by Joan Smith
At eight-thirty, Barbara sat alone, wondering if there were any wigs in the attic and wishing she had thought to look before it got dark. They would be antiquated affairs from another era—that would look odd at a modern ball. She found a mask from a masquerade party in her drawers, and a domino, but disliked to go without some concealment for her hair.
It was not yet nine o’clock when a servant came tapping at the door to inform her that Lord Romeo awaited her below. With a joyful heart, she dashed downstairs, for her most intense efforts had not produced a really good plan to overcome the host of difficulties involved in getting to the ball. She needed this ally. It was difficult, indeed impossible, to seek his help with the housekeeper sitting not a yard away, with her ears on the stretch. The talk was of the dullest. How did she feel after her fall in the pond? Not at all ill. He had not seen her at Staunton’s ball and, as he knew she had been bade to dinner first, assumed she was not to attend. He must have gone—and left—very early. There was no reason for him to remain if she were not there. All this was for the third listener’s benefit, for of course she knew Romeo was going to the Cyprians’ Ball, but she was flattered he had looked for her first. He supposed he ought not to stay long. It might be better if he not. He arose on the spot, to her infinite disappointment. She had about three seconds in which to impart to him some intimation he was to return to some more private door than the front door. Her eyes, she knew, were full of intrigue, and she hoped he would see it. She saw, to her relief, that his were similarly alight. As he bent over to kiss her inner wrist, he slipped a note into her other hand, which went out of its own volition, so closely were their thoughts linked.
“You are my other self,” he told her in a low voice, then took his leave of the housekeeper and departed. Before half a minute was up, Barbara was in her room, reading the note:
My dear heart: I will not be parted from you. I write this on the chance of being allowed to see you for a moment. I will be waiting in our garden. Come to me if you love me. Your own, Romeo.
The only fact of much interest to her was that he was waiting. Here was a cohort in her plan to attend the infamous ball. She picked up a pelisse, a bonnet, and slipped down the staircase, looking carefully to await her chance to dart into the study unseen and out the French doors to the garden where he had sketched her.
He was invisible in the shadows in his black outfit, but caused no more than a stifled yelp when he came forward.
He drew her at once into his arms. “We will never be separated,” he said in amorous accents. The secrecy, the romance of the venture, and the moonlight acted strongly on his very sensitive nature. “We are two halves, you and I, indivisible. I have my carriage waiting for you. We shall leave tonight to be married.”
“Romeo, don’t be foolish. I'm not eloping with you.”
“You love me, or you would not be here. Clivedale will not let us meet. I refuse to leave you. This is the only way—there will be no shame attaching to it. We shall go at once to my father’s place in Hampshire and be married from there.”
“I don’t want to be married! I want to go to the ball.”
“Will your chaperone not be there, and see you?”
“No, I want to go to the Cyprians’ Ball.”
“I didn’t know ladies of quality attended, but if you want to go, I shall take you.”
“They don’t attend, which is why I must go in disguise, and you must help me.”
“If I cannot bend Heaven, I shall move Hell to oblige you,” was his reply.
“There is no need to exert yourself so far. An outfit is all I need.”
“Put on your peplos and sandals.”
“I am not going as Aphrodite or Amphitrite. I wish to go as a man.”
“Narcissus, of course!”
“It is not a costume ball,” she explained with decreasing patience. “I want a coat and trousers. Yours would not be much too large for me, I think.”
“It is the wrong shape. My shoulders are much larger, and your waist smaller. Then too, it would be criminal to hide your heavenly bosoms and—”
“Never mind, Romeo. You’re not going to paint me, only help me find a disguise. Do you have a wig?”
“No, I wear my own hair.”
“You are enough to make me tear mine out at the roots! Don’t you understand? I want to go without being recognized, for Clivedon will be there.”
“I would much rather marry you. We could be halfway to the Hall by morning.”
“We would be together at some inn tonight, I expect, and I have no idea of behaving so stupidly. Will you help me or not?”
“I am at your disposal. What can I do?”
“Let us get out of here for a start, before we are discovered. I think we must go to Fannie’s house, and I’ll change there. But what shall I wear?”
“Even if you wear my coat and trousers, your hair must always tell the world who you are. There is no other such spun gold in this country.”
She ignored the compliment, but agreed with him that her hair must be covered, and felt the charming Titian wig resting in Fannie’s room was the thing to do it. Fannie had worn it to a masquerade party last year. They drove to Portland Place and, with a memory of Clivedon’s anger at her meeting Gentz there, she had Romeo wait in the carriage for her, and let herself in. There were servants at home, not so surprised to see her again after her former visit to meet Gentz. The butler handed her a few letters, which she put in her reticule without reading. She made a hasty toilette, the greatest bother being to pin her own hair tightly to her head and slide on the red wig. It changed her appearance a good deal. A darkening of her brows and lashes, a spot of rouge on her cheeks, and she felt the disguise was better than she had hoped. She would hardly recognize herself. Fannie’s gowns were a close enough fit to make wearing them possible, though they did not fit so well as her own. A tightening of the drawstring below the bodice on an Empress-style gown helped. Still, she feared a close observer might know her, and took up a large fan to conceal her face. On an impulse, she took up also a black feather mask, elaborate as most of Fannie’s things were, including the low-cut gown of mauve lutestring she wore. It showed a good deal of her bosoms. Romeo, she feared, would be hard to control, but she threw a white shawl over the outfit and picked up her reticule to leave.
