by P. J. Dean
“There, I think I got it right this time, Miss.” The maid pulled the last lace through the bodice front, retying the bow. She powdered Adeline’s chest again and eyed her mistress’ bosom. The only portion not revealed were her nipples. “Miss, won’t you be needing something to fill in the …. ”
“No.” She snapped her fingers. “Shoes.” She took a seat at her vanity. The maid knelt and eased the satin pumps onto the girl’s feet. “My fan, too.” Another chamber maid knocked and entered, carrying a cloak.
“Miss, your aunt says to hurry. She hates being late.”
“I am behind because I helped her get dressed. Arrgh! Does not that crone know that one is never late to these affairs? One makes a fashionably tardy entrance.” Adeline snatched her wrap from maid number two and headed out into the hallway.
“Miss, you are a vision,” maid number one called after her.
“More like a sight, if you ask me,” whispered maid number two.
****
“Thank you, Great Spirit,” Cassian said aloud, relieved that tonight’s affair at Taylor House would be the last time he’d be obligated to go “out amongst ’em” as Rozina would say. Cassian stood naked before the clothes form, contemplating the costume he had been donning off and on for two weeks. He frowned. His eyes strayed to the powdered periwig on its stand. He frowned again.
“Torture device,” he mumbled, scratching his head as he turned the wig stand about with the other.
“Sir,” a servant called from the hallway as he knocked at the door. “Miss Penvenen elder says the coach will be here in three quarters of an hour. Please be ready.”
“Thank you,” Cassian replied. He heard the man’s rapid foot steps fade away.
“Yes, must not be tardy.” He padded back to the clothes form. “Or keep that rented coach waiting. Tick, tock. A pence here. A pound there. Adds up.” He examined closely, the embroidery on the waistcoat. The whole outfit was of singular workmanship, but it disguised the wearer. He tested the fabric once more. It was exquisite handiwork, but …. He glanced at his reflection in the looking glass.
“So am I.”
****
By the time Casssian reached the foyer, only Paul was there. Adeline and her aunt were already bundled into the carriage. He was wrapped in a black cloak from neck to toe. Not even his footwear was visible—he was wigless.
“Cassian? No wig? This is an even more formal occasion then was the Nauls’. Aunt Felicity will have a conniption. Adeline has already upset her with her attire. She told Adeline that if she did not catch a husband in that frock, she’d definitely catch a cold.” Paul rubbed his forehead.
“Paul, you fret too much. You will be useless to your patients. Miss Penvenen elder will have more than a conniption.” Cassian opened his cloak. “Care to wager a case of apoplexy?”
Paul’s eyes popped. “By all that is divine!” He fell against the wall.
Cassian re-wrapped his cloak and peeled his classmate off the wall. “Come, the hired coach awaits.”
Once outside, the two young men leapt over the snow mounds and up into the coach.
“It’s about time, gentlemen. I was prepared to leave you,” said Miss Felicity. She eyed Cassian. “Mister Harkness,” she pointed to his head, “you have forgotten something.”
“I do not feel I have.” He touched his pate. “Oh, the wig is upstairs.”
“Go finish dressing. I’ll send the coach back. We cannot wait.”
“No need, Miss Penvenen, I am fine the way I am.”
She fingered her necklace and looked out the window as she addressed him. “This is a formal affair. A very formal affair.”
“And I am dressed for it.” He pulled out his timepiece. “Miss Penvenen, we will be late.”
One could hear a flatulent flea in the coach.
She swiveled her head slowly and trained her sight on him. “This is not done, Harkness, but since you are … not from here, I will relent. Besides, time is fleeting.”
“First Adeline, now you. Youth,” she sniffed, then shouted, “Drive!”
