by Kate Hewitt
“Very good miss,” the maid said again, and left the room. Ellen stared at Amy in amazement.
“You sounded like such a grand lady! I feel as if I should start to bow and scrape.”
“Not a bit of it!” Amy cried. “Anyway, it was just the maid. Now onto important things. Your dress!”
Ellen shook her head slowly, amazed all over again at how easily Amy dismissed the young woman who had served her. In her former life, she might have had aspirations to a lady’s maid position, and not even in a house as grand as this. She would have been the one curtseying and fetching tea, wearing Amy’s castoffs if she was lucky, instead of one of her best gowns. It made Ellen feel disconcerted, that things could change so much, even as she doubted that they really could.
“Now, how about this one?” Carelessly Amy searched through the rainbow of satins and silks spread out on the counterpane. “It’s a lovely shade of golden-brown… just like your eyes.” She glanced at Ellen, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts!”
“I can’t imagine wearing one of these gowns,” Ellen blurted. “They’re far too nice for me, Amy.” She knotted her fingers together as she shook her head. “And I don’t even know what I’d do at a ball. I can barely manage a waltz…”
“Then we’ll have some dancing lessons,” Amy proclaimed. “Really, there are only a few you need to learn. The McCallister will only have waltzes and country dances. They abhor ragtime.”
“Ragtime is one I know,” Ellen answered, thinking of the ‘smoker’ dance at Queen’s University she’d gone to with Lucas. They’d done all sorts of funny dances, from the Grizzly Bear to the Turkey Trot. Learning those silly steps wouldn’t serve her well now, clearly.
“Why don’t you try this one on?” Amy asked, thrusting the golden-brown gown towards Ellen. She took it reverently, the sheen of the silk finer than any dress she’d ever laid eyes on before.
“Are you sure about letting me borrow something like this, Amy?” she asked. She knew the dress must have cost a fortune, along with the others lain carelessly on the be, and she trembled inside to think of spilling something on one of them and ruining it.
“Of course!” Amy answered gaily. “I won’t wear most of them again anyway. They’re all last season, but I think they’re still fashionable, don’t you?”
“I have no idea,” Ellen replied with a laugh. “I wouldn’t know one year’s fashions from the next. But I think they’re all lovely.”
“Well, go on, then, try it on. I can’t wait to see you in it.”
Amy directed her to a screen in the corner of the room, painted with garden scenes that were quite exquisite. Ellen spent a moment examining them before Amy said, laughing,
“Now’s not the time to study art, Ellen. We’re all about fashion now.”
Laughing a little herself, Ellen retreated behind the screen and carefully changed into the ball gown, trimmed with silk rosettes with a lace underskirt in pale gold. Amy helped her with the tiny buttons that went up the back, and then turned her around to face the cheval mirror.
“What do you think?”
“Oh…” Ellen gazed at herself in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything so fine.”
“You do look beautiful,” Amy agreed cheerfully.
“I meant the dress, not me,” Ellen exclaimed, embarrassed, and Amy raised her eyebrows.
“Why shouldn’t you be proud and confident in the way you look? You’re always trying to hide yourself, Ellen, and you really are lovely.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit… revealing… in the front?” Gently Ellen tugged up the bodice, but with a laugh Amy batted her hands away.
“Not at all. It’s perfectly respectable to show a hint of bosom. Now.” She clapped her hands together and nodded towards the other gowns spread out on the bed. “I do like this one you’ve got on, but I wonder if that dark green with gold trim might bring out the hazel in your eyes? Shall you try it on?”
An hour later Ellen had tried on more dresses than she could even remember, and had finally settled on a gown of emerald green satin. It was deceptively simple, and the low neckline and short sleeves was more daring than anything Ellen had ever worn before. When she’d said as much to Amy, her friend had just clucked her tongue.
“You can’t dress like a nun or a schoolgirl when you’re going to a ball. Everyone will have similar necklines, and some even more daring than yours!”
