‘An ordinary person wouldn’t just turn up and expect to stay to dinner.’
Alison didn’t answer. Sophie looked over at her. ‘What are you thinking, Mouse?’
‘I’m thinking I wish it could always be like this.’ She paused. ‘Miss Lily told me she has found a husband for me,’ she said abruptly.
Sophie turned and stared at her. ‘Found you one?’
‘Sort of found. She has written to him, and he says he will see if we might suit each other.’
‘Who is he? What’s he like?’
Alison watched the clouds again, swimming across the mist-damp sky. ‘Miss Lily wouldn’t tell me his name. She said it would look more natural if he courted me in the ordinary way. Maybe we’ll dislike each other on first sight.’
‘No one could ever dislike you, Mouse. Not unless you wanted them to.’
‘Miss Lily says he’s “well bred, well read and well situated”. And that he would like children, or at least a child, but otherwise would be happy with a companionate marriage.’
‘Companionate?’
Alison shrugged. ‘I suppose it means, well, companions. No lacrosse.’
‘You don’t mind it being sort of arranged?’
‘No. Really and truly. It would be a relief to have it settled. If he likes me, he’ll let me know he knows Miss Lily, so I’ll know he’s the right one. When I’m besieged with suitors.’
‘Hundreds of them, lined up down the carriage drive.’
‘Thousands. All adoring me and laying their fortunes at my feet. She understands,’ added Alison.
Sophie squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll be with you. And if it doesn’t work out … if you don’t like him or something … you can come back to Australia with me. I’ve enough money for both of us. You’d love Thuringa.’
‘What would your father think of that?’
‘You’re the daughter of a duke,’ said Sophie dryly. ‘He’d dance a jig all around his office. You might even get him invited to Government House. In fact I’m sure you would.’
Alison grinned. ‘Then I’ll visit. Married or not. Just to make sure your father dines there at least once.’ She looked up at the sky again. ‘When we are old and grey we will still be friends.’
‘As long as the river flows,’ said Sophie. She passed Alison another ginger nut and took one herself. They bit into them together, as though to seal the contract.
The Duke of Wooten’s London ballroom floor shone like wood fused with glass. The footmen had been dragging bags of sand around on top of candle shavings until it was so smooth you’d slip unless you were in dancing slippers. Now the orchestra tuned their instruments while Ffoulkes the butler checked their list of dances.
Each crystal in the chandelier had been taken down, washed, polished and then delicately rehung by a man like a monkey who had dedicated his life to light. The duke’s section of the cellar, locked to his tenants, had been opened. Champagne had been purchased by Mr Slithersole, manager of the London branch of Higgs’s Corned Beef, but certain dusty bottles were carried reverently up the stairs to be decanted for the fraternity who knew about such things: not the young dancing partners but the older men who would head for the bridge tables in the library, or conversations in the conservatory. A young man might be dazzled by a debutante, but in most cases it was his father and hers — and their men of business — who would negotiate the marriage contract.
Jellies cooled in the pantry; meringues filled the housekeeper’s sitting room, away from the kitchen steam so they didn’t soften. An oozing jelly, a watery ice, a cake in which the cream had curdled would be a disaster. The tale of the cockroach in the syllabub at the Honourable Miss Alice Farham’s coming-out was still whispered around society’s kitchens, as well as the story of the lopsided crab puffs at a ball the season before. A sitting room festooned with meringues was a small price to pay for perfection.
The police were already stationed at the end of the street to stop all other traffic so that guests could come and go with ease, or at least the ease allowed by the crush of another two hundred and nineteen guests and their carriages or cars. Two parlour maids stood guard over every great pedestal of flowers to wipe up fallen pollen and petals.
All this for one night, thought Sophie, staring into the mirror in her bedroom upstairs, as Madame Lynette, the hairdresser hired for this night, lowered a ringlet onto her neck. But of course it was only one night for her, and for Alison. For everyone else it was part of centuries of alliances out of which the cloth of society was formed. We are a thread of embroidery, nothing more, she thought. And then: I hope at least I’m a charming one.