****
Taylor House took its design from the beautiful, classical villas of Italy. It sat on the banks of the Thames, just a bit west of London proper. It did not impress, it overwhelmed. Of masonry construction, the front boasted a double staircase decorated with urns, which led up to a portico adorned with Corinthian columns. The plan comprised sets of irregularly sized apartments grouped around an octagonal, domed main room called the Rotunda. Immense side and rear gardens, now dormant under the snow, embraced it. As the Penvenens’ carriage passed through the stone entryway, the villa sat
straight ahead at the end of a gravel path. Footmen bearing torches, ran alongside the arriving coaches, lighting the way. As the conveyance pulled up to the structure, Cassian soaked in the features of the house, mentally noting how much it differed from Twainhaven. The latter was the lovely, sizable farm of a successful doctor. Its modest comforts made it hospitable. The former was the abode of a lord. For all it refinement, correctness and ordered style, it was stern. It possessed all the appointments a lord’s station required. Cassian had become the talk of the holiday social circuit. Maid to matron wanted to meet the “educated, well-mannered, devastatingly handsome savage from the colonies.” Both the town and country estates of the moneyed, stunned Cassian. This was a strange world of which he was leery and of which he was in awe. Multitudes of maids, butlers, footmen, cooks and groundskeepers made his head reel. The rich were different he mused, but there had yet to be found a term to describe how different the exceedingly wealthy were.
Footmen raced up to the carriage as it pulled to a stop at the front entrance. Paul and Cassian jumped out and helped the ladies after. They made their way up one side of the double staircase and entered the brightly lit foyer of the Rotunda.
Cassian noticed Adeline’s gown, or what there was of it, when a servant took her wrap. Happy hunting, he thought. When the servant approached him, he peeled off his cloak with a flourish and handed it to the man. The man fell back a bit.
“Goodness, what is this?” Miss Felicity asked, with nose wrinkled. “Return to Penvenen Manor immediately and change.”
“I am being myself.” Cassian stood regaled in his mother’s parting gift, a huge hunting knife strapped to a thigh. “This is what you wanted, Adeline. Correct?”
“This is not a costume ball,” said Felicity.
“That is why I left the costume in my room.”
Felicity had her fan out and waved it like a madwoman.
“Adeline, Paul. Speak to your friend.” Felicity perused the absorbed faces all around them. “He is making a spectacle of himself. And a fool of me.”
Cassian arranged his blanket over one shoulder and took Adeline’s hand. “I know that you have used me as currency to gain entry back into this society. Use it all tonight, Adeline. You get no more after this. Paul told me all about how much you needed to be at the Nauls’ party to see Malcolm Taylor, even though you knew George Nauls‘ situation.”
“Cassian, forgive me.” Her face turned red. “You do not know ....”
“I know all I need to know. Your brother tells me I have made you acceptable again. Whatever that means. Come, let us increase that popularity.” He pulled her down the steps into the packed Rotunda.
Christmas at Taylor House assailed the senses. The food displays were gargantuan as was the crowd. Cassian had heard that the Taylors were known for phenomenal surprises at their galas. He was sure from the excited chatter he elicited as he snaked his way through the octagonal salon, many thought it was he. Adeline stumbled to keep up as he dragged her through the horde.
“Cassian, I am sorry. Please stop.”
“When I find food. After that, go do what you had planned as far back as Köln when you first met me. Go snare Malcolm. Ah, there are the tables.”
He and Adeline stood in front of several tables laden with platters of roasted venison, chynes mutton, veal and stewe
d beef steaks. Platters of partridges, pigeons, roasted turkeys and geese sat at the center of another table. The salmon pies and carp were at the ends of the tables with the other twenty to thirty choices of foods. He noted Taylor House’s fixation on symmetry as far as the correct positioning of comestibles. Every platter had to have a corresponding one on the other side of the table. The more well-heeled, or households trying to impress, offered more courses.
A hostess’ dessert table had to best the main meal and was the crowning glory of the event. At Taylor House, the offerings were ratafia cakes, assorted tarts, all kinds of jellies and creams, fresh and dried fruit and nuts. A multi-colored, sugar and marzipan, Chinese temple wowed the guests. Wassail, port, sherry and wine flowed. Cassian scratched his head at the selections. Just as he sampled the veal, a high-pitched, female voice accosted him.
“Mister Harkness, I presume,” trumpeted Lady Taylor as she floated in his direction. She looked him up and down. “Are you a guest or are you the show? She presented a bony, wrinkled hand.