She knew her disguise to be good when her escort, lounging at the front door, said, “Good evening, ma’am. You are very beautiful. Would you be kind enough to ask within if Lady Barbara is ready to join me now? I am very tired with waiting.”
“Romeo, you idiot! It’s me.”
“Barbara? I didn’t recognize you. I don’t like you so well with red hair. I hope you haven’t dyed it.”
“Not in half an hour. I am not so efficient, and you said I was beautiful.”
“Aphrodite is always beautiful, but less beautiful without her golden hair. And I don’t think I like the paint on your face. You look like a harlot. I want to take you home and make love to you. I become very excited in the company of harlots. All gentlemen do. I expect I shall enjoy the ball. I wish you weren’t coming with me.”
“Don’t feel you have to tell me every thought that passes through your head,” she said, unsettled by his plain talking, though she was becoming fairly used to it.
“I do you the honor to say what I think and feel. Hypocrisy is anathema to me. Please take off your shawl so I can see your figure.”
She pulled it more tightly about her and got into the carriage. After trying several times to remove it, to kiss her, to take off her wig, and generally to talk her into eloping with him, Romeo was given to understand that he was doing no more than going to a ball, where he would behave himself if he knew what was good for him.
“I wanted to make an alliance with one of the harlots tonight,” he told her. “I do not speak of a prolonged arrangement, you understand. Only till we are married. I haven’t had an affair since I left Taunton several weeks ago. I am becoming very nervous and ir
ritable. You must forgive me. I mean to be as faithful as I can after we are married, only I am not much good at fidelity.”
A few examples of his attempts at it, and his subsequent failures, made up his conversation till they reached the Argyle Rooms on Regent’s Street, where the ball was in progress. It was no longer early, but one unique feature of the Cyprians’ Ball was the lateness of its beginning, as so many of the escorts had first to deliver their wives or fiancées elsewhere, and stay an hour to keep up appearances. It was early enough that the scene had not yet become very indecorous. She had attended less well-run polite parties. Most of the gentlemen were recognized by her, and a few of the ladies as well, by sight only. To stand and watch, it would not occur to anyone she was at a prostitutes’ ball. The gowns were as fine, the jewels in as great abundance, somewhat greater perhaps, the music and refreshments similar to any ton party, while the rooms were elegant and well maintained. After getting the general idea of the affair, Barbara began looking around for Clivedon. She saw several faces that surprised her – husbands of grandes dames, and high sticklers whom she would never have expected to be in a place like this. She wondered who was escorting their wives at Staunton’s do—partners there must be in short supply tonight. She smiled to see Mrs. Waring’s husband, said to be “indisposed,” so that his wife had cadged a drive with Lady Withers tonight.
Several heads turned to observe Romeo and herself as they entered, causing a shiver of dread to scuttle down her spine. The mask was out of place—there were no masks worn. She set it aside and raised the fan to cover all but her eyes. When the music struck up, she went with Romeo to the dance floor and took her place in a set. The gentlemen all flirted with her, and Romeo, she noticed, was enjoying himself with the harlots quite as much as if she were not present. She realized suddenly, when this caused her nothing but amusement, that she did not love him in the least. He was terribly beautiful, he was interesting, he was rich, people said, but he was utterly impossible to take seriously. How could you love a man you couldn’t take seriously?
No one recognized her, but when several very good friends of Fannie Atwood entered, she decided it was time to retire to a quiet corner. It was becoming late, and still Clivedon had not come. She had seen a Cyprians’ Ball now, and her only other reason for being there was to vex Clivedon so she decided to go home.
“Not just yet, my dear,” Romeo told her. “There is a ravishing lady I have to meet. She does not have a lover. I want to arrange to come back to her after I take you home. You aren’t angry with me, I hope? I don’t love her. Merely our bodies are in harmony.”
“Arrange it quickly, then,” she said with annoyance.
“You are angry with me.”
“I assure you I am not. Please hurry.”
“You are perfect, you know. I never met a woman before who was not jealous. We shall deal famously. That is an heroic quality—lack of jealousy. I wish I had it, but I am very jealous of Lord Clydesmare. I hate him,” he said gently.
“Do hurry, please,” she repeated. He kissed her wrist and wandered off.
Watching Romeo make his assignation, Barbara’s eyes were turned from the entranceway when Clivedon came in. He moved rather quickly down the far side of the room and, still watching her own escort, she saw with infinite dismay that he had led his ravishing lady to the floor for a waltz. Heavens, she’d be here all night!
