Beauty's Doom

by Christina Britton Conroy

  She gave Elly a squeeze. “You were adorable, darling. I’m so proud of you.”

  Elly smiled at her guardian. “Thank you for coming. I can’t believe everyone knew I was going on, but me.”

  Robert beamed with love and pride. “You did it, my darling girl. You’re a real actress at a London theatre. I am so proud of you.” She hurled herself into his arms. They kissed passionately then, embarrassed, quickly pulled apart. Passing actors and crew smiled with approval. Isabelle’s expression was unreadable.

  Elly kept hold of Robert’s hand. “And I’m so proud of you. You have so many commissions, you’ll never have to worry about money, ever again.”

  Robert rolled his eyes. “Ooh, that is very premature. Most of my advance payments went toward renting my Bloomsbury loft, and making a payment on my father’s debt.” He spoke to Isabelle, keeping hold of Elly’s hand. “My agent, Mr Gildstein, found my loft. It’s at 2 Dombey Street. I don’t get paid in full until each portrait is finished, and I haven’t finished any, yet.

  “Every day, I waste hours sitting in servants’ quarters, hoping my subjects will make themselves available, and sit for me. At night, by gaslight, I paint their bodies and backgrounds, leaving out their faces. One of your very kind friends has eight children, and wants them all together on one canvas. She’s paying extra for each face, but I honestly don’t know how long it will take to finish.”

  He turned back to Elly. “I feel guilty taking this afternoon off, but I couldn’t miss your debut. You were wonderful.”

  She snuggled close to him. “It’s The Magistrate again tonight, so I don’t need to move any costumes. I can leave as soon as I change. Are you coming for tea?”

  Robert sadly shook his head. “No, love. I’m going back to work.”

  “Well, then …” She took a deep breath. “When am I going to see you again?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” He pulled his hand away.

  Tears filled her eyes. “I miss you terribly.”

  “And I, you.”

  Desperate, Elly looked to Isabelle. “Please ma’am, you told Robert he was welcome at Hamilton Place anytime, night or day.”

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow, and Robert shook his head. “But darling, that was when you were injured. Now that you’re well—”

  Isabelle finished his sentence, “Now that you’re well, Mr Dennison will be invited to the house from time to time, as are all of our friends.”

  Elly swallowed. “Of course.” Very tentatively, she asked, “Perhaps, one day, I could view the art studio at 2 Dombey Street?”

  Isabelle’s spoke slowly. “It … might … be … arranged … if you were well chaperoned.”

  Robert broke the tension. “Ladies, I must run. Thank you again, Lady Richfield, for all your kindness.” He kissed her hand, and stared lovingly at Elly. “Stay well, my angel. You’re always in my thoughts.” He bowed and sadly left.

  Elly watched him go and thought her heart would break.

  Isabelle saw her anguish. “I’m glad you’re coming home with me. We need to have a talk. Go and change. I’ll say hello to Kathy and wait in the car.”

  Back at the Hamilton Place mansion, Elly watched Isabelle’s maid loosen her mistress’s corset. When Isabelle’s stomach ballooned out, Elly’s eyes bulged.

  Isabelle laughed. “I can’t believe I’m showing this much already. Perhaps I’m further along than I thought. Thank goodness the Countess’s ball is tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll give up my corset.” She leaned into Elly. “And, tonight you will wear a corset.” Elly cringed as Isabelle spoke to her maid. “Bring us some tea, Charlston, thanks.” The maid curtsied and left.

  As soon as the maid was gone, Elly grimaced. “Please, Isabelle. I know you wish the best for me, but why must I go to the ball? The last one was so dreary. I’m going to be an actress. No!” She sat up. “I am an actress. I did well, today. Mr O’Connell said so.”

  Isabelle smiled, so Elly made a bold move. “Since I am an actress, I don’t need to be out in society. No one cares if an actress is presented at court, and I’m already too old. I’m eighteen. It should have been presented last year. Katherine Stewart never came out, and—”

  “Kathy’s background is entirely unlike yours. Her family was on stage, and she never had the opportunities you will have.”

