A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “RREMEMBER TO HOLD your train over your left arm,” Mamma said. “Say nothing to the king unless he addresses you. Curtsy to him and the queen and then to any of the royalty around him, then back away, curtsying as you go. For heaven’s sake, Victoria, do not turn your back on the king. Remember that most of all.” My mother looked dismayed, as if she were picturing me greeting the king by waving my entire arm back and forth like a semaphore flag, shouting, “Cheerio!” and then lifting my skirts to my knees and skipping from the room like the Dame in a Christmas pantomime.

  “Yes, of course, Mamma.”

  We were on the way to Buckingham Palace in the motorcar Father had hired, finally bowing to my mother’s insistence that we embrace the new style of transportation, at least for one night.

  I looked out the window. The traffic to the ball queued all the way down the Mall from Buckingham Palace. There were several police constables about, directing traffic. For a fleeting moment I thought I saw Will, but when the man turned around, I saw it was someone else.

  “And do try to look happy.” Mamma tapped her closed fan on my knee. “This is the most important day of a well-bred young woman’s life, outside of her wedding day.”

  Yes, the most important day, because now we were marriage material. Now we were truly alive. Of course, if a girl did not find a husband after two seasons, she was considered a failure and doomed to remain on the shelf, forever a spinster.

  I shifted in my seat. “Yes, Mamma.” I pulled at my bodice. I was dressed in her white full-court coming-out dress that Sophie had refashioned to bring it up to date. A long train was attached to my shoulders with lace loops. The dress had cap sleeves; my shoulders and neck were bare as was custom. Despite the summer heat, I wore white opera gloves that fitted well past my elbows. Sophie had fixed two white ostrich-tail feathers in my hair, which marked me as an unmarried woman.

  My mother was also dressed in white, but her dress had a high collar and was trimmed with colored flowers. And as a married woman, my mother wore a trio of feathers, arranged in the symbol of the Prince of Wales’s plume and styled to the left side of her head. We both wore long veils and carried bouquets of roses.

  Sophie had had to lace me into the dreaded S-bend corset in order to fit into the wretched gown. I could feel the boning press into my ribs. The evening was sweltering hot, and it didn’t help that we were at a standstill.

  “Don’t fidget.”

  “I’m not fidgeting!”

  “Victoria, do try to look interested in what the other girls have to say.”

  “And speak to them of what? Hatpins and the weather? As if those are of any interest.”

  “Well, this is what society is like. This is how you will spend your evenings.”

  “Not if I can help it.” I tugged at the dress once more. I felt Mamma’s gaze on me.

  “Just how do you think your life will be?”

  “Doing what I want.” I turned from the window and looked at her. “I’ll be married and free to pursue what I want at my leisure.”

  “In the hour or two each day you have to yourself.” She held up her hand and began to tick down an activity on each finger. “You’ll have your at-homes and your visits to other ladies’ at-homes; you will have to host dinners for Edmund, and there will be many of those, seeing as he’s a new businessman. Luncheons out each day with the wives of Edmund’s friends and others in your social circle. Meetings with your cook and housekeeper to arrange the day’s menu.”

  I watched, horrified, as she moved on to her other hand. “But . . .” In the past several weeks it had taken all my will to submit the work I needed to the RCA. My time would be taken up all the more with these new social obligations.

  But why was I surprised? Had I not seen my own mother immersed in these activities from sunup to sundown?

  Was this the reason why she had abandoned her own artwork when I was a little girl? I imagined her drawing me as I tossed corn to the little bird. What was the final distraction that called her away from her drawing book that day? What had she felt when she laid her pencil down for the last time? Frustration? Anger? Or was it relief?

  I studied Mamma carefully to see if there were any signs of the artist left. She never once looked out of the motorcar’s window searching for a subject that caught her attention or inspired her, fingers curling around an imaginary pencil. Instead she sat still, posture perfect, head held high—a book could sit neatly on top with no danger of falling. Eyes were straight ahead toward Buckingham Palace, hands folded in her lap.

