A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  I leaned closer to the mirror and turned my head to the side. She had rolled my hair into sections and pinned them along my head. The back of my hair was coiled into a bun and pinned high on my head. It was very feminine, very romantic, but it looked like it was more suited to a Greek statue.

  The weight of my hair dragged at my scalp, and I put my hand up to loosen it a bit. Bailey sucked in her breath and took a step forward, her hands outstretched. Mindful of how long it had taken her to create the hairstyle, I dropped my hands into my lap.

  A pin poked at my scalp, and while Bailey turned to the material on the bed, I quickly pulled the offending thing away and flicked it behind my dressing table.

  But the hair ordeal was a gift compared to what unfolded next. Bailey stood waiting, holding a long-boned coutil laced corset.

  I did not own such a garment. As a matter of propriety I had worn an unboned bodice since I was twelve. I should have begun wearing a boned corset at fourteen, but my first visit to my mother’s corsetiere had been a disaster. The moment the garment was tightened about my waist, a feeling of confinement washed over me. I shamed myself and started crying right then and there in the shop. My mother had been so mortified that she had had to find herself another corsetiere. She had not repeated the exercise since and left me to remain in my bodice. Until now.

  “That is not mine,” I said.

  “Your mother wishes you to wear this.” She held the corset out and waited for me to stand.

  I remained sitting. “I’m not wearing that. I’m telling you now. I’m not overly fond of corsets.”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but your mother says. And you won’t get into this dress of hers without it. You won’t fit.”

  “How will I sit with the corset going so low down my legs? It’s impossible.”

  “The same way your mother does. You’ve seen her sat down, haven’t you? Now come on, Miss Darling.” The look on her face belied the calmness of her voice. I knew that if her position had allowed her to, she would have screeched at me.

  I sighed and stood up. What did it matter how I dressed? If this was what I had to do for marriage, then so be it. By September I could dress like an organ grinder’s monkey if I wanted.

  I held out my arms and Bailey slid the heavily boned corset over my combinations and around my waist and hips, latching the clasps in front, just under my bust. She began to lace the back, taking a strong tug with each new loop. The tie hissed as she pulled it through the holes. I grasped the pole of my four-poster bed to keep from being jerked off my feet as she worked her way down.

  “Dash it, Bailey, it’s awful tight!”

  I could hear the maid breathing in my ear. She was standing too close. I could smell the carbolic soap she washed with. I took a step forward to gain some space, but she followed. The walls in the room seemed to march a little inward with every tug.

  “Breathe from the top of your chest, Miss Darling,” Bailey instructed. “Not from the bottom. The boning’s what’s worrying you. And at supper, eat only small bites and very little, otherwise you will feel sick.”

  I did as she said but I couldn’t imagine how I would get through an entire evening in the corset. No wonder my mother took to her bed several times a day.

  “I don’t know how anyone can get on like this.” I tugged at the coutil fabric. My hips and waist were compressed so tightly that I felt as though I were in a straitjacket in a lunatic asylum.

  “You don’t need to get on. That’s what servants are for.”

  Bailey pulled a cotton camisole over my head and buttoned the front. Then she held out a pair of lace knickers for me to step into and tied the tapes at my waist. She laid a silk petticoat on the floor in a circle and held my arm as I stepped into the middle. She pulled that up and tied it.

  My mother had chosen for me one of her own gowns of pale pink silk over a darker pink taffeta. It had a square neckline and a narrow skirt with a small train. I raised my arms while Bailey lifted the garment over my head and did the long line of buttons up the back with a buttonhook.

  I looked in the mirror. A familiar image peered back at me.

  I resembled my mother.

  AT FIRST I did not recognize Edmund Carrick-Humphrey. For a fleeting moment I thought my mother was introducing me to his older brother or a cousin. I barely heard her say his name because I was looking around the room for the boy I remembered.

  “Victoria, where are your manners?” my mother hissed in my ear. “Do shake hands!”

  Startled, I put my hand out, and he bent over it.

