by Lynn Morris
This cheered Valeria, for she had never known her mother to exaggerate or tell a half-truth. And in fact, when her turn finally came, she knew that her mother had, as always, spoken the exact truth.
She came to stand at the entrance of the Drawing Room, a long, high-ceilinged room with twenty-foot windows hung with rich red velvet all along one wall, and great paintings of royal personages on the other. At the far end a red velvet canopy embroidered with the royal coat of arms overhung the platform where the Queen sat, surrounded by the princesses royal and the ladies-in-waiting. Various people stood along the walls, all dressed in startling richness. There were no chairs, for of course one never sat in the presence of royalty.
Two lords-in-waiting appeared at Valeria’s side; the gentleman on the left gently removed her train from her left arm and began to spread it out. The gentleman on the right took her card and went forward to hand it to the lord chamberlain, the Marquess of Hertford. Valeria didn’t recognize the two lords-in-waiting, but she was acquainted with the marquess, as she had met him twice at the theatre and once at Lady Hylton’s. Of course he gave no sign, and his voice held the same lack of inflection as for the last eighty or so girls.
“Miss Valeria Segrave.”
Valeria began that long, long walk; and she found that she was able to compose herself. She held her head high, and moved with great grace, and her face didn’t feel the least bit strained.
Lady Hylton had told her that it was suitable—even expected—that she would keep her eyes on the Queen, and that her gaze not dart around like a cornered doe’s. Valeria observed that Queen Charlotte was slightly built, with gleaming silver hair. Though she was not a beauty, her countenance was bright and vivacious, her eyes were sparkling and keen, and her expression was one of good humor. At last Valeria reached the throne, curtsied deeply, and waited. Ladies who were not of noble lineage kissed the queen’s hand, but for nobility, as always, the rules were different.
The queen leaned forward and kissed Valeria on the forehead. Valeria held her curtsy for a moment more, then rose. To her surprise, Queen Charlotte said, “Welcome to the court, Miss Segrave. The King and I grieved when we heard of your father’s untimely death, at such a young age. Though he did not frequent the court as often as we could wish, he was still a favorite.”
To her consternation, tears came to Valeria’s eyes, for in spite of her outward composure her emotions were running high. However, they didn’t fall; they simply made her dark eyes look even more like great misty luminous pools. The Queen’s already genuinely sympathetic face softened perceptibly at the sight.
Valeria’s voice was perfectly steady when she replied, “In my father’s name, I am deeply honored, Your Majesty. It’s a joy to me that he is so kindly remembered.”
“So he is; and so he will be from now on, for you certainly inherited his looks and his air, Miss Segrave.” Then the Queen nodded gracefully, and Valeria knew that this was her dismissal. She made a curtsy to the other members of the royal family, then a final long deep curtsy to the Queen. Unobtrusively and quickly the lord-in-waiting gathered up her train and draped it over her arm, and Valeria bowed and began to back up, as one must never turn one’s back to the Queen. She was conscious that the lord-in-waiting guided her, as it were, by backing up with her; when she was about two-thirds of the way down the room Regina joined her and the lord led them out a side door.
When they reached the privacy of the carriage Valeria said, “Whew! All that kerfuffle for barely a minute! But you were correct, Mamma, she was extremely gracious. I think that I will forgive her for making us wear these dismal hoop skirts after all.”
* * *
Despite her comment, Valeria was in a tearing hurry to shed the hoop skirt when she arrived home, not only because she despised it but because Lord and Lady Sefton were giving a ball that night. They had invited all the newly presented ingenues and their families, and Valeria had a sumptuous new ball gown to wear.
“Before you do anything, take this horrendous object off my head,” she told Joan testily. “I declare I’ll never refer to anything as ‘light as a feather’ again. It feels more like a horsetail than a feather. Now that I think of it, it looks like a horsetail too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Joan said automatically, then said eagerly, “Oh, ma’am, aren’t you going to tell me all about meeting the Queen? Everyone belowstairs is ever so eager to hear.”
