"Oh, leave Tess alone, Livia. She's not like the rest of us, secure in her position. On trial the way she is, why, everything could slip through her fingers," said Sarah.
Surprised, Tess stared at her. On trial! She'd had no hint of it from anyone—not the housekeeper, not her mistress.
"Don't look at me like that, Tess. Everyone knows a person can't jump from laundry to lady's maid—leastways, not without running a risk o' falling flat on her nose. That's just what Miss Cornelia told my Miss Susan, see if it isn't."
"Why wouldn't I believe you?" Tess asked calmly, but inwardly she was trembling. She thought she'd been doing well, but obviously Miss Cornelia had some reservations. Didn't she admit as much to Tess an hour ago? Didn't she demand pretty words and compliments from Tess, the kind Marie thought nothing of showering on her?"
"Anyway, I can only do my best," Tess added, sick at heart.
"Which I'm sure is just fine," Sarah answered, patting Tess's knee with her special brand of kindness.
Pre-ball dinners were being hosted all over town. The house to which Misses Van de Stadt and Winward were invited was rather whimsically Tudor in style, and as the coaches rolled through the vast iron gates, Tess caught a glimpse of soaring stained-glass window-panels, lit from inside to reveal deep jewel-toned figures arranged in a tableau of some sort.
"That's Miss Julie's bedroom, if you can believe it," said Sarah. "I've heard that the Pearsons sacked a cathedral in France for those windows, and all because their daughter thought she resembled a woman-figure in one of the panels. Well, I saw the panel close up, and she doesn't."
"Imagine that," Livia said breathlessly.
It was that way everywhere in Newport: absurd stories of Americans running amok all over Europe, not knowing what to buy first. Americans had money to burn; the number of millionaires who summered in Newport was staggering. What Americans did not have, and seemed to crave, was lineage. Those who could, bought their way into titled families. But those who could not, settled for aping the ways of the British aristocracy. Mr. Pearson, tonight's host, had reproduced, down to his snuff-box, the life and times of English country gentry. His liveried servants were powdered, of course; but in Newport that was not unusual.
What was uncommon, even in Newport, was the ferocious zeal with which Mr. Pearson mimicked the ways of a British sportsman. Hunting was his great passion. When the local farmers arose en masse to protest the fox hunts that were being routed across their fields, Mr. Pearson, alone among his peers, actually paid them for their inconvenience, thereby single-handedly keeping a doomed tradition limping along for several more years.
After that he turned to game-shooting, stocking the grounds of his estate with hand-raised pheasants. The birds were so tame that there was no sport involved, but he shot them anyway. Once he fired off a round at what turned out to be a gaily-feathered hat, still on the head of one of his female guests; word quickly went out that it was unwise to wander far from the main house. These days, however, Mr. Pearson was confined to his study and a soft hassock: he was afflicted with gout. Secretly he was pleased. It felt so very British to wave a cane and bark at the servants.
All of this amused Miss Van de Stadt's viscount-fiancé no end; imitation, after all, was the sincerest form of flattery. Of course, the viscount's stables back in Derbyshire did not have stained-glass windows at either end, or a gold nametag above each horses stall as did Mr. Pearson's. If the truth were known, his stables were a bit down in the mouth, and the roof at the south end of one had all but collapsed. But no matter. The viscount had long since been forced to sell what little horseflesh he possessed and had no need for a stable roof, good or bad. In the course of dinner that evening, however, it was not the condition of the viscount's stables that was the subject of a few moments of dinner conversation, but the number of stalls. Of these, the viscount had thirty-eight. There was a murmur of approval around him before the conversation drifted off to another topic.
Chapter 6
Sarah was in a huff. "That was the weakest tea," she said as she and the other maids piled back into their coach two hours later en route to their next, even grander destination. "I do believe their housekeeper ran that pot through twice. I never!"
"She's probably served tea to every lady's maid in Newport by this time of year," Tess said with a laugh. "I shouldn't wonder that she tries to cut back when she can."
"And her apartments! So plain, so unadorned. Even your Mrs. Bracken has a nicer table to set, Tess."
Tess and Livia exchanged looks; no one could manage condescension as well as Sarah. "How kind of you to notice," said Tess dryly.
