in a believably French style needed thought.
“You always do,” he said.
“Firstly, like a ballet dancer’s movement, it captivates the eye,” she said. “Secondly, it displays the dress in a way that no other movement can.”
“Even this?” he said. “Was it not designed to appear at its most enticingly beautiful during dancing?”
/> “You’re learning,” she said.
“In self-defense,” he said. “Like Clevedon.”
He looked away and she followed his gaze. Marcelline and the duke were dancing, and it had to be obvious to all onlookers why he’d broken a cardinal rule of his class and married a shopkeeper. It had to be obvious as well, that he’d married a woman who loved him. Marcelline wasn’t wearing her card-playing face. She was herself: a woman deeply, deeply in love with her husband.
She deserved her good fortune, Sophy thought. Marcelline had worked since she was a child. She’d made the best of a bad marriage to a charming philanderer of a cousin. And when the cholera had come and destroyed their world, everyone in it, and everything they’d worked for, she’d gathered what remained of her family and brought them to England, with a handful of coins and a ruthless will to succeed.
Sophy tore her gaze from her sister. “If you understand this much about the dress design, then you know my motives were ulterior,” she said. “It’s true that this and all our gowns are meant to appear beautiful at rest and even more so in motion. But I ask you to bring to mind my earlier mission—the one that took us to Hortense the Horrible. Do you recall?”
“As though I could forget,” he said. “Your mole, in particular, is deeply etched—or should I say permanently sprouting—in my recollection.”
“We went there so that I could see whether it was the same old Dowdy’s or something different and more of a threat,” she said. “I needed to see your mother’s dress because they’d do their best work for her. It was better than their usual thing, but it still couldn’t hold a candle to ours. But how to make your mother see this?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with the curtsey,” he said.
“It didn’t occur to you,” she said, “that at the moment I was being introduced to your mother, she was surrounded by the work of Maison Noirot: Lady Bartham, Lady Clara, and I were all wearing Marcelline’s creations. Your mother couldn’t fail to notice the difference between what she was wearing and what we were wearing. It may take her a while to fully comprehend, but we’ve planted the seed.”