Cassian had no intention of kissing it. He made a short bow.
Adeline blanched. “Cassian, where are your manners?”
“Still in tact.” He grinned at Lady Taylor. She was swathed in the ugliest yellow creation he had ever seen. Next to Adeline’s.
“As much as everyone has been gushing that you are perfect, I knew there had to be at least one defect. I see that you have reverted.”
“Thank you, Lady Taylor,” Adeline blurted. “We are enjoying your hospitality very much.” She curtsied deeply. “Where is Malcolm?”
“Miss Penvenen.” She looked at Adeline as if the girl were something she had just scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “How long has it been since your family has received an invitation from this house? And as far as my Malcolm is concerned, he is none of your
concern.” She walked away to greet other guests.
“Thank you, again, Lady Taylor,” she called in a cheery voice, though her face held a frozen smile and her shoulders had slumped. She made a mental note to seek out Malcolm on purpose, he could thank his mother for that. Besides, she vowed the gown was not going to be wasted.
“And I am the uncivilized one?” Cassian remarked.
“No matter.” Adeline composed herself. “Oh, there is Malcolm.” She smoothed her bodice and steadied herself. “Go mingle, Cassian.” She pushed past him. “I have no more need of you.” She flitted away after her future, head held high.
Chapter Sixteen
Cassian rubbed his grumbling middle and returned to the buffet. As he walked the length of the table, he felt sick at the overabundance displayed. This one table could feed three families in his village for days if they fancied such foodstuffs. He wagged his head. As he reached for the veal again, a young female guest strode up to him. She had been in deep discussion with a small group of her peers before she broke from the pack.
“Pardon me,” she commenced, clearing her throat.
“Should I? What have you done?” Cassian replied without looking up.
“You are Adeline Penvenen’s guest from the colonies, yes?”
“Do you know anyone else who wears such attire?”
“I must ask. Is it true your kind absconds with women like me in your land?” She looked back over her shoulder at her supporters who giggled like simpletons.
“I see that it is my turn to say ‘Pardon me’?” Cassian carved a chunk of veal and wolfed it down. He held his fork in his fist and gestured at her. “Umm. Women like you?”
Timid, but eager for an answer to her question, she edged closer and whispered, “I hear your kind just cannot resist a woman … such as me.”
He was fully aware of what she meant. It was not the first time people had posed the question or variations of it. He had been asked it and many other ignorant ones since he had set foot upon European soil. Most times he pretended not to hear, others times he made up outrageous replies, which would send the inquisitive soul scurrying. So, here this one stood, all agog, waiting. His inquisitor was mere inches from his face, was inspecting him so closely that he felt he should hop up next to the salmon pie on the table.
“Abscond with a woman like you?” He frowned, retreated and continued to eye the food displays. “My kind? To where? Miss, I doubt your willingly abscond with you anywhere.”
Her mouth fell open.
He popped a bit of Stilton in his and leaned back in.
“Watch out for the veal though,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s a mite spicy.” He touched the index finger of his free hand to her chin. With a slight upward motion, he shut her mouth. “Oh, good luck with getting someone to bolt with you to somewhere.”
He stepped back and winked at her. Hearing the strains of a violin from the other side of the room, he concluded, “Good evening,” and glided away.
Guests parted like the proverbial Red Sea Cassian had read about in the Bible as he passed. The music drew him through the crowd until he located the source. A tall, black man, impeccably attired in full French Court dress, conducted a string quartet. He
was the Taylors’ Christmas ball surprise. They had secured the services of Joseph Boulogne, le chevalier de Saint-Georges. He was a composer, performer and conductor who was the current favorite amongst the well-heeled across Europe. Raised and schooled
in France, he was the son of the personal attendant to King Louis XV and a Senegalese slave girl. Even though reared as an aristocrat, Boulogne would not be able to inherit his father’s titles or status. Instead of relying on peerage to open doors for him, he made
music his entrée.