  “But—”

  “You may have a brilliant career on the stage and be totally happy there forever. But, just in case – five, ten, fifteen years from now – you decide you wish for a change, I want you to have a circle of acquaintances, in society. For the next three years you will be surrounded by fortune-hunters, so don’t even think of marrying before you’re twenty-one. After that, the estate can be put in trust for you and your heirs alone. In the meantime, I’ll see you’re introduced to a class of men you may find interesting for the future.”

  Elly’s face was like stone. “I don’t want to meet other men. I want to marry Robert Dennison.”

  Isabelle sighed and sat next to her. “I know you love Robert, and I believe he loves you. He is a gifted artist, highly intelligent, and knows he cannot marry you.”

  “But why?” Elly looked shocked.

  “In simplest words, because he is poor and you are rich. A gentleman never accepts a gift from a lady, unless he can give her something twice as expensive in return.”

  “But I—”

  “There are no buts. If he marries you, everyone will say he helped you run away from your betrothed, so he could get your fortune for himself.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “You and I know it is insane, but the world will think differently. If he marries you, your fortune will become his. He’ll never have to work another day in his life, and he would also lose his credibility as an artist. Your wealth insures you invitations to some of the finer houses, but he will always be received as a gigolo. If you are not properly introduced into society, you could simply be tolerated as a wealthy eccentric.”

  “But, I don’t like society people. They’re vain and boring—”

  “I don’t care for most of them myself, but I used them to create the Free School for Girls. I’m not ashamed to use boring, moneyed people in order to do good.” She patted Elly’s hand. “So, poor little rich girl, if you’re totally bored tonight, just pretend to be shy, and stay close to us. Ned’s coming too, so we’ll have an entourage.”

  At 8.45, Elly sat in the library reading a beautifully bound copy of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Her corset stays hurt, and two dozen hairpins stabbed her scalp. She turned a page, then glanced up and caught her breath. Isabelle’s younger brother, Edward Hereford, stood watching. Looking very like Isabelle, he was tall and slender with electric blue eyes, beautifully cut chestnut hair, and a neat moustache.

  “Miss Fielding, you’re a vision.”

  “Thank you.” She twisted her mouth.

  He smiled at her embarrassment. “You’re the only girl I know who doesn’t like compliments.”

  “I do like them.” She flushed pink. “It’s just that, well, being pretty doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No, Mr Hereford.”

  “Ned.”

  “Ned … and please call me Elly.”

  “Elly.” He continued to smile at her porcelain skin and clear green eyes. The smooth curve of her bare shoulders led to the soft curve of her firm young breasts, rising and falling with shallow breaths. A pale-pink satin gown set off her copper hair, and a single strand of seed pearls hugged her creamy throat. A small gold brooch, made from comedy and tragedy masks, sat at the V of her bosom. It had been a birthday gift from Katherine and Isabelle. She wore it always.

  Ned pulled up a chair. His beautifully tailored evening clothes draped his slender frame. “Most women think beauty is everything. Most men think beauty in a woman is everything. If she’s rich and beautiful, it’s even better.” Elly clenched her teeth and he smiled. “I see you disagree.”

  “I really hav
e no opinion—’

  “Poppycock! You’re full of opinions. May I hear them?”

  Stunned, she collected her thoughts. “You are very kind to ask—”

  “I’m not a bit kind. I want to know.”

  “Forgive me, sir, um … Ned, but since I came to London, people have been telling me that I’m pretty. I’m not used to it.”

  “Really? You must have heard it before.”

  “I haven’t. At least, not often.”

  “You went away to school. There must have been chaps who took notice.”

  “They didn’t … seldom … I don’t know.”

  “Were they all blind?”

  “No.” Her brows wrinkled. “There were boys who seemed to fancy me, but I’d always say something stupid, and they’d disappear.”