  My father came into the sitting room, and my mother went to join him in greeting Edmund’s parents.

  All I could think was that university life had done much to change Edmund Carrick-Humphrey. His looks had altered from dull, nothing boy into a strikingly handsome one. He had grown taller and filled out—no more gangly limbs. His dark hair was Macassar-oiled back from his brow. He wore his tailcoat very well, carrying himself as if he were King Edward. For a moment, I wondered if Edmund would make a good art model, but my artistic sensibilities didn’t rise—still stuck on drawing PC Fletcher, apparently.

  He studied me, eyeing me as if I were a racehorse he had planned to place a wager upon.

  “Our parents have made a good match between us,” he said. “We’re a good-looking couple.” He turned me so that I stood next to him, reflected in the large mirror over the fireplace. “We will be the envy of all.”

  His arrogance was appalling, but he was so confident in the way he spoke that I laughed. He reminded me a little bit of Étienne.

  He tilted his head toward mine, watching our reflections in the mirror. “My father has dreadful taste, so I was doubtful when he said he knew the perfect girl for me. But then I remembered who you were. I don’t think you remember me. I was all spots and big feet then. Certainly nothing you would look at twice.”

  “I remember you as being . . . very polite.” I turned away from the mirror and sat down on the settee. Edmund sat next to me. The scent of his cologne wafted over. It was spicy and masculine, a mix of sandalwood and leather.

  “That is very kind of you. I suppose polite is one way of putting it. Terribly shy and deadly dull is how I would put it.”

  The door creaked open and a girl came in. She was maybe sixteen. She was dressed in a blue lace gown with a square neckline. A large velvet ribbon held her hair at the back of her neck, but some strands had escaped and were hanging round her face. The messy hairstyle made her look charming in a slightly mad way.

  She perched on a chair across from us. “So you’re the wicked girl I’ve heard so much about.”

  Edmund looked at her in exasperation. “May I introduce my dear sister, India Carrick-Humphrey. Indy, say hello to Miss Darling, and keep those claws of yours sheathed.”

  “Taking your clothes off in front of a group of men.” She studied me for a moment. “How peculiar.”

  “It was in an art class,” I said.

  “Must have been awfully drafty!” She wandered over to the fireplace and began to inspect the bric-a-brac on the mantel.

  “Indy, do shut up,” Edmund said, crossing over to the side table. His hand paused over the bottles. “What would you like?”

  “Gin sling, please,” India piped. She picked up my mother’s Staffordshire horse and trotted him along the mantelpiece.

  “There doesn’t appear to be any sugar here,” Edmund said, scanning the contents of the table. “Gin and lemon will have to do.” He handed India a glass. “Very watered down, or dear old Dad will have my head. And you?” he asked me.

  “Drinks before dinner?”

  “Not drinks. Cocktails. It’s the new American thing, haven’t you heard? All the smart hotels are serving them.”

  “Sounds beguiling, but not just now, thank you.” There were too many unknowns to this dinner—corset, new go
wn and hairstyle, unfamiliar fiancé and his family—to add another thing to the mix, as fascinating as a cocktail seemed.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. You need to experience the joy that is the cocktail.” He looked over the table again. “Hm, what mayhem shall we create . . . ?”

  “Do her a flash-of-lightning, Edmund,” India said.

  “Mixers are thin on the ground here, Indy. We need gingerette and red-currant syrup for that.”

  “A bosom-caresser, then!” India said, collapsing in gales of laughter.

  “Steady on! That requires an egg.”

  “I don’t think our drinks tray is very well equipped,” I said. “My father doesn’t go in for such modern concoctions. I’m afraid he’s a bit old-fashioned in many ways.”

  Edmund lifted a decanter and sniffed the contents. “Why muck up this quality brandy with such fripperies, anyhow.” He poured two glasses and held one out to me. “Might as well start out as we mean to go on, hey?”

