by Ash Krafton
She, mercifully, had been given a different purpose, and was a centerpiece to behold. A new gown had been made for the occasion, one that called upon the classic style of London, updated yet traditional. Emerald silk crepe, buttoned high to the neck, a sumptuous bustle to extend the graceful curve of her corseted waist.
New styles had been pouring in from France and beyond and everyone in attendance were intent upon dressing in the newest and the most unique. Beautiful girls, trussed up in the most current of fashion. Each gown was finer and more expensive than the rest, each coif more delicate, more—French.
Mrs. Branson was adamantly against such styles, which she regarded as clownish. Traditional, solid, enduring—those aspects were the definition of true beauty, she said. Miss Constance Fyne would be a shining example, a stand against the new and so-called improved.
With a painted smile, Senza took up her role at once, surreptitiously training the younger women in attendance, feeling very much like a school mistress herding a boisterous group of young children. As expensive as were their trappings, their social skills were decidedly less developed. Their voices, both in tone and diction, left much to desire. Words tumbled out of their mouths haphazardly, with no thought of incorporating wit or charm.
Worse, none at all had learned how to use a fan. The art of the fan was a delicate language to be mastered. At least one girl seemed intent on scooping all the available air in the room toward her shiny décolleté. Senza resisted a sigh and a grimace. That one had a lot of work to do.
Within the cluster of daughters and nieces of the new money crowd, a second clique seemed to exist. They created an undercurrent to the attendants, this group of young men and women did not mix with the others, and stirred the atmosphere with their sense of separation from the rest.
They moved about like a swarm, the men like overgrown children, loud and brash and very, very drunk. Their female counterparts wore lioness grins, laughing, beguiling, and encouraging their male counterparts to new heights of depravity.
And damned if each one didn’t, at some point, spy Senza. They orbited, closer and closer to her with every pass around the room, as if her gravity were too great to deny. When they entered her atmosphere, the other hopefuls were dislodged and scattered until only the rowdies remained, forming a tight ring around Senza, demanding her attention and drinking in the very sight of her.
“My, aren’t you the posh one. We’ve never seen you before.” A brunette with pale blue eyes acted as emissary for the group. “And we know everybody.”
Senza’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve never been to this part of London. I had no idea that it even existed.”
“Mmm.” The dark-haired girl regarded her shrewdly. “To be completely honest, it only appeared rather recently, when we moved here. I think it was a farm until we came along. Some days, I think it still is. All these old cows, too bony for market, too old for milk.”
Senza hid her rude smile behind her fan. It was a terrible thing to say, but it was fair. She slid her eyes sideways, seeking Mrs. Branson. The older woman stood off to the side, grazing with the other ladies, occasionally lowing at something she heard.
“Oh, dear,” Senza said. “I hadn’t realized that this neighborhood had such pastoral sentimentalities.”
“It gets worse.” The brunette linked arms with Senza and led her on a turn around the room. “My brother and his mates, you see. Terribly boisterous. Like farm children playing out-of-doors.”
“Boys will be boys,” Senza murmured, momentarily distracted by memories of her own brothers.
“And Jack will never grow up. I’m Rebecca Evans, by the way. They call me Posie. And that long one over there, who thinks his smile makes him look like a rogue when in all actuality only makes his face look crooked is Jack.”
The man turned toward the mention of his name, a shock of auburn hair tumbling loose from its carefully styled place, wearing an open-mouthed smile. Had it been someone like her own brother Henry, whose internal goodness radiated from every pore, he would have looked boyishly charming. There was, however, a shadow in his eyes, a dimness that gave no pretense of such purity of spirit. That shadow cast itself across his smile.
The other girls in attendance must not have noticed such things. Innocent mortals rarely did. Senza, however, was a great study of the human condition and saw through his handsome façade at once.
The look he directed at Senza was intense and possessive, giving her chills that had nothing to do with delight.