  “You probably spoke sense. Nothing frightens a boy as much as a clever girl.”

  She glanced up and was surprised to see genuine interest in his face. “Last December I was the same girl I am now, but everything was different. I had no real friends, except my art master, Robert Dennison.”

  “In Paris, we called him Rob.”

  She nodded. “I forgot you two knew each other. Well, I thought I had no money, no position. I was ready to kill myself rather than marry Sir John Garingham. When—”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Absolutely.” She tried to sit back and flinched as whalebone stays dug into her flesh. “Suddenly, without earning the right, I’m living in a mansion, wearing the most beautiful clothes in the world—”

  “Uncomfortable clothes. You don’t usually wear a corset, do you?”

  “No. Isabelle made me. She’s wearing one, and she looks like she’s going to faint.”

  “Blast her vanity.” He shook his head. “I’m very worried about her.”

  “Why? She’s had babies before.”

  “She has, and it’s never made her ill before. She needs to go home. Our mother’s a great midwife and healer, but she hates London. Isabelle will have to go to her. I wish she’d go tonight, instead of to this wretched ball. Her last pregnancies were so easy. She was riding the hunt a month before Bella was born. You ride, don’t you?”

  “Not since I was little. I had a pony. He was my best friend.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “My uncle sold him.”

  “He sold your best friend?”

  The memory brought unexpected tears to her eyes.

  He pretended not to notice. “Well, everyone rides at Hereford Castle. You’re young and agile, a veritable gazelle leaping around those rocks in The Tempest. This summer, we’ll have you on horseback, chasing the hounds in no time.”

  She smiled gratefully. “I’m so looking forward to seeing the estate, and meeting your mother.” She half whispered, “I hope she likes me.”

  “She’ll love you. You look just like her, or more probably her deceased twin sister, your grandmother.”

  Elly smiled sadly. “I may not really be related.”

  He glanced at her book. “What are you reading?”

  “The Mystery Of Edwin Drood. I thought I’d read all of Dickens. I’m so pleased there’s another.”

  “The book is wonderful, albeit with someone else’s ending. What a shame, to die in the middle of a masterpiece.”

  “Perhaps he was lucky.” She smiled serenely.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, if one has a passion …” her face glowed, “… and one is able to live that passion all the way to the end—”

  “Ah! Good point.” He studied her. “Philosophising like that, it’s no wonder you frightened away schoolboys.”

  They looked up as the butler entered. “Forgive me, sir. Sir William asks that you and Miss Fielding meet them in the foyer.”

  “Thank you, Smythe. We’ll be down, directly.”

  “Very good, sir.” He was gone.

  Ned helped Elly to her feet. “If I’m ever in London more than a few weeks a year, I’ll find a house of my own, and stop imposing on my brother-in-law.”

  “They love having you here. Isabelle told me she’s lonely when you’re away. Were you close as children? I know she’s five years older.” They walked down the stairs.

  “When I was very little, she used me as her dress-up doll. I quite enjoyed it.”

  ****

  Twenty-two hours later, the tedious ball was all but forgotten. Elly gratefully returned to His Majesty’s Theatre and her icy top-floor dressing room. At stage-level, the dressing rooms had coal-burning stoves. The heat rose well enough to make the second story bearable, but the top floor was frigid. Elly and the other female supernumeraries shivered as they dressed for The Tempest. Some could slip their costumes over their street clothes to stay warm. Elly needed to strip naked, pull on a flesh-colored body stocking, wait for a friend to button the back, slip a sheer gauze shift over that, and finally wrap herself in a heavy quilt dressing gown.

  She pushed her bare feet into fuzzy slippers and shivered, waiting for her body warmth to warm the icy robe. She darkened her eyes, rouged her cheeks and lips, combed her hair long, and raced across the catwalk for her nightly visit to the men’s dressing room.

  Rory, Todd and other actors sat with their coats over their costumes, smearing hard chunks of greasepaint over their faces.

