Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “The duke is paying me a pretty penny,” she replied

  “I don’t think that’s the only reason,” Penelope said, picking up the tea cup.

  Madame glanced at her in surprise, “Is that your intuition talking or your intelligence? I suspect the latter … Now, to answer your question, I am helping you for three reasons. Firstly, the duke is truly paying me a handsome sum to order you about. Secondly, I feel sorry for girls like you that have to marry to improve their situation. A spinster leads a dreadful life being constantly dependent on the goodwill of others. And lastly, turning you into a lady is a challenge. I was intrigued.”

  Penelope nodded and dashed a hand across her tired watering eyes.

  “Don’t cry, it will make your eyes red and you cannot afford to look more terrible. Slather your face in some of the rose essence I gave you before you come down.”

  Penelope choked out a laugh and forced herself out of the warm, cozy bed. She felt better after splashing water on her face. And now that the shock had worn off and she knew what to expect, the day ahead didn’t seem so bad.

  ***

  The Blue Room had been altered. The furniture had been pushed to one side to make an empty space in the middle. Penelope could now admire the thick powder blue carpet with its swirly cream design in its entire glory. A giant pianoforte had been brought in from the music room on Madame’s demand, and it now sat in a corner dwarfing the fireplace.

  “Dancing is an art, an art that allows a woman to subtly attract a man’s attention to her figure. It is not important who you dance with but who is watching you dance. A tiny movement of the hip and a delicate sway of the body can create fantasies in a man’s mind, while keeping the woman’s respectability intact,” Madame Bellafraunde said, rising from a chair in the corner.

  Penelope awkwardly bent her knee to curtsy and Madame scowled.

  “Dancing is for elegant creatures who have mastered the basics. Change of plans, my dears,” Madame said turning to her maids, “we need to teach the girl the basics. We shall begin with the entrance. Leave the room, Miss Fairweather.”

  “Leave?” she squeaked.

  “Yes, yes, leave. Go on out, out over the other side of the door … That’s it. Now, as soon as your name is announced at a ball, every eye in the room will turn towards you and you must make good use of those moments. You will step into the room with your head held high, your hand delicately clasping the gentleman’s arm, or if you are in company of only women, then keep your fan closed and hold your skirt with one hand, while the other should be gently holding your reticule … Don’t mangle the bag, girl … Here, this is how to do it.”

  Penelope faithfully copied Madame.

  “Keep your mind blank and pretend that you are a princess and everyone standing before you is wearing pink bloomers.”

  Penelope giggled, “I would probably laugh if I thought that.”

  “Your stomach will be full of butterflies. Laughter will be the furthest thing from your mind. Even if you do laugh, then it will make you appear confident.”

  Madame spent the next two hours teaching her how to gracefully walk into ballrooms, dinners and tea parties. She was even taught the correct method of ascending and descending from a carriage in the most ladylike manner.

  “It is almost seven. We will take a break for tea. After that, we will work on your curtsy. It is complicated and your knees will hurt from all the bending, but the result,” she said kissing the tips of her fingers, “will be exquisite. You will charm the ton with your entrance, and the moment you curtsy you will be labelled a refined lady. Thereafter, all you have to do is keep your mouth shut and we will have you wed before you know it.”

  It was past nine o’ clock before Penelope was excused for breakfast. She swallowed her slice of buttered toast and gulped down the hot chocolate. Thereafter, she was back in the Blue Room for her next lesson, the one she had been looking forward to all morning— dancing.

  Penelope entered the room and found Madame surrounded by a number of fans. Some were shot in silk, while others were patterned, painted, carved from ivory, or plucked from assorted birds and glued together.

  Her heart sank in disappointment and Madame smiled. “This is for another time, Miss Fairweather. I haven’t forgotten my promise to teach you dancing after breakfast. I am assuming by the eager look on your face that you are good at it?”

  “I like dancing. As for how good I am, only you can judge. I have only danced in small village gatherings before.”

  “How is your ankle fairing?”