  My mother no longer saw the things only artists noticed, things other people would walk straight past, like the light dappling the trunk of a tree; a cat turning its whiskers to the sun, eyes closed in contentment; or the quiet contemplation of a person’s face as he sat reading. Instead she saw flaws. Things that were wrong with the house, with her embroidery or flower arranging. Things that were wrong with me.

  And then I understood. These were the things a frustrated artist would see.

  Suddenly my hands felt strange—restrained as if I wore a pair of manacles instead of silk opera gloves.

  THE MOTORCAR ARRIVED at the palace and drove into the Quadrangle. Footmen resplendent in scarlet velvet livery handed us from the car and escorted us to the Grand Entrance. Another footman led us up into the Green Drawing Room, where a buffet of canapés and drinks had been laid out on gold plate. An orchestra from one of the Guards regiments was playing music. Servants milled about offering crystal glasses of punch from trays. My mother went off to deliver our presentation cards to the Lord Steward.

  There was even more art than I’d realized. The green tabinet-covered walls of the Green Drawing Room were hung with huge paintings from the Renaissance era. Through the door I saw the work of Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Rubens hanging in the Picture Gallery.

  A crush of girls my age waited along with me, standing in groups, giggling and chatting. Like me they were adorned in white gowns and shoulder trains, tall plumes in their hair. I recognized many from my dance class and several from my French finishing school, but none paid me any mind, apart from a few whispers and pointed looks in my direction. I bit back the urge to poke my tongue out at them. Mercifully, Mildred Halfpenny was not there as she was a year behind me and would have her presentation next year.

  Excitement crackled in the air. This was the event that the girls had imagined all their lives. To meet the king and announce they were ready for marriage and society! What could be better?

  I stood by myself, dressed in my finery, holding a cup of punch, a false smile on my face, and wondered if this life was truly what these girls wanted. And if so, what satisfaction did they glean from it? I wondered what the tall girl with blonde ringlets and a haughty expression really desired. Did she long to be a ballerina or maybe a writer? What about that short, round girl with the rose-pink cheeks eyeing the French fancies? Did she desire to be a cook or a baker? Or the girl with her back to me, looking out the window. What did she wish to be?

  And then I realized that the long neck and the set of those shoulders were familiar; I had drawn that figure many times before. At that moment of recognition, the girl turned and saw me looking.

  There she was! Just as I had hoped. My dearest friend, Lily Northbrook.

  Her eyes widened.

  I set my punch cup down on a nearby table, and, picking up my skirts, threaded my way through the crowd of girls and footmen to her side. We grabbed each other’s hands, laughing, giddy with happiness.

  “Vicky Darling, how do you do?” Lily laced her fingers through mine.

  “Much better now I see your familiar face here.” I glanced around. “Everyone here acts as though I have a catching disease.”

  She smiled wryly. “How have you been? I have worried about you so. I saw Bertram before I left France, and he said he’d had a letter from you. I’m so sorry I haven’t wr
itten. My father made such a fuss.”

  “Yes, I know.” I was quiet. I didn’t know what else to say.

  The sound of heels approaching quickly on the marble floor interrupted our conversation. Those heels belonged to the very angry Lady Northbrook, Lily’s mother and my mother’s erstwhile friend. Her red face stood out against the backdrop of her white dress and veil. She did not share the sweet English rose features that Lily had. Instead I rather thought she resembled the rose’s thorny stems: her nose was sharp and angular, her face pinched with disapproval.

  My mother came up just then; her face blanched at the sight of Lady Northbrook. She drew in her breath.

  “Mrs. Darling, we had an agreement regarding our daughters, did we not?” Lady Northbrook’s smile was polite, but there was an undercurrent of tension to the words. “And I will thank you to remember that. I know your social circle has turned the tide with some people but not with me.”

  “I understand, Lady Northbrook,” my mother murmured, looking mortified.

  “Things have changed greatly since Queen Victoria’s day.” Lady Northbrook addressed my mother, but her gaze flicked to me. “She only received young ladies who wore the white flower of a blameless life. King Edward does not possess such high standards.” Lady Northbrook held out her hand, fingers flickering at Lily. “Come away then, Lily.”