As she dressed, Valeria related every detail to Joan, who relished the story, and even committed the grave sin of interrupting Valeria a couple of times to further clarify a point. Finally Valeria was dressed, and Joan said, “Oh, miss, your court dress was that beautiful; but this one is like a dream.”
Valeria’s first choice for a court presentation dress had been an ivory-pink satin, but Madame Touraint and Regina had convinced her that her white feather and particularly her white gloves would make the shade look somewhat dingy. They had been right; but Madame Tournai had suggested using the fabric for a ball gown, and had designed a unique dress for Valeria.
Indeed, the particular color was unusual; it was a pale, pale ivory but with a pinkish hue like that of a fruity champagne. Madame Tournai had shown Valeria a delicate, airy, gossamer fabric with spider-web-thin gold threads woven through it, called “shot” muslin. Madame Tournai had said that she could perfectly match the unusual hue of the satin, and dye the white muslin, which would not affect the gold threads. Valeria had also persuaded Madame Tournai to dye her gloves; although white gloves were still most often worn—as were white dresses—some fashionable young ladies had been seen even in full formal dress with gloves dyed to match their gowns. It was considered rather daring, but not necessarily in a loose way, and finally Madame Tournai had consented.
She had been true to her word, for the delicate hue was perfect. The finished dress was a simple Empire-waisted sheath with off-the-shoulder short sleeves made of the satin; it was commonly termed a “petticoat,” but of course it was not the same as the undergarment, it was really an underdress. The overdress was made of the shot muslin, and the rich sheen of the satin, combined with the glimmer of the gold thread, had a dazzling effect. The skirt had a small demi-train. The low neckline was square-cut. With her pink diamond necklace, diadem, and earrings, Valeria looked more beautiful than she ever had in her life.
She had heard Lord and Lady Lydgate and Lady Hylton arrive to collect her some time before. She hurried downstairs and gave a flurried kiss to her mother, and the company went to Lord and Lady Sefton’s house on Park Lane, which bordered the west side of Hyde Park, and so was only five blocks away. Carriages were lined all up and down the broad street, but finally the Lydgate carriage was at the foot of the steps leading up into the grand mansion. Valeria thought that there must be thousands and thousands of candles, for through the many windows the house glowed like a golden star.
As this was such a grand ball, the host and hostess did not greet the guests at the door. A master of ceremonies took everyone’s card, and then announced the guests in a baritone roar that carried throughout the great ballroom.
“The Right Honourable Letitia, Lady Hylton; the Right Honourable the Viscount Lydgate; the Right Honourable the Viscountess Lydgate; Miss Segrave,” he boomed, and the four of them walked into the crowd and were instantly separated, for it was already a crush.
“Miss Segrave, I’ve been waiting for you,” she heard, and Daniel Everleigh turned sideways to slide past a rather portly man in full military regalia, and writhed through. He bowed; Valeria curtsied prettily. She reflected that Mr. Everleigh was looking fine this evening in full evening dress. He was wearing a dark blue cutaway coat with gold buttons, a white satin waistcoat, an intricate complex cravat, light-blue satin breeches with gold buckles at the knee, white stockings “clocked” in blue, and the de rigueur black pumps with bows. Everleigh was not a muscular man, but he was trim and Valeria observed (not for the first time) that he had good calves. He was distinctly handsome, almost pretty, with
his lush curling brown hair, well-shaped heavily lashed dark eyes, small straight nose, and wide mouth.
After their greetings he stared at Valeria, a very bold up-and-down appraisal. In the crowd he stepped very close to her, and said, “You look utterly ravishing. Ravishing. I’m simply ravished.”
Valeria smiled, her eyes brilliant. “And repeating yourself, sir, which is very unlike you. However, I choose to take the repetition as a high compliment.”
“Please do. Listen—you must come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand and leading her, weaving through the crowd. It was unorthodox, first for them to touch at all, much less hold hands for any length of time, and second for him to walk in front of her, clearing a path, as it were. Valeria thought carelessly that in this rout no one could possibly notice, and followed along.
