That Inevitable Victorian Thing

by E. K. Johnston

  She and Elizabeth had attracted their own group, mostly girls Elizabeth had gone to school with, and they all whispered their anxieties as the moments dragged on longer. Margaret, who had not felt overwhelmed until she was surrounded by strangers, felt she needed some air. She cast about the room, though she could hardly expect anyone to rescue her in this crowd of people she didn’t know. Everyone seemed to be congregating the way Elizabeth’s comrades were, and Margaret didn’t see any way to make a graceful move from her own cluster to someone else’s. There was one girl, however, who stood mostly alone. She clasped a fan, more an affectation than a necessity—and a common enough gift from Hong Kong Chinese families that she was far from the only person in the room holding one—given the sophisticated climate controls in the ballroom, and stared at a spot on the floor in front of her, presumably to avoid making eye contact.

  “Who is that?” she said quietly to Elizabeth when she was able to get the other girl’s attention for a moment. “In the corner, by herself.”

  “Oh, that must be Miss Marcus,” Elizabeth said. “I forget her first name just now. Her mother is the chief clinician at the New London Findings Ward, and so my mother invited Miss Marcus as a sort of . . .”

  “Charity case?” Margaret said, not entirely kindly, when Elizabeth trailed off. It was not often that Elizabeth’s privilege impeded her speaking her mind, though Margaret had noticed the consideration behind Elizabeth’s words, now that she knew to look for them.

  “I should think not,” Elizabeth said somewhat sharply. “I suppose it’s in recognition of her mother’s good work, particularly because she does so at the behest of your—that is, of the Queen.”

  That was true enough. Margaret’s mother, and all the monarchs back to the first Victoria, were adamant in their decision to help all members of the Empire find their way to being full citizens in it, and paid for the extra help that some of them needed. Indeed, Margaret well knew that the only photograph in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office was of one of his predecessors, as she signed the Genetic Creed into Canon in 1962, Sir Alan Turing and Margaret’s own illustrious ancestor smiling on either side. If Miss Marcus’s mother excelled in her position, carrying out the will of the Church and the Crown in helping every citizen in the Empire, then it was entirely appropriate to invite her daughter.

  “She looks quite lonely,” Margaret said, but her suggestion that they go introduce themselves was drowned out by the arrival of a new group of debuts, each more convinced than the last that they were about to make fools of themselves before the Queen. How Elizabeth could have this many friends in Toronto at the same time she planned to move to a small island country in the Caribbean, Margaret couldn’t fathom, but it was certainly another good reason never to underestimate her.

  Margaret couldn’t bear to listen to them any longer, feeling her own nerves spooling tight. She nodded to Elizabeth, hoping the other girl would understand that it was all right if she didn’t follow, and began to make her way over to Miss Marcus. Of course Elizabeth would know the details of her family and not the girl’s first name! At the same time, that did give Margaret a very easy opening.

  “I’m Margaret Sandwich,” she said, holding out her hand. Miss Marcus hesitated for a moment, and then took it gratefully.

  “Helena Marcus,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Are you as nervous as the rest of them?” Margaret asked, waving her hand to indicate the room at large.

  “A bit,” Helena admitted. “But I’m not from Toronto, and it’s entirely likely that after tonight, I’ll never see any of these people again, so it’s not as bad as it might be. Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said. “Mostly I just want it to start.”

  “Margaret.” Elizabeth appeared at Margaret’s elbow. “You should take me with you when you’re meeting new people!” She turned her smile to Helena. “I’m Elizabeth Highcastle.”

  “Helena Marcus,” Helena said politely, extending her hand. Elizabeth took it mostly out of habit, but recovered to shake hands with genuine friendliness.

  “I’m so glad you could come all this way,” Elizabeth said. “I know my mother has been anxious to speak with yours, and I’m flattered that you were willing to cancel whatever plans you had in New London to come here and debut with me.”

  From any other person in the Empire, that would have been the worst of backhanded insults. There was no way that New London society could possibly match the party Elizabeth’s parents were throwing for her, and Elizabeth had as much as said that Helena had only been invited on her mother’s merits. By now, Margaret knew well enough that Elizabeth always meant exactly what she said, though she could only hope that Miss Marcus understood the same. There was a brief expression of confusion on Miss Marcus’s face, as she tried to puzzle out what Elizabeth had said, but eventually she returned Elizabeth’s smile, accepting it for the sincerity it indeed held.

  The tall doors at the far end of the room opened, and an excited murmur ran through the crowd before a look from the Mistress of Ceremonies dropped an expectant hush on them. Margaret wasn’t entirely sure how the woman might punish anyone she deemed mischievous tonight, but she had no doubt that she would. Her uniform did include a ceremonial sword.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said, her tone reverent. “If you will follow me.”

  Margaret imagined that this was the first time in their lives that most of them had been addressed by these titles without a trace of irony. If any of them had escaped the gravity of the evening until this moment, they were now caught in it.