“I know, but…”
“You must embrace it, Ellen,” Amy told her severely. “And hold your head up high. You don’t want a bunch of prissy society girls turning their noses up at you.”
“I’m sure they will no matter what I wear,” Ellen said with a wry smile even though inside she hated the thought.
“No, they won’t, because I won’t let them, and neither will you. You have as much right to be there as they do.”
“But I don’t, not really—“
“You’ve been invited, haven’t you? Now I’ll call for Metcalfe to box this up, and our driver can take it round. You can’t possibly carry it yourself.”
“Thank you, Amy,” Ellen said, the words heartfelt even as she felt a distinc unease at the thought of attending the ball in just a few days.
“You know it’s my pleasure. I’ll add a dance card as well, since I don’t think you have one?”
Ellen managed a laugh. “Of course I don’t.”
“You shall be the belle of the ball, Ellen,” Amy said as she kissed her cheek in farewell. “Glasgow’s Cinderella!”
Which was rather apt, Ellen reflected as she started walking back towards Renfrew Street and Norah’s house. The question was, when would she turn back into the rag-wearing skivvy that Cinderella had been?
The air was crisp and smelled of coal fires and woodsmoke, and the leaves of the trees that lined the street were a bold yellow. Humming under her breath, Ellen felt her spirits lift a little, and for the first time she actually felt a flicker of excitement for what lay ahead. She would dance and drink champagne and talk about art—who could have ever dreamed that the little waif from Springburn would be received at one of Glasgow’s best houses. It terrified her even as it made her smile.
Back at Norah’s house, there were two letters for her on the hall table, one from Letitia in Edinburgh, and one from Lucas. Ellen took them both upstairs; she removed her hat, coat, and shoes, and curled up in the chair by the window and read them both by the last of the afternoon’s sunlight.
She read Letitia’s first, enjoying her new friend’s description of medical lectures and dissections at Edinburgh University, even as she shuddered at the thought of having to dissect a human body. She’d have to paint one soon enough, and she knew she’d find that challenging. Letitia promised to visit soon, and laying that letter aside, Ellen opened Lucas’s.
She felt a bittersweet pang of nostalgia and longing as she saw his familiar scrawl across the page, the ink smeared in places. It seemed a long time ago now that she’d danced with Lucas at Jed and Louisa’s wedding, and they’d told each other their plans. Now she read about his new life as a law clerk in Toronto, marveling at how far they’d both come.
I feel sometimes like the wet-behind-the-ears yokel who has just come up to town, but I suppose that was always likely to be the case. Four years in Kingston didn’t prepare me as much as I thought for Toronto city life. But I do enjoy it. I’ve taken rooms near King Street, and have met a few lads through work, which is not as dull as I’d feared, nor as interesting as I’d hoped! But worthwhile, I think, even if sitting in an office reading briefs all day is not what I’d envisioned my life’s work to be. I miss the island more than I expected to, but in truth I think I just miss you. I know that’s not what you want to read, and you are no doubt enjoying life as a Lady Artist, but I will write it the same, because it is true and I can’t bear you not knowing. Think of me what you will. As ever, Lucas
Tears stung her eyes as she finished the letter and she blinked them
back, knowing that she had no cause to miss Lucas the way he missed her. She’d given him her answer months ago, when she’d told him she saw him as a brother rather than as anything more. She couldn’t change her mind now, simply because she was feeling a little homesick and lost. It would be unfair to both her and Lucas.
Sighing, Ellen stared out the darkening sky, a few crimson and yellow leaves fluttering to the pavement below. For a moment she could imagine those trees were the stand of birches that separated the Lymans’ property from the McCaffertys’ on Amherst Island. She could picture herself beneath them, a sketchbook open on her lap, and Lucas next to her, sprawled out lazily, talking about science and history and all of his wonderful ideas. He’d never finished cataloguing all the flora and fauna of the island, although he’d made it his life’s work as a child. Ellen wondered if he ever would.