Cassian perused the audience. Like him, they were enthralled, carried away by the music. But something was amiss. They were of one mind, one kind. United by lineage, custom. It finally hit Cassian. They were home. he was not and needed to be.
He refocused on the poised musician. When the concerto ended, le Chevalier scanned the room while bowing graciously to the applause. He froze when he spied Cassian. After a few seconds, the tiniest of smiles played across Boulogne’s features. He nodded in acknowledgement. Cassian smiled in return and clapped boisterously.
****
“Malcolm, no! You’ll tear it. Gently please,” Adeline instructed. She and Malcolm Taylor were standing, face to face, in one of the copious alcoves off one of the many spoke-like hallways surrounding the Rotunda. He had pulled her dress off her shoulders and was massaging her breasts roughly.
“Sorry. Just keep doing what you are doing and we both will be happy.” Malcolm was referring to the fact that Adeline had one of her hands in the opening of his breeches.
“Oh my girl , yes!”
“You like this?”
“Of course, silly. Like that. Don’t stop.”
“We could do this more often.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his panting mouth. “Would you like that? Perhaps, other things.” She leaned back and gazed at him as she outlined her lips with her tongue. Goodness, he was slow to climax, she thought. She had
been rubbing him for what seemed like forever. Her hand was tired. And the way he pulled at her was akin to milking a cow. She’d have to teach him a thing or two before they wed.
“Malcolm, you do like me, do you not?” she whispered as breathily as she could manage.
“Yes, I like it very much.”
“Me, . I said me.” She manipulated him in earnest.
“Oh, you too.” His wig had slid down to ride his eyebrows.
“Good, good. I thought you did. Even when I was with Daniel, you were always watching me.”
“Watching you,” he grunted, pounding her hand. He bent his head to her breasts and worried the nipples with his teeth.
Adeline winced. “Easy,” she said, pushing him away, but not missing a stroke. “No visible marks, Malcolm.” She saw his face contort and swiftly grabbed the handkerchief protruding from his sleeve.
“Addy, oh Addy! Oh, oh, oh!” Malcolm hissed as he spent into the frilly piece of cloth sh
e held around him. Adeline tugged on him one last time, Malcolm groaned and slumped against her.
“When can we meet again, Addy? I must see you again,” he murmured as he scattered sloppy kisses over her neck. Adeline smiled in the dimness. Malcolm regained his composure and stood back staring at her.
“Elizabeth Danning has recovered from her illness and is giving a dinner Thursday. Have you received an invitation? We could meet there.” She watched him blink as his brain reconnected with reality.
“Invitation? Yes, we did.” He did up his breeches and adjusted his wig.
“Well, do reply in the affirmative. One must seize opportunity when it presents itself.” Adeline pulled her sleeves back up and settled her bosom just so. She kissed him again and took his hand. Placing his handkerchief in it, she uttered, “Until Thursday,” and slipped back into the corridor.
Chapter Seventeen
Dr. Twain was not an ostentatious man by any means. He lived comfortably, not simply. His only outward sign of excess, surfaced at year’s end with Christmas, carrying over into New Year’s. He derived pleasure from making others happy and these occasions gave him an excuse to mask his unusual overindulgence behind tradition. Twain’s colonial celebrations copied his former homeland’s customs. Ever since Rozina had come to Twainhaven, she had been in charge of planning and preparing the sumptuous holiday spread.
The sea of neighbors who passed through Twainhaven’s doors were greeted by a mammoth wreath fashioned from greens, glazed fruits in season, and playing cards. Evergreen garlands, hung by Joshua and a group of workers, cascaded over every interior inch of the house, especially the staircase in the entry way. Single, white tapers flickered in the windows, adding warmth to the stone edifice. For nearly two weeks, a food-burdened table received callers in the dining room. Not as overblown as its English counterpart, the colonial table fed and impressed just as well, those who partook. The same types of meats, fishes and fowl were placed in the center and side dishes radiated out from them, like wheel spokes. An accompanying sideboard covered with sweets, was close by, brimming with cakes and pies. This year’s centerpiece was an edible marzipan garden, populated with flowers, little animals and replicas of the herbs found in the hall’s real garden.