  “It is much better. A slight twinge now and then, but I will be alright. I can dance.”

  “Positions,” Madame barked and two maids ran to the centre of the room and stood facing each other. Penelope went and joined them facing a third maid.”

  “You know what this is?”

  “Cotillion, the dance of debutants.” Penelope replied.

  “Very good. Rose, show us your skills and play us a tune on the piano. Now we dance! Very good … Now change the figure … Change again … Flash that petticoat. Very good … More petticoat … Step, step, step, flash that petticoat … Step, step, dip and twirl … Stop.”

  “Miss Fairweather, I had such hopes. And if I look at your face I see delight and confidence that is generally lacking in your manner, but if I dare glance at your feet, I can scarce control my tears. Have you ever danced the Cotillion?”

  “Yes in the—”

  “Village. I know you said. You are quick with your feet, so this may not prove to be so difficult. Here, watch me.”

  Madame Bellafraunde stepped into the centre of the room and chose the tallest maid to partner with. She waved a hand at Rose, who commenced playing the piano. She then dipped, twirled and glided around the floor. Her feet seemed to barely touch the ground as she flew across the room in time with the music.

  “Madame,” Penelope said, her eyes round in awe. “You are a wonderful dancer. I also think that you would make a very good burglar. You are so light on your feet that you could easily scale walls, tiptoe into bedrooms, and steal all the jewels, and no one would know. ”

  Madame stopped dancing. She hmmphed, but a small pleased smile flitted across her face. “Now you try,” she said in a more genial mood. “Very good. Another hour and we would have succeeded in mastering the first dance.”

  “An hour for one dance?”

  “Strive for perfection. I know we are going a little slow but that can’t be helped. Perhaps we can work all night. I will have to have a word with the dowager.”

  The pleasure of dancing nicely ruined for Penelope, she hopped, skipped and jumped to the merry tunes. Step, step was interspersed with flashes of ankles, wrists and petticoats.

  At eleven the dowager and Lady Anne joined them, which livened up the Blue Room. With every new style, Penelope became more confident. She just had to tone down her enthusiasm and try and be more sensual. Her approach softened and she soon learned to sway to the music, letting it run through her body. Her ankle ached, but she didn’t care. For the first time since Madame’s arrival she started enjoying her lessons.

  “Now we come to the Waltz. The dance made for lovers, where you will embrace a man for the first time in full view of the public. If you succeed in doing it right, you can trap any man into marriage if he takes your fancy.”

  “The Waltz, but that’s scandalous,” Penelope gasped.

  “Waltz is all the rage nowadays, and the dowager will get the permission for you from the patronesses of Almack’s. Now stop blushing like a simpleton and stand up. Lady Anne, could I trouble you to organise a man for us that knows how to waltz?”

  Lady Anne left with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that Penelope noticed with dread. Her misgivings turned out to be correct when the duke entered the room. Lady Anne must have shed more tears on her behalf, it seemed. Lady Anne, she concluded, was entirely vexing.

  Penelope’s agitation was momentarily forgotten when the dowager excused herself c
onfessing she was tired after all the excitement of the afternoon. Her forehead creased with worry as she watched the dowager depart.

  “I am glad you approve, your grace. It has only been a day and I see you have noticed an improvement in my young student here,” Madame observed.

  Penelope’s eyes shot to the duke’s face, startled to catch him staring at her.

  Noticing her regard, he quickly looked away.

  “Her cheeks are flushed becomingly and her eyes brighter and larger. It is a wonder what a few pots of lotions can achieve,” Madame commented drily.

  Penelope turned vermillion and stared at her feet. She wondered at Madame’s compliment. Her dress was old, her stockings ancient, and her slippers prehistoric.

  She was unaware that her old morning gown had aged to a becoming cream, the material softening with years of use and moulding to her figure perfectly. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled from all the dancing. While the sunlight gleaming through the windows made her look delicate, soft and inviting.

  The duke clenched his fist and muttered for the whole bloody thing to begin quickly.