For a second she ached with homesickness, with the loss of knowing that a moment like that one would never happen again. She and Lucas had chosen different paths, and it seemed far too likely that they would intersect rarely, if at all. The thought brought her a regret more bitter than she liked to acknowledge, because his friendship had always been dear to her, and she feared now it might be lost forever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The night of the McCallister ball Ellen stood in front of the small, cloudy looking glass in her bedroom and tried to do her hair in the loose pompadour style that Amy wore, with little success. She’d used more than a dozen pins and it seemed likely it would all fall into hopeless tangles as soon as she stepped outside, into the wind.
It was a filthy night, raining steadily and gusting wind, and Ellen’s plan to walk to Dowanhill did not seem such a good one. She almost wished she’d taken Henry up on his offer to collect her in his motorcar, scandalous as that might have been.
Carefully she smoothed down the front of the emerald-green gown, still half-amazed that she was wearing such a lovely thing. She’d never bared her shoulders or bosom so much before, and she was half tempted to tuck a lace handkerchief in the neckline of her gown, just to cover a bit of skin. Amy, she thought ruefully, would no doubt pluck it out again as soon as she saw her.
A knock sounded on the door, and Ellen called for Norah to come in.
Norah wore a shapeless dress of brown muslin with a velvet wrap over her shoulders. She wore no corset and yet managed to look elegant and in command despite her typically unconventional dress. Ellen had told Norah she was attending the ball several days ago, and her landlady had not looked pleased. She hadn’t said anything, however, just pressed her lips together and gave one swift nod.
Now she gazed at Ellen in all her finery and said, “You certainly look the part. I’ve arranged for a hansom cab for you. You can hardly walk in this weather.”
“Thank you, Norah,” Ellen said, touched by the older woman’s thoughtfulness, especially considering her disapproval of Ellen’s attendance at the ball. “That’s very kind. I’ll repay you, of course.”
“There’s no need. It’s simply practical,” Norah answered briskly. “I thought of sending for one of the new motorized taxi cabs, but they always seem as if they break down. People are forever standing by the roadside while the driver turns the crank, looking hopelessly annoyed. A horse-drawn conveyance is more reliable, I think.”
“I’ve only been in a motorcar once,” Ellen confessed, and then quickly looked away as she saw the understanding gleam in Norah’s shrewd eyes. It had, of course, been Henry’s motorcar.
“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself at such an occasion,” she said after a pause, “and that you’re not too distracted from the real reason you came to Glasgow. She arched an imperious eyebrow. “If studying art and honing your craft is the real reason, and not to snare a rich husband?”
Ellen flushed as she kept her eyes on the looking glass, unwilling to meet Norah’s knowing gaze. “I am here to study art,” she said firmly. “That is all.” Norah left with a swish of her skirts and knowing she could delay the moment no longer, Ellen gave one last pat to her hair and then reached for the silk wrap that went with the dress; it hardly seemed likely to keep her warm, but she couldn’t wear her old brown coat buttoned up over her dress. Forcing her shoulders back and her chin up, she stepped out into the night.
The driver leapt down from his perch to help her into the hansom cab, and Ellen settled against the seat as nerves leaped and writhed in her belly like a landed fish.
It was a short drive to Dowanhill, and the McCallisters’ villa was lit up like a beacon against the night sky. Guests were mounting the steps: men in tall hats and tails, women in ball gowns dripping with jewels and furs. Despite Amy’s emerald gown and wrap, Ellen felt decidedly underdressed. She wore no jewels or furs, and her slippers, thankfully hidden by her dress, were her own, worn and old, as Amy’s feet were far smaller than hers. She wished in this moment that she had an escort—a mama or papa, a friend or chaperone, or even a maid. Anyone to stand by her side, so she didn’t have to mount those steps all by herself, and be subject to everyone’s speculative looks.
Murmuring her thanks to the driver, she alighted from the carriage and taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and climbed the steps to the McCallisters’ villa.
The foyer of the house was huge, with a floor of black and white chequered marble and a huge electric chandelier above. Guests swarmed the space, and servants in elegant livery circulated with trays of champagne.