  Margaret took a deep breath and followed the others out of the room. She realized that she, Elizabeth, and Helena were now at the back of the group, and would therefore be concealed by it when they emerged into the main ballroom. She wondered if Elizabeth might push her way to the front, despite the risk of the Mistress’s ire, but realized that this way, Elizabeth’s dress would remain relatively well concealed until the moment the herald called her name, and she stood alone in front of the throne.

  When they stopped walking, Margaret surreptitiously surveyed her appearance, and noticed those around her doing the same thing. Amelia’s designs left no room for error, however, and Margaret found not so much as a ribbon out of place. She resisted the impulse to touch her hair. It was loose, a dark brown halo around her head, though Elizabeth had found a hairdresser who could ensure that it was perfect in its naturalness. Margaret had never learned to deal with her own curls, because someone from the household staff had always done her hair for her, which she suddenly found to be a profound embarrassment. After this was over, she would have someone teach her, not the least because if her hair frizzed, she wouldn’t know how to fix it.

  She dismissed the distraction, and turned to look over at Elizabeth and Helena as well. She noted that while her dress and Elizabeth’s were faithful reproductions of the style that had been modish when their grandmothers had debuted, Helena’s dress appeared to be the genuine article. There was no –bot stitching on her gown at all, because when it had been made, there hadn’t yet been any –bot fine enough to do the work. Margaret did note, upon closer examination, that the dress had been altered for Helena’s use, and altered very well: it fit to her figure perfectly. Her gown wasn’t as ornate as Elizabeth’s, but in its simple splendour, Helena was simply splendid.

  For her part, Helena was not looking at her dress. She was looking into the crowd, seeking, Margaret assumed, a particular face. At first, Margaret thought she was looking for her parents, but when she followed Helena’s gaze, she found it lighted upon a well-dressed young man whose waistcoat had clearly been chosen to tastefully match Helena’s own attire. Margaret looked back at Helena’s face, and saw upon it an expression she knew all too well, having seen it often on the faces of her own parents.

  “Oh, Helena,” she whispered, after ensuring that the Mistress of Ceremonies
was not paying attention. “You’ll look wonderful together.”

  Helena smiled, a real smile this time, not the polite one given to a new acquaintance.

  “Stuart Applewright!” boomed the herald. “Son of Joseph and Gloria Applewright.”

  Margaret’s heart went out to Stuart, though she had not spoken to him. He was visibly nervous, probably as a result of having to go first, but his steps did not falter as he went to stand in front of the raised platform on which her mother sat, in full regalia, with the Prince Consort at her side. Victoria-Elizabeth wore the trappings of her office with an ease Margaret hoped she would one day feel herself. Every inch of freckled brown skin was fully at home within the heavy court dress and—despite the warmth of the room—ermine cape. She was perfectly suited to her deceptively airy-looking crown.

  Stuart made his bow with good grace, and then remembered to wait until the Queen nodded before taking three backwards steps and turning to his left to escape the attention of everyone in the room. There was some muffled clapping as he did so, indicating that his parents were understandably impressed with him.

  They proceeded through the alphabet, the crowd around them winnowing down as each young man or woman bowed, and retreated to the sidelines to watch. Half a dozen boys and two girls were in military uniform, all for the Navy, and they each gave a salute to the Prince Consort in addition to the bow.

  At the first salute, a smile tugged at the corner of Edmund Claremont’s mouth. The girl’s naval uniform brought to his mind that moment in his own youth when he’d bowed to the king’s representative with no expectation of ever standing before a member of the Royal Family again. All expectation had been upended when Victoria-Elizabeth’s agreed-upon match had died suddenly, of course. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to wonder—not worry—about what unexpected things his Margaret would find along her path after the careful choreography of tonight, but he owed these youngsters his full attention, and so he did not linger.

  There was dead silence after the herald called for Elizabeth Highcastle to come forward, and thunderous applause after her exceptionally graceful curtsey. When Helena was called, Margaret sought out the young man in the crowd again. His expression matched the one Helena had worn when she’d seen him upon entering, and for some reason it made Margaret unreasonably happy. She remembered to look back in time to see Helena’s curtsey, and noted that the girl acquitted herself with at least as much poise as Elizabeth had.

  The parade went on, until only a few others remained with Margaret. At last, the herald reached the Ss.

  “Margaret Sandwich,” he said. “Niece of Admiral and Lady Highcastle.”

  It was customary for debuts to be introduced in relation to their most prestigious family members, so everyone present would assume that Margaret’s own parents were less famous than her aunt and uncle. The idea made her smile every time she thought it, and so it was that when she faced Queen and Consort, she did so with a not-altogether regal expression on her face.

  She pulled herself together quickly, though, and without bending a single vertebra, sank into the full curtsey she had been practicing for weeks, knowing she’d never use it again for the rest of her life. She stayed in the curtsey for a heartbeat longer than was necessary, working up the courage to look her parents full in the face when she straightened.