She took a deep breath, trying not to show her terror or excitement, or, even worse, a hint of victory at being there, at the London house of a duke. Smile, she thought; make them agree with you; ask them a question; praise them; praise another. My eyes will linger on each gentleman’s face for just a second too long; I will glance up at him through my lashes as we dance. I will listen reverently to every dowager, with my eyes downcast. I am a swan …
Madame Lynette coiled another ringlet, fresh from the hot iron, around her finger. It glowed in the gaslight. Madame had sprinkled rose oil on the hairbrush to give a glow and enrich the colour of Sophie’s hair, as well as to help it stay in place during the dancing later. Tonight was too important to leave the dressing and hairdressing to Doris, who was standing beside them, intent on every artistic manoeuvre.
Long white gloves, the correct debutante colour, buttoned tightly at the wrists. The ivory silk dress, its neckline drooping low over Sophie’s breasts, with shawl sleeves arranged in a delicate gather of pleats on each shoulder, the smallest train — she had practised looping it about her fingers to dance — white kid slippers, an ivory fan, quite plain, and a dance card with ivory ribbons.
I look … the same, thought Sophie. She had expected to be transformed, to see a society debutante gazing back at her from the mirror. But she was still Sophie Higgs, even if her skin was less tanned than it had been when she arrived in England, her bosom plumper, held up in the whalebone cups of a French corset.
Two corsages rested on the dresser, one of white roses with a gold-edged card from Alison’s cousin, the duke. The other had ribbons of a slightly creamier shade. Its three carnations sent out a scent of spice and sunlight missing from the hothouse roses. The card said simply, To Sophie, from the Shillings conservatory, with love.
Politeness dictated she should choose the duke’s flowers, but she suspected he wouldn’t even know which blooms his secretary had sent. She would carry the ones sent to her with the word love.
The door opened. Doris stood back as Her Grace stepped into the room.
Her shoulders were as wide as a draught horse’s, her face so plump it was entirely unwrinkled. Her arms emerging from the sleeveless evening gown were round too — not flabby, like those of working women, but fat as mushroom tops.
A corset like a battleship kept the lines of her body smooth, and on top she wore an acre of antique Chinese silk patterned in blue and gold, the hem line and train trimmed with dark brown mink, with a froth of white crepe on one side of her waist and tall white feathers behind the sapphires in her hair, fetched from the bank that morning just like the jewels at her neck and wrists. Sophie wondered how many others at the ball that night would know that none of the stones was real, as all the family’s precious gems had been sold on the death of her husband. But even high-quality replicas such as these were valuable.
Her Grace assessed Sophie in six careful seconds. ‘You look charming, my dear.’
‘But not too charming?’
‘Not too charming, nor too rich.’ It was easy to see that Her Grace was Miss Lily’s friend. ‘But there is one addition I think will be permissible.’ She held out a flat blue velvet box.
Sophie opened it. The pearls inside shone quietly. ‘They are beautiful!’
Were they her mother’s? Her mother had left her jewels behind when
she disappeared, hadn’t she? But these looked new …
‘A present from your father,’ said Her Grace. ‘Although he allowed me to choose them. Not too large but perfectly matched.’
And much more valuable than mismatched pearls of a larger size. The world grew steady again. The pearls were a way of saying, ‘This girl has money, but knows not to flaunt it, and has superb taste.’ Her Grace nodded again, as though she’d caught the thought.
‘I am glad you are here, my dear. Alison has needed a friend. I will see you both dance tonight with pride.’ She bent and kissed Sophie quickly on the cheek.
Four hours later Sophie’s back ached from the twist of her corset — her bottom pushed out one way and her bosom the other — her feet hurt, and even her teeth felt exposed from so much smiling. She had given her hand to all of society’s top six hundred families, at least, and possibly their third and fourth cousins too, standing in the receiving line next to Alison, smiling, greeting, smiling again and looking demure.
Tomorrow she knew she would remember this night with wonder. Just now she wished she could stretch it out somehow, so she could absorb each moment slowly enough to taste it individually, or maybe post a few minutes home.