Ellen felt completely out of her depth.
A servant stepped forward to take her wrap and another offered her champagne. She’d never drunk it before, and she had to keep from making a face as the fizzy bubbles tickled her throat and nose. She looked around a bit desperately for someone she knew, trying not to notice the curious looks of strangers who could undoubtedly sense that she was not one of them.
“Ellen!”
She didn’t know whether she felt relief or dismay at the sight of Henry coming towards her, dressed in a white tie and tails. He looked dashing in his evening wear with his dark hair slicked back with pomade, his blue eyes sparkling, but his obvious ease in such fancy clothes made Ellen feel even more like an impostor. She wished she really had put a bit of lace along the neckline of her gown.
“I’m so pleased you’ve come,” Henry said, taking her hands in his. Even through the white elbow-length gloves Amy had lent her she could feel the warmth of his hands. She could also feel the curious stares of the guests around her; they were no doubt wondering just who she was, and why their hosts’ son was greeting her in such a familiar fashion.
“I’m pleased to be here,” she said, and slipped her hand from his. “Your house is lovely.”
Henry gave the impressive foyer an indifferent glance. “I suppose it is, although I prefer less ostentation. Come, let me introduce you to some friends.”
And before she could protest he took her hand once more and led her into the villa’s ballroom.
The room was huge, filled with people, and even though she knew they were not, Ellen felt as if every single one of the McCallisters’ guests was staring at her. She shouldn’t have come, she thought. She should have cried off, said she was ill, anything but endure all this open curiosity and even hostility, all the sneering speculation she could see in narrowed eyes and pursed lips, although Henry seemed blithely unaware of it.
“Mama, this is the lady artist I was telling you about. Ellen Copley, the School’s most promising new student.”
A tall, elegant woman with Henry’s dark hair and blue eyes turned to survey Ellen, who only just kept herself from dropping a curtsey.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” she murmured, and Mrs. McCallister’s eyebrows rose, at her words or her accent or something else entirely Ellen didn’t know.
“Likewise,” she said, and she sounded condescendingly amused, which made Ellen cringe. Was everyone at this wretched ball laughing at her, thinking how appallingly obvious it was that she didn’t fit in? Did they know where she came from? Coul
d they guess?
Henry was talking to his mother about Ellen’s art, but she could barely take in a word. Mrs. McCallister did not look particularly impressed by her alleged talent, and was certainly not pleased by her son’s enthusiasm, her narrowed gaze moving from Henry to Ellen and back again as her mouth drew tighter and tighter.
“Really, Henry,” she said when there was a tiny lull in the conversation, her tone laughingly dry, “you are too kind, taking in the school’s strays like puppies. Sometimes it’s better just to put them out of their misery.” She met Ellen’s gaze with glinting challenge while Ellen stood rooted to the spot, hardly able to believe the woman had issued such a direct and terrible insult as if she were making a light joke at which everyone would politely titter.
“It’s not like that at all, Mother,” Henry said, sounding annoyed, but Ellen couldn’t stand there and listen to anymore. Several people nearby had heard Mrs. McCallister’s comment, and were now laughing behind their hands as they whispered to their neighbors. She felt a desperate, dire need to escape the conversation, the room, the whole ball.
“You ought to see her sketches,” Henry said, and Ellen couldn’t bear for him to stick up for her for another second. He was only making it all worse.
“I’m sure Mrs. McCallister has no interest in my sketches,” she said, managing a strangled laugh. “Really, I’m a complete amateur. I have so much to learn.” She paused as she met Mrs. McCallister’s gaze directly even as she quailed inside. “Fortunately, I am a quick learner.” She held the older woman’s gaze for another unbearable second, seeing the knowledge and satisfaction enter her steely gaze. “Now I must excuse myself. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”
“You haven’t,” Henry protested, but Ellen just shook her head, murmuring her apologies, and then walked as quickly away as she could manage in her narrow-skirted gown.