Before long they were in a line of carriages waiting their turn to empty, and the maids within had gathered up their needlepoint satchels filled with combs and hairpins, needles and thread—well-thought-out survival kits for the harrowing moments before a ball. Their carriage had not quite reached their destination when the door was opened by a footman wearing pale blue Van de Stadt livery. The first two maids tumbled out quickly, but when it was Tess's turn to alight, a freakish accident occurred. The right mare, new to harness, reared up suddenly, causing the coach to roll back and Tess to lose her balance; she fell awkwardly to the ground, twisting her ankle.
"Tess! Are you all right?" asked Livia, helping her to her feet.
Tess wasn't all right, but she lied, forcing a smile through her pain.
"Good. I do have to go. Mistress gets a little wild with impatience before a ball."
"And Miss Susan will want to know why the mare reared up," Sarah chimed in. "Oh, there, look at her face—oh lord, she's furious," she moaned, suddenly less confident. "And all because of some stupid rabbit."
They scurried to their mistresses like small gray squirrels, leaving Tess to manage for herself. As she stood with her weight on her good foot, hesitant to step on the injured ankle, distraught lest she attract attention, one gentleman broke from a nearby pack enjoying their cigars and approached her.
"Good evening, Tess," said Edward Hillyard. "I saw what happened." His voice, like his dress, was more formal than before. "It seems I find myself once more offering assistance."
"And once more I find myself grateful but managing nicely, thank you, sir," Tess answered, resolutely allowing her weight to fall on the injured ankle. She gasped but did not falter.
"Tess, you are hurt," he said, concerned. "Take my arm."
"Oh Lord, sir, I couldn't!" This was horrible. Hillyard's friends were staring curiously. And where was Miss Cornelia?
"You can and shall, my fair lass. Or would you rather I gathered you up in my arms and carried you through the Great Hall and past the receiving line—or in this case, throne? Have you ever dreamed of making a grand entrance, Tess?" he asked in a warm, teasing voice.
It electrified her. "I will take your arm, sir," she agreed quickly. Hesitantly she took a step, her hand barely touching his sleeve.
"Lean on me, dammit."
"I don't dare."
"Do drop this obsession with caste. Lean."
She did, and was grateful for his aid. His handsome form towered over her in the dark night, and for one split, hallucinatory second Tess pictured how it might be, if he were her partner at a ball.
Insanity.
Although the pain in her ankle was sharp, with every step she was becoming more used to it, and at the end of a dozen steps she said, "It isn't so bad as I thought, sir. I'm fine now." And with what was left of her strength she let go of his arm and hurried through the oak entrance doors to catch up with her mistress.
Inside she was dazzled by a vast expanse of spotless marble floor which led to another set of doors, these of massive wrought iron, beyond which was a second entrance hall. Cornelia was there, talking with friends. When she spied Tess she pounced. "You at last! Did you break your leg, that you idle so? Oh! You can be infuriating," she hissed.
Cornelia ascended a short flight of steps, and Tess, limping behind her, saw by the set of her shoulders tha
t if for any reason the night was not a success, she would be at fault.
My days at Beau Rêve are numbered, Tess thought bleakly. And Maggie's as well. Where will we go?
Now they were in the Great Hall, about which Tess had heard so much. Rumors had not done it justice. It was soaring, cavernous, beyond ornate. Four crystal and bronze chandeliers, each large enough to hold several footmen, hung thirty feet from the ceilings, and still they towered high over the guests. A balcony of massive wrought iron railings completely encircled the hall, allowing guests to look down on the new arrivals from a height of several stories. The hall floor, of polished marble and covered with a vast red carpet, was dotted with a dozen and a half silver-buttoned footmen in maroon livery who were positioned there for no other reason than to direct traffic. Awestruck debutantes were led to a vast, curved marble staircase leading to dressing rooms off the balcony above; their beaux were directed to a staircase descending to rooms below.
Cornelia, clearly staggered, did her best to affect a jaded response. "Such cleverness all around, don't you think?" she was saying to a young friend her own age. "See how they've worked the Vanderbilt acorn motif onto every possible surface. There are acorns everywhere: gilt, bronze, marble, wood. It does seem a bit too much," she added in a lower voice, "but then ...." And she lifted her eyes heavenward in a sweeping indictment of the excesses surrounding them.