Dutifully, he approached for his introduction. His hand was strong, but his fingers betrayed him, rough yet slippery. Gloves would have helped, but barely. His was not the hand-press of a gentleman.
Stoically, she girded herself against him, vowing to deflect even his distant admiration, wanting nothing to do with the man. New money didn’t always realize that some things could not be bought.
They continued their course around the room, and Posie pointed out who was who amongst her crowd, adding a personal and, occasionally, potentially-embarrassing notation about each one. She had a wealth of information on the other circle of girls, as well, the ladies-in-training. Posie disdained them as uncultured, uninteresting, and intolerable, at best.
“They’d be right at home on the farm,” she said, before neighing at one of the girls. Posie’s friends echoed the teasing noise, giggling uncontrollably.
Red-faced, the other girl turned away, and hurried her companions out of the room.
Senza glued her smile in place, but did not join in. She’d never been a cruel person, and certainly wouldn’t tease someone for being less beautiful or less apportioned than she. Heavens alone knew that had she never met Knell, she very well might have been out to pasture with Mrs. Branson’s lady friends.
Well before midnight, one of the serving girls sought out Senza, saying that Mrs. Branson was ready to leave.
“Your nurse maid calls, Constance.” Posie grinned, a teasing sparkle in her eyes. “Time for warm milk and a bedtime story.”
“It’s not like that.” Well, not quite as bad, she amended silently. “She’s my guardian while I’m in Chelsea.”
“Well, I hope you aren’t in Chelsea for too much longer. She is positively pre-historic. You might find yourself all alone one of these days.”
Senza laughed ruefully, knowing she would have no such luck.
Posie and her entourage escorted Senza to the foyer, where a smiling but weary-looking Mrs. Branson begged forgiveness of the hostess at her elbow. Ducking the abundant waving and countless offers for future teas, the pair took their leave.
Senza guided Mrs. Branson out, supporting her delicate frame, care with every frail step as they went out to their carriage. Posie and her rowdies trailed behind to mark her passage, calling out invitations and well-wishes laced with dark insinuations.
Once safely stowed within the coach, Mrs. Branson showed remarkable recovery of her spirit. “Well. That was truly exhausting.”
“I hadn’t realized you’d grown so tired.”
Mrs. Branson snorted in a most undignified manner. “The only thing that tired me was listening to that endless prattle. And to think, I agreed to tea next week.”
“They have much to learn from your experience. They will benefit from your kindness.”
Mrs. Branson only harrumphed and pulled off her gloves, slapping them down on the cushion beside her. “You’re to stay clear of these mixed neighborhoods.”
The usually benign voice had developed a decidedly sharp tone, most disapproving. “There is no good to be found even here. Honestly, I fear for the future of proper society. All this mixing.”
Her mouth pinched, as if she’d tasted an unripe grape. “Either you belong, or you don’t. All of this in-between. Oh, it’s a disgrace. Pretense, all of it. Nasty, rotten pretense.”
Senza gaped. “But, ma’am. Isn’t that wrong of us to look down on them—any of them? Surely, they try to improve themselves. Their circumstances may
not be their own doing. I’ve always thought that man should strive to rise, to better himself.”
Mrs. Branson grunted. “Yes, yes. It’s their duty to the rest of mankind. But these bourgeois, these fledglings, these ruiners of propriety. They travel in packs, noisy boys, barking and racing each other like hounds on a hunt. Their smiles sharp, their intentions sharper. Gentlemen, they call themselves, with no value of character to recommend them. Dogs of society. Pretty dogs, to be sure; but beware, dearest child, of the teeth behind their hungry smiles. You will do well to avoid them henceforth. I demand it.”
Senza looked at her as if Mrs. Branson had sprouted horns and a tail. “I am not some child that you can command.”
“Yes, you are. You were given to me by your uncle to protect, and to nurture, and to educate.”
Senza bit her lips, knowing she could not very well defend herself against accusations of youth and naiveté.