  I hesitated for a moment and then took the glass. One drink wouldn’t hurt. The woodsy, smoky scent of the liquor was strong. I took a drink like it was lemonade, which turned out to be a big mistake. The brandy seared its way down my throat, leaving a burning trail behind. I gasped. My eyes watered. “It’s like drinking fire.”

  Edmund and India laughed.

  “For God’s sake, woman, don’t throw it back like that,” Edmund said. “You’re only meant to sip it!”

  “You should see the look on your face!” India chimed in with a tinkling laugh. “Hilarious!”

  I tried to hand the glass to Edmund, but he pushed it back. “Don’t give up. Have another. This time go easy.”

  I took a little sip. It was still fiery, but not as much.

  Edmund studied me. “Nice, isn’t it? Brandy is nectar of the gods.”

  At that moment, I couldn’t have agreed more.

  I smiled, and touched my glass to his.

  Our parents never joined us in the drawing room, most likely thrashing out the details of the engagement. So while we waited for dinner to be served, Edmund regaled his sister and me with stories of university and all the high jinks the boys there got up to, pausing every so often to top up our glasses. It all seemed quite hilarious and I found myself in fits of giggles several times.

  “Good lord, Edmund. She’s tiddly,” I heard India hiss at Edmund after some time. “Papa will blame you, you know that?”

  “As if I give a toss what he thinks.”

  Half an hour later the gong sounded for dinner and we stood up. My mother’s potted palms waved back and forth as if a tropical breeze had blown through. And the floor felt as though it had tilted to one side. I hadn’t realized I had drunk so much. India was right. I was tiddly. I staggered, and Edmund caught my hand. He laughed. “Steady there, Victoria.” I gripped his arm as we walked to the dining room.

  I giggled and slapped his arm. “You are so funny.”

  “Shhhh!” India said to me. “Keep your voice down. You’ll get us all in trouble.”

  “No, you shhhhh, China Carrick-Humphrey.” I jabbed my finger at her.

  “I’m India!” she said.

  “Well, they’re both in Asia!” Edmund pointed out helpfully.

  I burst into laughter.

  Mamma had placed Edmund and me together at dinner. We sat down, and Edmund grinned at me as if we shared a wicked secret.

  Our footman began to serve dinner. I concentrated very hard on appearing normal, but it was most tiring. At one point I gave up altogether, set my elbow on the table, and rested my chin on my hand for a moment.

  Edmund leaned over. “Try to eat something, Miss Darling. It will help sop up some of the brandy,” he whispered.

  As dinner wore on, my brandied haze abated a little bit. The dinner conversation was as dull as usual, with topics restricted to the weather and the latest plays in Drury Lane. My father, thrilled with having a Knight Bachelor in our own home, nodded and smiled at everything Sir Henry said, at one point even agreeing with his good opinion of the king, of whom I knew my father heartily disapproved, usually saying his lifestyle, especially the flaunting of his mistresses, was louche and not befitting his royal station. The road to a royal warrant was paved with much arse-kissing. I laughed out loud at the thought.

  My father shot a look at me.

  “Quite the bon vivant, quite so.” Sir Henry continued his appraisal of the king, his long walrus mustache quivering.

  Sir Henry may have behaved as though he were royalty himself, but he was nothing more than a parvenu. He had climbed his way up the industrial ladder, like my father had, sold his steam-powered flour mills for scads of money, double-barreled his name, and acted as though he were to the manor born. The recent knighting from King Edward for achievements in food production no more made Sir Henry a gentleman than tying a ribbon round a hen’s neck made her a lady. Besides, he was just a Knight Bachelor, so the title would die with him rather than passing on to one of his sons.

  “It’s good we have a monarch with a zest for life,” Sir Henry went on. “I never approved of Queen Victoria shutting herself away on the Isle of Wight. No, I did not.”

  My father had shaped his mouth into what looked like a smile. I frowned. My father was behaving like he had no spine. My father always flew at anyone who cast aspersions on our late queen.

  My mother smiled wanly and played with her diamond-teardrop earring.