  “Music,” Madame said softly, and the duke stepped up and took Penelope in his arms.

  They began the first few steps and Madame’s husky voice spoke in time with the music,

  “The man leads and the woman follows. Miss Fairweather, a woman in the arms of a man she loves loses her sense of belonging. She forgets the audience, the steps and the music. Instead, a mist descends over her mind clouding her judgement, making her aware of touch, scent and raging emotions. All she can hear is her own heartbeat.”

  Penelope, dancing in the duke’s arms, could not hear a word of what Madame said. Her eyes were locked on the duke, her mind focused on the spot where his hands were touching her waist. His touch almost tickled, and she would have giggled if other complex feelings had not been running through her simultaneously.

  “You did not ask me to lead, your grace?” Madame asked, watching the couple circle the room.

  “You are more ladylike than a lot of women of my acquaintance, Madame,” the duke replied.

  Penelope, momentarily shaken out of her fog, looked over at Madame, who was blushing in pleasure. She hadn’t been aware the duke was capable of charm.

  “Keep your eyes locked on the duke, Miss,” Madame corrected.

  Penelope forced her lashes to lift back up and look into his inky blue eyes. Her stomach flipped.

  “Should I call you Madame or …” the duke asked, wrenching his eyes away from Penelope.

  “Madame will do,” she replied hastily.

  “But I know …”

  “Concentrate on the steps, your grace, and look at Miss Fairweather. Why are you trying to distract yourself from the lovely girl in your arms?”

  The duke reluctantly brought his eyes back to Penelope.

  After a moment, Madame asked, “Are you thinking of your grandmother, your grace?”

  The duke stopped dancing.

  “How did you …?” he spluttered.

  “I know men,” Madame replied smugly.

  “Why were you thinking of Grandmother?” Lady Anne spoke up.

  The duke looked embarrassed, and noticing Penelope’s baffled face, he abruptly stepped back.

  “Enough of this nonsense. I don’t care if you promise me a month of no tears, Annie. I am not getting involved in her training. I am sorry, Madame, but I have just recalled some urgent business. Please excuse me.”

  Penelope shared a confused look with Lady Anne. What in the world had made the duke run out in such a hurry, and why was Madame looking pleased? And how was the duke’s departed grandmother involved?

  Lady Anne followed the duke out to get some answers while Madame took pity on Penelope.

  “Miss Fairweather, when a man holds a desirable woman in his arms, he thinks of his grandmother. It helps dampen his baser instincts.”

  “The duke thinks I am desirable?” Penelope asked in disbelief.

  “Men find all girls in skirts desirable depending on their mood. A man need not love to make love.”

  Penelope blushed and avoided Madame’s eye.

  “You danced the Waltz well enough. I think you deserve a few hours rest. Practice on your own in the evening before supper. And, Miss Fairweather, keep an eye on the dowager. I don’t think she felt very well this afternoon. She barely touched her meal.”

  “Madame Bellafraunde, what shall I learn tomorrow?”

  “A woman’s weapon.”

  Fans, Penelope thought. It had to be.

  “Very good, Miss Fairweather. Tomorrow’s lesson is the language of fans, the importance of parasols, and the art of polite conversation.”

  Penelope blinked. Madame was sometimes uncanny in her mind reading abilities.

  “I don’t read minds, I simply observe better than others,” Madame said, waving goodbye to the open mouthed Penelope.

  Chapter 13

  “Choose your weapon.”

  Penelope stood staring at the colourful array of fans lying on the couch. Her hand hovered over the peacock feather and the ruby satin, but finally her eye was caught by a simple oriental silk fan with a mother of pearl handle. She picked it up and was pleased to see that Madame approved of her choice.

  “Positions, ladies.”

  The maids formed a line in front of the long table, each one holding a fan. Penelope went and joined them.

  “Do you know the basics?”

  “Yes,” Penelope said uncertainly.

  “Very good, now follow my commands. Place your fans.”

  Penelope watched the maids gently lay the fans down on the table and she did the same.

  “Up,” Madame roared.