“Your uncle was very explicit. ‘She is my greatest treasure’, he’d written. ‘Protect her and guard her as such.’ And so I have vowed to do.”
“To keep me in a cage.” Senza could not keep the acid from her tone.
“Where you are safe, dear. And isn’t the cage pretty? And bright? And high upon a perch which can be ravaged by none? Why do you not appreciate the security of your trappings, dear? You’ll court death if you court one of those jackals.”
“I am not courting anyone, Mrs. Branson.”
“No. I don’t believe you are. But you will. One day, you will. But for now, you are on display, that all the very best may come to gaze upon you, and, while safe in your golden cage, you may observe, and see the very best this wondrous city has to offer. See all of it, and emulate only the qualities worth preserving.”
“Such as those charities, to which you devote yourself so tirelessly?”
“You will do the same. You will feed the poor, so that they are properly grateful, and remember their place. We feed them. And they stay in their muddy circles, and refrain from prowling about, encroaching upon our gardens, seeking more.”
Senza barked out a contemptuous laugh and rolled her eyes. “That hardly speaks of a Christian good intention.”
“Perhaps not.” Mrs. Branson produced her flask, which had been stowed in the pocket of the carriage seat. With a flourish of a mock toast, she took several, great glugs of its contents. “But it is properly English.”
Over the weeks to follow, there were more teas and more parties with the wealthy bourgeois crowd. She found plenty of opportunity to associate with the group that had so thoroughly irritated her captor. Posie’s group had deigned themselves The Royal Evanses; as completely unbefitting of actual royalty, they’d established a firm reputation for being rich and reckless, and had earned the sour disregard of those whom Mrs. Branson called the better citizens. Each event was preceded by thirty minutes of stern warnings and followed, more often than not, by hours of reprimands for disobedience.
Senza listened to every demand and had steeled her disposition to do the spiteful opposite, seeking every opportunity to make special note of Posie’s crowd. Truthfully, their brash behavior fascinated her. Their extreme wealth had fostered extreme boredom. The Evans tribe found themselves too rich to waste time enriching their minds, too avant-garde to contribute to the good of society.
A rebellious spark caught in Senza as she listened to their tales, their adventures charging far beyond the realm of propriety.
That spark was fanned into flame with each gust of Mrs. Branson’s disapproval.
“Don’t waste your time with those miscreants,” the older woman advised. “They are life-wasters.”
Senza narrowed her eyes. What was she herself, if not a life-waster? “But, Mrs. Branson. The things they say—it sounds so exciting.”
Mrs. Branson looked mildly offended. “What about the concert at the Hillworth’s last week? Was that not exciting, Constance? The unannounced arrival of Madame Perry, from the Paris Opera—what a treat that was!”
“It was nice,” Senza said, rubbing her fingernails absent-mindedly.
“Nice? Dear, that was the perfect example of how fortunate we are to be in this here and now. Our circumstances are resplendent with all sorts of wonderful excitement.”
“True, but what about all the wonderful excitement that lies outside Chelsea? You said all of London is full of entertainment—”
“Not all of London. Oh, my dear child, London has much to offer, true.” She raised a trembling finger in warning. “But there are darker parts to London, parts in which you have no business. Those places offer nothing but the promise that they will take from you, every last breath you possess. They drain the life out of roses such as yourself. Think of them no longer. They will only lead souls to their ruin.”
With that, Mrs. Branson proceeded to read aloud from a pamphlet of philanthropy recently published by her charity group. Senza dutifully endured it with a feigned look of interest, but inside her thoughts were churning.
Escape. If she didn’t soon escape this tedious existence, she would go mad.
Later that week, the pair went for their usual Thursday afternoon drive in the park. Same routine, same park, same trees…
Senza sat sullenly during the ride, chin on her fist, barely listening to Mrs. Branson point out the ladies in her church group for the thousandth time. Really, had she forgotten that she’d done the same thing countless times over the past seven years?