  I felt Edmund’s hand drop upon my knee under the table. I darted a look at him. He stared ahead, an innocent expression upon his face. I bit back a giggle.

  “Did your Frederick attend university?” Sir Henry asked, and then went on, not bothering to wait for my father to answer. “Oxford has been the making of my youngest son here.” He gestured to Edmund with his fork.

  Edmund turned toward his father. A slow flush began to spread up his neck.

  “Before university he was nothing but a milksop,” Sir Henry continued. “Wouldn’t say boo to a goose!” He paused to shovel potted shrimp into his mouth. “Tied to his mother’s apron strings, he was. Nothing like his brother, Jonty.”

  Edmund glared, his jaw tight, but his father did not seem to notice. Edmund’s fingers played with his knife, as if he would dearly love to plunge it into his father. His hand squeezed my knee hard. I tried to pull away, but he only increased his grip.

  His mother, a tiny birdlike woman, chimed in. “Actually, my son was quite ill when he was a child and he—”

  Sir Henry made a noise and held up his hand. “Don’t interrupt.”

  Lady Carrick-Humphrey bit her lip and stared at her plate, her knife and fork frozen in place.

  India looked from her mother to Edmund with an anxious expression.

  “Had no hopes for him, no sir,” Sir Henry went on. “But now, thank the Lord, he’s changed into a man. Better late than never. You must make sure he learns the lesson of hard work when he joins your firm, Mr. Darling. Don’t want him falling back into bad habits.”

  “Of course,” Papa replied. “It is every father’s wish for his child to find his place in the world.”

  Sir Henry glowered at Edmund. “He’s been indulged for too long.”

  There was pain on Edmund’s face. But quick as a flash, it was replaced by bravado. It was as if he had practiced that look a thousand times in his bureau mirror. I knew that feeling. I knew what it was like to be the misfit in the family. I reached under the table and slowly set my hand on his. He turned his hand up and gathered my fingers into his cold palm.

  “Edmund’s in the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race in April,” India blurted out. “Did you know that, Miss Darling?”

  “I didn’t.” I was grateful that India had changed the subject. “How impressive, Mr. Carrick-Humphrey.” The annual boat race was a famous event and had been going on a very long time, since 1829.
On the day, thousands of spectators crowded the banks of the Thames from Putney to Mortlake to watch the heavyweight eights from Oxford and Cambridge race each other in their tiny, fragile boats, vying for the fastest current and often clashing their oars together in their fight for the lead. Anyone rowing in the race had his name put down in the history books.

  “I’ll be rowing in the stroke position,” Edmund said. “You must come and watch. India will be there. I’ll send a motorcar round.”

  India’s announcement of Edmund’s success seemed to have stopped Sir Henry’s bashing of his son. But peace did not reign for long. Over dessert, the conversation took a turn toward the suffragettes at Parliament, especially the events of the previous day.

  “I cannot believe these women. What could they be thinking?” Mother said, setting her wineglass onto the table with an indignant tap. “The Daily Bugle said one woman chained herself to a railing. What a disgraceful way to behave.”

  I stared at Mamma. If only she knew.

  “I heard the police gave them a damn good thrashing,” Sir Henry said. “Serves them right.”

  I thought about the way PC Fletcher had treated the suffragettes. Even though he was tasked to move them along, he allowed them their dignity. Sir Henry and Mamma were scornfully dismissing them out of hand. “They have a right to their opinion, surely,” I said, feeling the need to defend them in absentia, as PC Fletcher had done in person.

  “It’s unladylike and shocking behavior,” Sir Henry replied firmly. “Our government is using good judgment. The vote should not be given to women when they turn to violence and prove themselves to be unworthy of it. This type of behavior is exactly what I predicted would happen when women joined such organizations. It quite undoes them. No sensible person would ever agree to women’s suffrage. Never.”

  “Voting would add to our responsibilities,” Lady Carrick-Humphrey put in. “That would be such a cruel thing to ask of women.”

  Sir Henry beamed. “Well said, my dear!”