  Before her mother had a chance to pull her away, Lily leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  It was clear that my mother was upset and humiliated by Lady Northbrook’s tirade. She looked as though she might burst into tears. Several people nearby had heard the exchange, and there was much whispering from behind fans.

  I pictured telling Lady Northbrook exactly what I thought about her. How dare she speak to my mother so? But I knew that would have only embarrassed my mother further. So instead I fetched her a cup of punch and stood in front of her, shielding her from the pointing fingers while she drank it.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Plimpton came in with her daughter Georgette. I don’t think I was ever so grateful to see two people in my life. My mother’s tension dispersed as soon as she was back in the safety of her own social circle.

  A footman came in and announced that the king was ready. We all followed him to the Throne Room, a huge room decorated in scarlet with an ornate gold-and-white rococo ceiling. I saw the king awaiting us, dressed in a red jacket with gold epaulets, standing underneath the Cloth of State; Queen Alexandra sat next to him; his lords-in-waiting stood to the side.

  I couldn’t help but think the king looked rather bored. I couldn’t blame him. Greeting girl after girl for hours on end was surely enough to drive even the most stoic monarch round the bend.

  I watched several debutantes go in front of me. When their names were called, their sponsors moved to stand at the back of the room. When it was my turn, Mamma let go of my arm and stood as far away from Lady Northbrook as she could.

  One of the lords-in-waiting let down my train, spreading it behind me. I stood alone for a moment, underneath the massive crystal chandelier, as the Lord Chamberlain announced my name. I took a deep breath and approached the king.

  Miss Winthrop had taught us to curtsy deeply so that we were nearly sitting upon the floor. I smiled demurely at the king, as I had been told to do, brought my left foot around behind my right, bent my knees, and sank to the floor while holding my bouquet over my right knee.

  But when Miss Winthrop had taught us, we had all been wearing dance skirts, not long, narrow gowns with a train, a veil, and a tight corset and holding a bouquet of flowers. So when I tried to rise, I found I could not. I had trodden on the back of my dress with the heel of my foot when I brought it round my other leg. I had effectively pinned myself to the ground. The skirt was far too narrow to move my feet; if I did so, I’d teeter to the ground. So I just stayed there.

  I heard feminine titters and giggles all around me. I could imagine the silent scream of horror that echoed through my mother’s head.

  I stared at the king’s ankles, unable to work out what to do next.

  “You may rise,” the king said.

  “I cannot, Your Majesty,” I whispered. “I’m stuck.”

  And then the king laughed, rose from his velvet chair, and reached for my hand.

  “Might I assist you, Miss Darling?”

  I untangled my legs, and with as much dignity as I could muster, rose to my feet with the king’s help. His whiskered face creased into a smile.

  “I . . . thank you, Your Majesty.” I went to curtsy again, but the king lifted his hand.

  “I think we should desist with the curtsy, don’t you? Otherwise you might find yourself wound round like a ball of twine again!” The king’s attendants broke into laughter.

  “Please forgive me, Your Majesty,” I said, feeling my face blush red with shame.

  “I shan’t forgive you,” he said in a gruff voice, “for you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve quite made my evening. Makes a change from the usual parade of utterly proper debutantes that parade in front of me year after year. They all look the same, but you—you I shall remember! Who is your family?”

  “My father is the proprietor of Darling and Son Sanitary Company, maker of the dreadnought flushing toilet, Your Majesty.” I winced when the word toilet left my lips. I was about to apologize when he laughed and then spoke again:

  “Well. Mr. Darling of Darling and Son Sanitary Company, maker of the dreadnought privy, is fortunate to have such a charming daughter.” And then he took my hand and kissed it.

  Gasps rose from all around me. The kissing of the hand had been done away with in the court presentation when Queen Victoria had died. She had only bestowed her kiss upon those girls deemed worthy of it. For King Edward to do so was tantamount to him stamping acceptable on my forehead in indelible ink.