The carriage rounded the bend near the fountain circle. Posie and the Royal Evanses gathered near the ivy fences, rudely resplendent in the most extravagant of dress. The sight of them lifted Senza’s dull spirits immediately and she asked Mrs. Branson if she might walk a while, for constitution’s sake.
By the time the driver pulled to a stop, Posie and her group were hidden from view behind the trellises, giving Mrs. Branson no reason to refuse her. Once the carriage pulled away to follow the winding road encircling the shady grounds of the city garden, Senza hurried back along the path to where the outlaws gathered.
She was met with the same mixture of admiration and smugness to which she’d become accustomed. For some reason, Posie equated condescension with manners.
Joining the group, Senza noticed Jack Evans was absent, and remarked upon it. “Is he well?”
“He’s fine,” Posie replied with a painted smirk. “I was just telling the others that his pride keeps him home today.”
“If a blackened eye could be called pride,” said one of the men. The statement held more than a subtle trace of satisfaction.
“A blackened eye!” Senza covered her mouth. “That’s dreadful!”
“That’s what he deserves,” his sister said. “I told him one day those unfortunate women would catch on to him.”
Senza shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t understand.”
There wasn’t a shred of compassion in Miss Evans’ voice. “He was slumming, dear, and he propositioned the wrong woman.”
“They are all the wrong woman.” That man again. Foster? Fink? Senza never could remember his name. He crossed his arms and laughed. “That’s all you’ll find in Whitechapel.”
The very mention of that neighborhood sent a shudder through her. Whitechapel was one of the nefarious places in East London that had already earned the Branson Stamp of Disapproval, as well as a frequent place in the police activity section of the daily papers. “Why would he go there?”
“We dared him. Haven’t you read the news? There’s a killer loose in the streets of Whitechapel, targeting women of ill-repute.” The man smiled. His front tooth was crooked, twisted in such a way to paint any of his smiles with black intention. “I bet Evans five pounds he couldn’t get close to a prostitute these days.”
“Jack was a champion at bedding them.” Posie sniffed. “I can see the attraction of the gambling parlours and the opium dens, but why he would debase himself to lie down with one of those women—”
“Well, he had no trouble doing it until day be
fore yesterday.” Mr. Foster-Fink-Whomever laughed. “Apparently, he found the only woman in the East End who’s heard of the word no.”
“Yes, well.” Posie rubbed her hands together as if washing them of the situation. “All the same, Foster. It’s one thing to spend a weekend up the pole on a rowdy bend. It’s quite another to keep a whore. There’s a limit to things.”
Hmm. Senza nodded, but didn’t speak her mind. So. There was a place in London where limits could be crossed, where even the most reckless of her kind dared not tread.
These last seven years had done many things for her, but at the moment, the only one she could think about was that she had grown tired of limits. She’d simply outgrown her golden birdcage.
Senza chatted a while with the group, her attention far away from the petty trivialities about which the Royal Evanses seemed obsessed. The seed of discontent that had been germinating in her heart burst into bloom at last.
By the time Mrs. Branson’s carriage completed its circuit and pulled up beside her, Senza had made plans very different from the ones Mrs. Branson prattled on about the entire ride back to Lawrence Street.
Another opera. Oh, the joy. She could barely contain it.
She’d need to change, of course. Mrs. Branson would never approve of attending the theatre in riding attire. Each step she took up the stairs only increased the discontent in her chest, the suffocating swell growing heavier and heavier. Another night in the company of Branson’s fogies would completely unhinge her. Upon reaching her bedroom, however, she found a hope and a promise and the respite from her desperate sense of entrapment.
The wardrobe doors hung open, empty. The bureau and dressing table were bare. Two dresses lay on the bed. One was a deep sapphire party gown, her opera glasses laying upon its satin bodice. The other dress was new—well, not new, as it was a worn linen weave, a country plaid she’d never seen before. Her two bags were packed and waiting at the foot of the bed.