No one had sniggered, or even given her a sideways look, except perhaps of admiration.
Alison’s cousin, the duke, her host, had led her in for the first dance. He was a rabbit-like man, but a dutiful rabbit. Sophie’s dance card was full: not a tribute to her, but to the dowager’s organisational skills. And not just full of the names of younger sons, or of ‘the usuals’ swept into any invitation list to dance with wallflowers. Nor was her dance card filled with the names of potential husbands.
This night was to show that Miss Sophronia Higgs was accepted and acceptable, dancing with a duke, a viscount (old enough to be her grandfather), three venerable honourables, a general whose knees creaked, and a former home secretary.
This was a night not to laugh too loudly, a night when society’s hostesses would inspect her and hopefully decide, ‘A nice little thing, no airs. How much did you say her father was worth?’ and remember that the corned beef — and the potentially embarrassing progenitor — were safely two oceans away. This was the night that would — or would not — lead to years, or a lifetime, of invitations.
The ballroom smelled of fresh wax, French powder and ironed silk, of roses and gardenias and very faintly of sweat. The other rooms echoed with the peacock-high chatter of the girls, the owl booms of the dowagers, the pigeon coos of mothers, the deeper but still too-sharp voices of the men. Even the laughter seemed at a higher pitch than that of any crowd Sophie had known.
Every member of society with eligible daughters, sons, granddaughters, grandsons, nieces or nephews was there tonight, as well as unattached bachelors, to cast an eye over the ‘runners’ for this year’s marriage stakes, or even put a wager on which would do well. Others were there for the conversations and cigars in the card room, or more intimate meetings in the library, to discuss the King’s extraordinary veto of parliament’s decision to give Home Rule to Ulster.
Was it fun? Yes, but not in the way that Sophie had expected; there was too much crammed into too few hours, less gaiety than the New Year’s Eve dance at Thuringa, when she danced with the stockmen and the gardener’s boy. This was fun in the way Miss Lily had described: knowing why her partners mattered, seeing circles twist into other circles and beyond, understanding the connections and networks and underlying agendas.
Every girl, every corseted, jewel-encrusted mama, was evaluating each man she saw. It was like attending the yearling sales back home and trying to guess which of the sleek, skittish young thoroughbreds might fulfil their potential and which might break down or just disappoint.
A taste, a tiny taste, of what Miss Lily offered. Power and the knowledge of how power worked; being aware of who pulled which strings, and why.
Sophie glanced across the room at Alison, who was between dances like her. Alison’s posture was perfect, just like Miss Lily’s, the shoulders relaxed. She wore the smile of someone who was enchanted by her partner. But even from where she stood, Sophie could see Alison’s fingers pleating her dancing card.
No, this was not fun for Mouse.
Emily was there, surrounded by three young men and four far more interesting older ones. Even as Sophie looked, she glanced up at one of the older men, her lips moving in what Sophie was sure was step number two, say something you know he will agree with. She and Emily had only exchanged brief greetings at the receiving line, nor had Emily’s mother called or left a visiting card since the girls had arrived in London. I’ve been discarded, surmised Sophie. And Alison too — so it was not corned beef alone that had done it. Emily had no wish to be in the company of those who were skilled in the same charms she had been taught, Sophie realised. Emily’s next months would decide who she would be for the rest of her life.
‘Sophie, may I present my uncle? Uncle Dolphie, this is my friend, Miss Sophie Higgs.’ Hannelore was as composed as ever, in pale yellow instead of white, perhaps to indicate that she had no need of this society’s approval, just as she’d had no need to be presented to a queen who had held her as a baby at the recent ceremony at the palace.
Ah, so this was the uncle with ‘connections’. The young man clicked his heels and bowed. Blond hair, small waxed moustache, brown eyes. ‘Count Adolphus von Hoffenhausen at your service, Miss Higgs.’
Sophie smiled to make him smile too. He grinned down at her, clearly liking what he saw.