  I didn’t have to worry about backing away from the king because he held out his arm and escorted me to the door. My mother had an expression of astonishment on her face. Lady Northbrook looked as though she had swallowed a cactus. Lily’s face was bright red from the effort of trying not to laugh. And she had that familiar expression in her eyes that I knew so well: exasperation mixed with affection.

  In the motorcar on the way home, my mother was beset with a case of the giggles. I had never seen her laugh so much in my life. She’d shake her head, look at me, and then titter. She had a musical laugh, three little trills: ha, ha, ha!

  “I tell you, Victoria. I’ve never seen Lady Northbrook so tongue-tied in my life. She’s always been such a stuck-up thing, thinking herself better than most people. I must confess that I nearly caught my shoe in the hem of my gown when I was presented. I don’t think I would have handled it as well as you did.” She beamed at me and then giggled again. “Papa will be very pleased that you mentioned his name, very pleased.”

  Mamma gazed out the window for a bit, smiling. She looked so young and happy just then. I could almost imagine her sitting next to me in a life-drawing class, leaning over to compare our sketches.

  “Mamma, why did you stop drawing?”

  She turned away from the window; her smile faded. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I found a box in March after I came home from school. I was looking for stationery to write Edmund. You weren’t home, and I went into your room. There was a box on your desk filled with your sketches.” Mamma’s hand had gone up to her throat. She started pulling at the rope of pearls there. “One was unfinished. The one of me.”

  I saw her swallow.

  “Mamma?”

  She pressed her mouth into a tight line and looked out the window again. I should have just shut my mouth then, just left it there, but no, I could not leave it, as usual.

  “You’re so talented. I want to be as good as you someday, do you know that?” I said.

  She said nothing for a long moment. She just sat there staring out
the window. And then she finally said, “Cumberbunch tells me your gown will be finished tomorrow morning, which is all well and good, but I think she should have had it finished sooner, given that tomorrow is your ball. Still, I think it will be worth the wait.”

  The door that had cracked open a little between us slammed shut. “Yes, you’re right, Mamma. It will be beautiful. I can’t wait to wear it.”

  My heart ached for my mother. And now, more than ever, I vowed not to follow in her footsteps. When I saw Edmund at my ball tomorrow, I would tell him about art school. I would tell him that I would not be a society wife.

  THE NEXT EVENING was my coming-out ball at the Savoy Hotel on the Strand. The ballroom was lit by glittery electric lights and filled to bursting with friends, family, and business acquaintances. I finally met Jonty, Edmund’s older brother, who would inherit the Carrick-Humphrey estates. He couldn’t be more different from Edmund. He was tall, like Edmund, but with a more slender build. His eyes were a lighter color blue, and he held himself slightly aloof, as if he really couldn’t be bothered with a debutante ball. Unlike Edmund, he hadn’t a whiff of charm about him. His wife, Millicent, a tall woman with dark hair, clung to his arm.

  Several of Edmund’s friends from Oxford were there, including a boy called Kenneth, who was to be Edmund’s best man. I recognized him as one of the teammates from the rowing crew. Edmund seemed to hang on his every word and defer to him much of the time. Like Edmund, Kenneth was dressed in the latest style and wore his clothes as if they were a second skin.

  I had arrived with my parents, and Edmund came to greet me. He was dressed in tails, a waistcoat, and a high collar, a white bow tie knotted around it. His hair was carefully combed and oiled back as usual. He resembled the hero I saw once at a bioscope at a Chelsea music hall with Freddy. The clothes looked natural on Edmund, as though he had been born to such riches, and his personality shone a bit brighter in them.

  “You look very beautiful, Victoria,” he said, and held out his arm for me to take. I slid my arm through his, and we walked into the Wedgwood-blue Lancaster Ballroom for the first dance of the evening. I was wearing the ball gown that Sophie had made for me. I couldn’t help but notice Georgette Plimpton and a few of India’s friends looking my way with envious expressions. No one else was wearing anything like it. Although it had been featured in La Mode Illustrée, Sophie had made it my own, adding a Pre-Raphaelite flair. I had drawn the gown from Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott for Sophie, and she’d replicated the sleeves’ checkered decoration with silver embroidery thread on my bodice.