  Old Peter held up a grease stick. “This thing’s frozen. My fingers are too stiff …”

  Rory grabbed the stick and rubbed it fiercely between his hands.

  Todd laughed. “Looks like you’re starting a fire.”

  “Wish I could.” Rory shivered and handed Peter the stick. “Try it now.”

  Peter spread it on his face. “Better, thanks. I’m one actor who loves a hot summer.”

  Elly looked at the men’s worn coats and boots. She was determined to help them, without embarrassing them.

  ****

  The next morning, she went to see her guardian, Sir William Richfield. His study door was open, and he was reading Gentleman’s Weekly. When he saw Elly, he took off his glasses and smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She nervously took a seat. “If you please, Sir William, I need your advice.”

  “Thank goodness someone does. Having the most capable wife in Britain leaves one feeling superfluous.” They both laughed.

  “Surely not. She’d be desolate without you.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I’d certainly be desolate without her, and I’ve been hoping to be of use to you, some day.” He yawned, stretched his legs, and the buttons on his vest pulled over his round tummy. His tie hung at an angle and his thick hair was oddly parted. Totally at ease, he relaxed back in his chair. “So, my dear, tell me what I can do.”

  Elly smiled gratefully. “You’re so kind. It’s no wonder your daughters adore you.” She nervously bit her lip. “Actually, sir, it’s about money. I’m afraid I’m very stupid …”

  He coughed out a laugh. “Women don’t need to know about money. Why are you concerned?”

  “Well, sir, you’ve told me that I’m to come into a good deal of money, but that as my guardian, you are responsible for my needs, until that time.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’ve been terribly generous, buying me things.”

  “What things? You’ve asked for nothing. I’ve never known a woman content with so little.”

  “So little? I’m living in your beautiful home. I’m served sumptuous meals. I have expensive clothes, a car and carriage at my command, servants ready to act upon my slightest whim—”

  “Yes, yes, so what does a young lady need to know about money?”

  She giggled uncomfortably. “Well, sir, if I wished to purchase something with my own money …”

  “Don’t be a goose.” He rubbed his eyes. “If there’s anything you want, just ask.”

  Her cheeks flushed and she stared at the floor.

&
nbsp; He cleared his throat. “You need to understand, my dear, ‘in trust’ means that no one can touch your money. Not even you.” She looked distressed so he quickly added, “But if you’re set on being independent, I don’t see why we can’t set up some sort of credit.”

  She looked up hopefully. “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s like a loan against your inheritance. If you want to purchase something, I can loan you the money. We keep an accounting and when your estate becomes liquid, you pay me back.”

  “Liquid?”

  “When the money becomes available.” She stared blankly, so he took a sheet of paper. “Say you have a thousand pounds in trust—”

  “Do I have so much?”

  He stopped himself from laughing. “You have a great deal more, but to make the maths simple—”

  “How much do I have?”

  “I’m not sure, but I believe it’s in the vicinity of thirty thousand—”

  “Thirty thousand? Pounds?”

  “A year.”

  “A year? For how many years?”

  “Forever.”

  “What do you mean, forever?”

  “Until you die. Then your heir, probably your eldest son, will inherit your estate.”

  “But there can’t be so much money in the world.”

  He chuckled. “Trust me.”

  “I do, I just …”

  “Come look.” He dipped his pen in the inkwell. She walked around to his side of the desk. “Say you want to buy, what, a car?”

  “A car?”

  “All right, let’s say a coat, and it costs, what, ten pounds? In one column I’ll write the date.” He wrote, February 25, 1904. “In the next column I’ll write the item: one coat, and in the last column, the price: ten pounds. Then, in three years’ time, we’ll add all the money you’ve borrowed, and you can pay me back. How’s that?”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Of course, I’ll have to approve your purchases, but so far you’ve proved yourself very frugal.”

  Excited, she sat back down. “I want to buy twenty dressing gowns and twenty pairs of warm slippers.”

  “What?”

  “For the poor actors.”

  “Good Lord.”