  If ever there was a moment when a careful observer might have guessed Margaret’s true identity, this was it. With or without a wig, Margaret and her mother bore a strong resemblance to each other. Fortunately, careful observation gives way to half-blind sentimentality where finely attired young men and women on the doorstep of adulthood are concerned, and the hundreds of partygoers saw nothing more than the hopes and dreams they wanted to see.

  She stood, her head held high, and waited for her mother to dismiss her. It was entirely possible that the tears in her mother’s eyes were the result of the carefully arranged spotlights, but Margaret liked to think she knew better, because the tears in her own eyes came from some other source entirely.

  Since I have no court of my own, which, dear sister, I assure you I do not regret, I have had a devil of a time placating the ladies who wish to hear of fashions and other such nonsense points of interest from London. I had thought to have a sort of come-out ball for my oldest girls, who would be making their curtseys to Mother and to you, if we all still lived in England. I know you cannot come yourself lest you set a terribly demanding precedent, so do you think you might send one of your own Ladies to sit in proxy for you? Or perhaps appoint a Lady who is already here? I don’t mean to overstep—of all of us, I must be the most cautious in this regard—but I would like to show that the Empire maintains a united front, as Mother wishes.

  —Prince Edward of Canada,

  in a letter to his sister Victoria II

  CHAPTER

  8

  The difficult part was over at last. Helena had made her curtsey and not embarrassed herself, and now she could finally relax. Yes, she still had to make it through the dancing, but she was actually good at that. For tradition’s sake, the girls had all been issued dance cards, but they weren’t compelled to use them, and they were free to turn down dances with gentlemen they did not fancy, yet still dance later with those they did. This was considered by some to be bad form, but since those who felt so were predominantly of Theresa’s generation, most of the young people were happy to ignore the grumbling. Helena didn’t really care whom she danced with, after the formal waltz was over, anyway.

  August made his way to the floor when the dance was announced, and the musicians began to tune up on the side of the room. Later, a DJ would take over, but the traditional dances would be played live.

  “Helena,” he said when he reached her. “You look fantastic.”

  He wondered if that might have been a stupid thing to say. He hadn’t seen her since Thanksgiving, and they hadn’t really spoken in months. He knew that she probably didn’t care that much about how she looked, and yet that would be the first thing he said to her.

  “Don’t be a ninny,” she told him, guessing that he was berating himself. “This took a tremendous amount of work from at least half a dozen professionals. I don’t mind being complimented.”

  “I’ve missed you,” he said. He wished he could hug her, but to be perfectly honest, he was more than a little afraid of messing up her hair.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she said. Behind her, the preamble to the waltz began, and she looked at him expectantly.

  “Shall we?” he said, gallantly holding out an arm.

  She smiled and took it, and he led her to the dance floor. Elizabeth Highcastle was in the centre, escorted by the Prince Consort, who, Helena remembered, was also her godfather. Margaret was near, on the arm of the Admiral, and when she saw Helena, she waved her over. August shrugged and changed direction so that they ended up close by.

  “You must introduce us,” Margaret said, but then the music began in earnest, and the dance floor became a maze of skirts and shoes and careful steps.

  August was as practiced at dancing as Helena was, and perhaps even more so, given that he was the default partner for when his sisters had learned the steps. Indeed, since his oldest sister, Molly, had from an early age preferred to dance the traditionally male part in the couple, August was uncommonly good at both leading and following. As he steered them around the floor, Helena felt him relax. It made her feel slightly better to know that he had been as nervous to dance in front of the Queen as she was, but together they fell into the easy rhythm of the waltz.

  “It’s much less complicated than the Log Driver,” August said, on a turn, about halfway through. “And we’ve done that in front of half of Northern Ontario.”

  “No one was watching us, then,” Helena reminded him.

  “Still, this is easier,” August insisted. “I feel almost comfortable.”

  “Hold
on to that,” Helena told him. “Because after I introduce you to Margaret, you’ll probably have to dance with Elizabeth Highcastle, and I read in a magazine that she loves reels the best.”

  “If that happens, you’ll probably end up with the Prince Consort,” August pointed out. “And if you faint, it will spare us both.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, laughing.

  She spared a glance to find her parents and saw that Aunt Theresa had managed to introduce them to Lady Highcastle already. They were deep in conversation, and Helena was only moderately upset that her father would not be available to save her from unwanted dance partners.

  The waltz ended, and they all bowed to one another. Elizabeth and Margaret descended on them immediately, demanding introductions, while the Admiral and the Prince Consort stood back and watched indulgently.

  “Miss Highcastle, Miss Sandwich,” Helena nodded, “this is August Callaghan, an old friend of my family.”

  “Of Callaghan Limited?” Elizabeth asked. August nodded. “How delightful! I was so excited when Mother told me that you had requested an invitation, even though I had no idea why. You two make such a lovely pair.”

  Helena blushed. She was accustomed to August’s presence in her life, as he was in hers, and it was always strange to hear an outsider’s perspective on how they appeared as a couple.