She had time to look around and orient herself, because for the first few minutes she had been dazzled. The crowd was like a riotous rainbow, for older women wore varied colors of bolder shades than the young women, and although most of the men were in Beau Brummel’s preferred somber colors, there were quite a few military men in blazing red coats or rich sumptuous blue, with a myriad of gold braids. In the long rectangular room—Valeria reflected that it seemed to be about the same size as the royal Drawing Room that she had just left—four enormous glittering crystal-and-gold chandeliers each held hundreds of candles. Everywhere were lush garlands of laurels, and opulent arrangements of flowers. Only now did Valeria look up and see the minstrels’ gallery, which held at least thirty musicians. The music would be resplendent tonight.
Daniel led her to a hallway; at the entrance to the ballroom was set up a long table holding what Valeria at first took to be fans. “Lady Sefton has outdone herself tonight in grandeur; this will surely put one in Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s eye,” he said with relish. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell was known as the haughtiest and most icy of the patronesses of Almack’s. Heiress to the great Drummond banking fortune, she was the wealthiest of the patronesses, and perhaps because of her lack of title (she had married a minor dandy who appended her name to his), by her lavish display of her enormous wealth, she seemed to try to compete with the other noble ladies who ruled Almack’s.
“Oh, how exquisite,” Valeria breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
They were fan-shaped, but they were not fans, they were dance cards. The guardsticks and leaf were of silver, intricately engraved. The sticks—the lower part of the ribs—were of mother-of-pearl, and the dances were listed on them in calligraphy with a royal-blue ink. The slips—the upper part of the ribs—were of very light balsa wood, painted with silver gilt; this was where the gentlemen signed their names for each dance. Attached to each fan were two thick tassels of silver thread, and a blue pencil topped with a silver cap and loop.
The wooden-faced footman standing behind the table wordlessly handed one to Valeria, and grinning mischievously, Everleigh snatched it out of her hand. “I insist on claiming my dances first, ma’am, as I know that as always you will be in much demand.” He turned the fan sideways to peruse the list of dances, then busily started writing.
Lord and Lady Lydgate, followed by Lord Hylton, made their way through the crowd to Valeria’s side. “Elyse, just look at these dance cards. Aren’t they stunning?”
“Yes, I saw several other ladies with them, and I demanded that Reggie find them,” she answered. “My husband will only consent to dance one time with me, but there are plenty of other gentlemen who are glad to please a lady.” She dug her elbow into Reggie’s side.
“Ow,” he mumbled. “Don’t care for dancing much, I’m always afraid of forgetting the steps or trodding on someone’s foot. I did that one time, you know, “’twas Lady Alvanley, and she didn’t take kindly to it, at all.”
Impatiently Elyse said, “Oh, come, Reggie, sign for this contredanse, it’ll be late in the evening and you’ll have had enough negus by then that you won’t care. Let’s go find Ponsonby, he promised me the cotillion.”
Alastair stepped up and bowed, and as Valeria made her curtsy she noted that he made Daniel Everleigh look a bit of a flash. Alastair’s black coat had cloth-covered buttons, his cravat was simple but perfect, his white waistcoat was of silk, not shiny satin, his breeches were dull black satin, his white stockings without design. Still, with his height, and his breadth of shoulder, and his muscular rider’s legs, he was an imposing figure, and the severe but elegant simplicity of his tailoring fit his air of impenetrable reserve.
However, as Valeria regarded him, she was somewhat bemused to find that his expression, normally remote and even cold, was different on this night. A small half-smile, wholly contained, was on his lips, and his eyes, instead of the frigid gray-blue, seemed warmer, even friendly. “Miss Segrave, you are in particular good looks. I assume that confection is one of Madame Tournai’s newest?”
Obscurely pleased that Alastair had noticed her frock, Valeria answered, “So it is, sir, and I’m afraid it’s to my beautiful gown that I must attribute my looks tonight.”
“Not at all,” he said, then turned to Daniel. “What’s that—oh, so this is the famous dance card. Hand it over, Everleigh. Yes, so I thought, you young dog, you’re not going to have three dances with Miss Segrave tonight, it won’t do.”
To Valeria’s astonishment he crossed out Daniel’s name and with a flourish wrote “Hylton” with a heavy line upon one of the sticks, then looked at the list of dances. “But—but sir, I’ve never known you to dance,” she said, bewildered. “I was certain you must have sworn it off for life.”