‘You are very young to be an uncle, Count von Hoffenhausen. I’m so sorry, but is that the correct way to address you?’ She leaned forward, looking up at him confidingly. ‘I have never met a German count before.’
His grin widened. He was perhaps only ten years older than Hannelore, her mother’s much younger brother. Despite the precision of his heels he looked like he had a sense of humour too.
‘My title is really “Graf”. But that sounds like gruff, and I am never gruff. You must call me Dolphie. My niece has ordered it, so we must obey.’
Say something he’ll agree with, say something that will interest him, praise him, praise others. The next four steps were almost automatic now. ‘Surely I must obey the wishes of a count too. Though Hannelore’s views are always wise.’ And Hannelore knows exactly what I’m doing, she thought, refusing to catch her friend’s eye as she finished off step five.
‘I would ask you to dance, Miss Higgs, but I am sure your card is full. Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me to supper instead?’ Dolphie offered his arm.
‘But supper isn’t served yet. There is another dance …’ She glanced at her card.
Dolphie grinned again. It made him look even younger. ‘Supper will be served when we go to the supper room. If we wait, we might miss the meringues.’
A demure young lady must wait for her hostess — Her Grace — to lead the way to supper. Sophie paused for perhaps three seconds.
‘It would not be good,’ she said, ‘to miss the meringues. But,’ she glanced down at her dance card, ‘the Honourable Peter Jamieson —’
‘He is not a count,’ said Dolphie, ‘so he doesn’t count.’ It was obviously a pun he had made before.
‘Mr Jamieson,’ said Hannelore as the elderly man approached. ‘How very lovely to see you again! Have you come to take pity on a wallflower?’ She gazed up at him … What had Miss Lily said? A woman can look up at any man, even if he is only four foot three.
‘My dear, yes, but no, I, really, you see …’
‘Miss Higgs releases you, don’t you, Sophie?’ said Hannelore demurely, defanging all possible affront the man might feel that a German whippersnapper had removed his dancing partner. ‘It is so long since I have seen Mr Jamieson.’
‘Of course,’ said Sophie. She touched Mr Jamieson’s wrist with two gloved fingers, briefly, made sure her smile met his eyes, to show she did indeed regret the loss of this dance, then took Dolphie’s proffe
red arm. Her left foot stepped precisely in front of her right, creating the perfect amount of sway as they walked into the supper room.
She was not surprised to find Her Grace almost at the supper-room door too. Her Grace, it seemed, knew that her duty was to stay a step ahead of Sophie Higgs tonight. Sophie stood back to let the dowager duchess pass, then followed, her gloved fingers lightly touching Count von Hoffenhausen’s arm.
The supper room was empty, of course, apart from the white-coated waiters, and table after table clothed in damask, with white roses in silver ribbons tied to each corner, and centrepiece epergnes decorated with more roses. The jellies shimmered — big quivering ones with raspberries and cream, the pale aspic coating the cold salmon, the chunks of gelée around the galantines of venison and chicken, the cranberry jelly around the hams. Blackly glistening caviar edged with chopped hard-boiled eggs stood in jelly-like mounds. Cut glass and gold-edged china gleamed, as did the silver cutlery, ancient and heavy, the silver dishes for the hot foods …
The voices followed Sophie and the count in, now that Her Grace was seated and accepting a glass of champagne. Sophie sat at the table just below her, smiled a brief apology and got a raised but complacent eyebrow in return.
Dolphie fetched meringues; somehow she was calling him Dolphie as he had asked. He had guessed — from experience, she supposed — that she wouldn’t eat; even a debutante without Miss Lily’s training would know there was no way to look elegant while putting food into your mouth. Eating was permissible at a dinner party — small bites between the demands of conversation, with the lighting dim — but not here, where someone’s first glimpse of you might be with your mouth open for the approaching forkful of chicken in mayonnaise.
Instead she played with her food, lifting the meringue towards her mouth then dropping her hand back towards the plate.
Ten minutes later Alison joined them, with another young man, who stammered, but seemed kind. Somehow he had found out already that Alison liked ginger: the plate he fetched was crowned with ginger truffles.
Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies Page 24