The young friend tapped Cornelia's wrist with her fan. "Cornelia, you're such a cat," she chimed.
The two women took chairs at adjacent dressing tables and their maids got down to business. Owing to the skill with which Tess had arranged and pinned Cornelia's hair, it was holding up remarkably well. Cornelia's friend was not so lucky: her brown hair, very fine and distressingly limp, trailed off exhausted in different directions, and not until Tess got drawn into the reconstruction did an appealing effect result.
"Marvelous!" gushed Cornelia's friend. "Cornelia, hold onto this one, or I'll snatch her from you the first chance I get!" she warned.
Cornelia managed to look amused, but Tess saw the telltale vein in her temple begin to throb. "Yes ... if only her manners were as nimble as her hands," Cornelia said with a languid look at herself in the mirror.
Maid and mistress exchanged glances: Tess's, calm and apparently unruffled: Cornelia's, pouty and angry. The two debutantes rose to rejoin their partners and be announced by the butler to the dazzling assembly circling to the music of two orchestras in the glittering gold and white ballroom. Tess was on her own.
The night, as ball nights go, was in its infancy; Tess and hundreds of other attendants had a long wait ahead of them. The more seasoned of the maids had retired to quiet corners or to the servants' hall with their needlework, conserving their energy. The younger, livelier ones jockeyed for glimpses of the new arrivals and dissected their gowns with cruel deliberation. Tess, as usual, did not feel comfortable in either camp, and besides, her ankle, though better, was still painful.
For an hour or two she sat quietly, mulling over the future of the Morans, until at last an older maid, Mrs. Nevins, came up to her and said, "Tess, you look quite done in. Are you ill? Too much excitement?" She was a matronly woman, plump and kind and well liked, even by the younger, ruthless ones.
"I am a bit ... off, just now," Tess said with a tentative smile.
"You come with me, my dear. A cup of tea and a breath of air is what you need."
Tess, limping slightly, let herself be led downstairs; the idea of tea sounded irresistible.
"You ought to have that ankle wrapped, you know," Mrs. Nevins said after Tess explained the coach accident.
Tess refused, but Mrs. Nevins was unimpressed. Her satchel contained repairs for any emergency, and she produced a bandage and a collapsible tin cup. "Now wrap the spot up snugly—go on, right over your hose is fine. And while you're doing that, I'll get you tea."
Tess did as she was told—it was heavenly, being attended to, for once—and in a few minutes Mrs. Nevins had her settled in nicely on a long bench of pine in a quiet corner of the servants' hall, sipping tea.
"I'll return your cup when I'm done," Tess promised as the woman took her leave.
She's a saint, Tess thought. Something about her reminded Tess of Lady Meller, and tears of homesickness welled in her eyes. She did not want to be stared at, so she took her little tin cup of tea and slipped outside for a little air. Although most of the footmen were out in the Vanderbilt stables with the coachmen exchanging stories, a dozen or so of the bolder maids and younger men were lounging near the servants' entrance, laughing and flirting in the dark.
Tess stood a little away from them, nursing her hurt, nursing her sense of injustice. She despised herself for giving in to self-pity, but still the tears welled. Amid the gaiety around her, her tears seemed unbearably stupid; she brushed them away angrily. It's my time of month, that's all 'tis. It's true, what they say; it is a curse.
When she brought herself under control and looked up, he was there: talking to a footman, being pointed in her direction. Even in the dark there was no mistaking him, or escaping him. Quite irrationally, the thought that he was pursuing her left her devastated. One of Mr. Pearson's foxes might have felt the same as it found itself trapped in a rotted log, the sound of barking dogs clamoring in its ears.
"Ah, there you are, Tess," Hillyard said pleasantly. "What an elusive sprite you can be. I've inquired everywhere after you."
"Is your room not perfectly in order then, sir?" she asked dryly.
"I didn't deserve that, Tess. His voice was calm but slightly annoyed.