“I’m very ill-suited to hopping and skipping and prancing. I’ll walk through a cotillion, though I do regret the small bits of fancy footwork; and here I see an allemande, which I will also suffer through.” He wrote his name on another one of the slips.
Daniel Everleigh, more than slightly miffed at being called a young dog, muttered, “That’s high-handed even for you, Hylton. It’s customary to ask young ladies for the honor of a dance.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that rumor. Did you ask Miss Segrave for the honor?”
“Well, no, but we have a particular understanding, you know.”
“I doubt that Miss Segrave understood that she was to dance with you three times,” he said sardonically, then, suddenly slightly alarmed, he turned to Valeria and demanded, “Did you?”
In truth Valeria had thought little about it; she was feeling so exultant these days that breaking this silly little rule seemed inconsequential. But she wished to enjoy Lord Hylton’s unusual good humor and to avoid another scolding. Languidly she replied, “Oh, certainly, sir. And after that I was going to play the pianoforte and sing at the top of my lungs, and then I was going to dance a ballet.”
Alastair relaxed and then actually did smile. “I might worry about the ballet, but I know there is no chance of the musical performance, ma’am. I am content.”
“I’m so happy to ease your mind, sir.”
The musicians were completing their discordant tuning up, and the crowd thinned as the older dowagers and unfortunate partner-less young ladies began taking their seats on the delicate French side chairs along the walls. Alastair said, “Please accompany me, Miss Segrave, as the cotillion is the opening dance, and we must arrange our partners. I’m glad Ponsonby’s dancing with Elyse; the last time Reggie danced the cotillion he ended up not once but twice in the wrong group.”
Nodding his head, he indicated to Valeria where Elyse and Charles Ponsonby were standing in the middle of several couples. Unlike Daniel, Alastair courteously walked behind Valeria, and they joined the group. Elyse took Valeria’s dance card and said, “Here, Mamma is to hold our fans and cards.” She glanced down at it and whispered in Valeria’s ear, “Alastair has signed for two dances? I can hardly believe it, he so rarely dances at all, and I can’t recall him ever dancing with the same partner twice.”
“How fortunate I am for his worshipful lordship to show me such condescension,” Valeria whispered b
ack.
Valeria had thought that Alastair would be a stiff and somber dancer but quite the opposite was true. He danced gracefully, with a spare elegance, and on this mysteriously magical night he was inclined to what Valeria thought of as normal polite conversation. He said, “I’m a little surprised that you dance the cotillion so well, Miss Segrave, as it is considered quite ancient by young people, and is so rarely performed.”
“‘Young people,’” she repeated mockingly. “You speak as if you were a doddering ancient.”
“Sometimes I feel like it. For example, I have never ceased to mourn the minuet, no one ever includes it anymore. I loved the minuet; it was so easy, like taking a leisurely walk. It’s the only dance I have ever enjoyed.”
“That may be so, but I am sorry to tell you that even if you’re perfectly miserable, you’re quite a good dancer.”
“I’m far from miserable; in fact, I’m in grave danger of enjoying myself. And I never said I was a bad dancer, I believe I said something to the effect that I was not partial to poncing about, making antic gestures.”
Valeria laughed, though she kept it to a low, discreet laugh. “I most emphatically agree with you, sir. You never ponce or make antic gestures.”
This friendly banter continued throughout the dance, and Valeria felt a strange small thrill as he took her hand and pressed rather close to her, as he escorted her off the floor. Seeing several young men looking eagerly her way, he said in a courtly manner, “Thank you for the honor, ma’am. I look forward to our allemande.” Before she could reply, he had slipped away from her side, and she was besieged by Daniel Everleigh and three other young men, all begging to sign her card. She scolded Everleigh—very slightly—and said that he had already claimed two dances, and she so feared the wrath of Lord Hylton that she wasn’t about to let his taradiddle persuade her into a third dance now. Soon her card was full, though she had prudently insisted on leaving the fifth and ninth dances open, knowing that she would be grateful to sit down and refresh herself with some lemonade.