  The girls picked up their fans with a flick of a wrist.

  “Unfurl,” came the cry.

  The fans were opened with a crack akin to a pistol shot.

  Penelope fumbled. Her fan had not made that sound, but it seemed everyone else’s had.

  “Throw,” was the next shout and Penelope quickly tossed the fan onto the table.

  “Up … and flutter, flutter, flutter,” screeched Madame

  Penelope fluttered.

  “Down, and stop.”

  Madame wiped her brow and glared at Penelope.

  “You know the commands, but the execution … Miss Fairweather, the fan, this beautiful creation, is meant to keep our hands occupied, cool our heated skin, hide our blushes, help brush over awkward situations, communicate secret messages, but most of all it is a weapon whose breeze should be strong enough to send a man flying through the air, the sound scare a murderous bandit, and its beauty entrance a beloved. What you did was shameful, an embarrassment to all the women in England. You have disrespected our only weapon.”

  Penelope hung her head, her eyes falling on the object in question. She guiltily acknowledged that she had always considered the fan a silly foppery, something that was a bother to hold and carry around.

  Madame sighed and collapsed back on her seat. “Tea. I need some refreshment after this latest debacle.”

  It was two hours before Madame recovered. The dowager, looking a little pale, joined them as did Lady Anne. The three of them spent the entire day teaching Penelope the nuances of diplomacy, the language of fans, and the correct way to unfurl and place a parasol.

  “Do not speak about anything other than the weather. Remember, if you feel nervous, imagine the person you are conversing with in pink bloomers and nothing else,” Madame advised.

  “Encourage the other person to speak about themselves. Ask about their health if you have to speak … say at a dinner table. Divide your attention equally between the two people seated on either side of you,” the dowager suggested.

  “I will stay by your side during every social gathering. I will guide you. Don’t worry if a situation we haven’t dealt with today arises,” Lady Anne comforted.

  Penelope nodded weakly, her brain full of advice, admonishments and warnings. Her h
ead therefore ached dreadfully by the time she retired for bed. Even Mary’s sassafras tea didn’t help ease the pain. She tossed and turned all night. How was she to remember everything? The dancing, the fan and the rules of polite society? She knew it was hopeless, half of it was already forgotten.

  That night her dreams were vivid. She dreamt of fans wearing pink bloomers scolding her for eating the head of an exquisite biscuit sculpture. Then the fans morphed into nameless lords and ladies that ordered her to dance for the duke. And all of a sudden she was no longer in control of her feet, as they capered about the room on their own. The duke, sitting upon a golden throne, smiled derisively, and the ladies started laughing and pointing at her … She looked down at her clothes and found herself wearing a tattered grey dress splashed with dirt. The dress was slowly disintegrating and her dancing feet were shoeless.

  She woke up groggy and depressed.

  ***

  The duke too had woken up in a foul mood. Sleep had been fitful since the day that blasted woman had arrived. He lay in bed staring up at the ornate ceiling and scratched his ear, his right ear, the same ear that she had pinched and mauled.

  From the moment he had set eyes on her she had irked him. She, the inconsequential country fodder, had tried to warm his bed. He had won that round, he thought smiling. Put her in her place and soundly frightened her.

  His thoughts turned gloomy. She had somehow won his mother’s and sister’s support. He had been forced to let her stay, even after the drinking debacle. She was a clever player. All his attempts at sending her packing were failing, and he never failed. Her village must have some masterminds to produce such an ingenious, evil specimen. His ego was bruised. He had been proven wrong again and again. Her ankle had truly been sprained. Whether in an honest accident or by design, he wasn’t sure. But the point was that he felt like a fool, and he had looked like a fool in front of his mother and sister.

  He slammed his hand on the bed. In the Blue Room he had found her naked. He paused. Well, almost naked. She had been wearing bloomers, stockings and a corset. A sudden picture of her without the bloomers, stockings and corset rose in his mind. He growled low and deep. He had danced with her and she had appeared different … and smelt of roses. He frowned.