"In that case, sir, please accept my apology. Naturally I assumed that any inquiries on your part would be of a professional nature." She had drunk the last of her tea; now, with great deliberation, she collapsed the tin cup down, down on itself.
"Well, you assumed wrong. My inquiries are of a simple, humanitarian nature. Good God, Tess—Diamond Jim Brady doesn't get his dukes up as quickly as you! Now: is your ankle any better or not, dammit?"
There was such frustrated good will in his tone that Tess was barely able to keep the smile out of her voice as she answered, "Well—not to say worse, sir. I think it's better. I'm standing here with you, after all."
She was standing there with him. Not only did Tess not feel any pain, she felt suddenly a little lightheaded and free-floating besides.
"I'm delighted, Tess—on both counts."
The aroma of good cigars clung to his jacket. His dark hair was smooth, unmussed. Somehow he did not have the look of a man who had spent the last two hours in compulsive merriment; that pleased Tess, somehow.
"Is the dancing as splendid as the Vanderbilt's new 'cottage,' sir?"
"You're asking the wrong man, Tess. I've scarely noticed. It's just another ball," he added. "Same orchestras; same roses; same silly cotillion danced by the same frivolous debutantes. Same family fortunes being compared and merged. Same idleness. Same emptiness."
"Same shortage of men, sir?" she asked mischievously. It was a notorious problem at Newport balls.
"Ah, Tess, you've hit on it there. They may not need me to break any hearts, but they damn well need me to keep the ballgowns twirling."
Surprised at his bitterness, she said, "And yet there seem to be a great many naval officers present."
"Ah, yes, the military. Neat, precise; can be counted on to smile pleasantly and round out the guest list—same class of fellow as me."
"You're being very hard on yourself, sir."
"Not nearly hard enough. I shouldn't even be here," he said flatly.
"Oh, I know, sir," she agreed, misinterpreting his remark. "It was very kind of you to inquire about my—" She paused to remember which part of her had been injured, it seemed so long ago. "—my ankle; but of course I understand."
"No, no—not here with you. I mean I shouldn't even be in Newport. It's an absurd, irritating town: a matriarchal society, run by and for women."
"Excuse me, sir. 'Matriar ....'"
<
br /> "The men in Newport society, Tess, have neither dignity nor, for all I know, the right to vote. That's what 'matriarchal' means. It's demeaning to move about in such company. And the women here are insufferable: insensitive, callous. Shockingly ignorant. Inarticulate."
"Why do you stay on, then?" she asked, taken aback. It was fashionable to speak of boredom with one's set; but this ....
He shrugged. "I stay because people ask me to. I've been with various acquaintances—I dare not call them 'friends' after that little diatribe—for the last several weeks. But it's pointless to stay on. I've been invited to New York to view the America's Cup races next month, but since there is no greater abomination than wallowing aimlessly in the ocean as part of a spectator fleet, I think I'll pass. I'll probably finish out the season in Saratoga."
"Oh. You have a house there?"
"I have a friend there."
"Oh. Are ... are the ladies in Saratoga so much more clever than in Newport, then?"
She had not meant the question to amuse him, but apparently it did, because he tapped her nose lightly with his forefinger and said, "In a strange way they are, lass. There is less hypocrisy. The men have their horses and their women-friends and—well, their amusements, in short. And their wives either put up with it or they don't set foot in the resort."
"Does that mean that Saratoga is pa ... patriar-chal?" she ventured timidly.
His dark eyes lifted over a smile. "Right you are, Tess."
"Mrs. Winward would never go there then, I suppose," she said wistfully. Mrs. Winward was definitely matriarchal.
He laughed out loud, which made the footmen's heads turn and Tess blush a shade of red nearly as deep as her hair.
"Out of the mouths of babes ..." Hillyard began. "Ah, Tess, you're a southwest breeze, fresh and cool from the ocean. I'd love to stay and talk to you all night, but I dare not miss the next cotillion." He pulled out a gold watch on a fob and angled it toward a lighted window. "Oh damn, late! Hell to pay now. Tess—" He took Tess's hand, and she yanked it away instantly, which made him laugh again. "A true sou'wester, you are. I must talk to you again. Soon. I'm delighted you don't hurt anymore. Good night."
By The Sea, Book One: Tess Page 5