It was not to be expected that a pretty damsel would be long unmolested at such a daring spot as this, and before long a young buck came up to her to request a dance. Her chagrin was great to recognize Herbie Webster, whom she knew as well as she knew anyone, and certainly he would recognize her too if she couldn’t be rid of him quickly. She raised her fan against her cheek, and shook her head in a firm negative.
“Come on, then, it’s no fun sitting alone, my pretty. Have a dance with me.”
“No, thank you. I am waiting for someone,” she said, disguising her voice.
“You’ll have a long wait. Lord Romeo has replaced you, my girl. I know who you were with, and that boy will do you no good. He’s a mere stripling.”
“Please go away.”
“Not till you’ve given me a dance.”
Becoming desperate, she said, “Leave me at once, or I shall scream.”
“That’s not a good way to find yourself a rich patron, my little lightskirt.”
“It’s news to me if you have two pennies to rub together, Mr. Webster,” she answered sharply.
“Oho, you know my name! Now, how does it come I don’t know a pretty little piece like you?” He put his fingers to her fan to try to pull it away.
“Stop it at once,” she said angrily, and struck at him with her fan.
She was more horrified than relieved to see Clivedon rear up behind Herbie Webster, very obviously coming to her aid. When had he arrived?
“Is this gentleman bothering you, ma’am?” he asked.
“Very much,” she said in a voice that was not likely to betray her, it sounded so very unlike her own low tones.
It was high-pitched, nervous.
“Here’s a bird more to your liking—well plumed!” Webster said ironically, sneering at her. “Take care, Clivedon. The muslin company is well organized this season, and has got our fortunes all written up in a book. This one admits she’s after the money.”
“May I join you?” Clivedon asked, with an unconcerned look after Webster’s retreating form.
She could hardly credit her awful luck. “No!” she said, still in a nervous squeak. “That is—I—thank you, but I am waiting for someone.” He sat down all the same, uninvited.
“Tell me his name, and I shall send him to you,” he replied, looking hard at her. She kept her fan well up and her eyes cast down, only risking one peep at him. She shook her head in a firm negative in reply to his suggestion.
“This is nonsense, you know,” he went on, throwing one leg over the other and leaning back in an attitude that bespoke of an intention of lingering. “You’ll not be long left alone at a place like this. You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
She nodded and looked away, raising her fan high to hide her profile. And still that moonling of a Romeo was smiling at his friend, oblivious of the lady he had brought.
“Good God! Don’t tell me it’s Lord Romeo you’re waiting for!” Clivedon exclaimed, following the line of her eyes.
This came too close to revealing her identity to risk another word, or another minute in his company. She arose and fled the room, with just one frightened glance over her shoulder at Clivedon. She took the idea he was laughing about something. Her plan was to leave at once and alone, in Romeo’s carriage. She could send the rig back for him.
Romeo had been keeping a sort of half-eye on her while he flirted with his other lady. When he recognized the second man with her to be Clivedon, he had become angry, and when he saw her depart so precipitously he took after her, leaving a very surprised female standing alone in the middle of the dance floor. He stopped only to vent his wrath on Clivedon. “What have you said to upset her?” he demanded in an angrier tone than he generally used.
“Got yourself a new chick, Romeo?” Clivedon asked. “That exquisite taste of yours is deteriorating. I liked your other one better.”
“You are incredibly stupid,” Romeo told him, then fortunately left before revealing the entire devastating truth.
He caught Barbara up at the door. “What did Clysehorn say to you?” he asked solicitously.
“Nothing of the least importance. We must go at once.”
“I do hate that man,” Romeo said, but he was calmer now, and put no particular emphasis on the words. “He’ll steal Adele while I’m gone,” he went on as they got into the carriage. “But I'll take you home, my dear. I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you to your own devices, though you would certainly be safe enough in my carriage. It would not be the proper thing to do, and you would probably hold it against me if I did. It seems a foolish waste of time to
me, but I’m not complaining.”
“It certainly sounds as if you are!”
“But I’m not, my beloved. If he’s stolen Adele by the time I get back, I’ll challenge him to a wrestling match. I am a very good wrestler. I broke Spiro’s wrist—accidentally—once in Athens. I wonder if that is why he contrives the handles of his vases so poorly.”
Lady Barbara found that Clivedon’s stealing of Adele offended her senses in a way that Adele’s stealing Romeo had not. She was very indignant on Romeo’s behalf, and urged him to return with the greatest speed.
He delivered her to the rose garden on Cavendish Square. “When shall I see you again?” he asked her.
“I’m not sure. You’d better not come back, Romeo. They will already be angry you were here tonight.”
“We must make plans for our elopement,” he reminded her.
“I am not eloping with you. You’d better go, or he will have stolen Adele.”
“Our marriage is more important. Nothing must stand in the way of that. But really, I find myself anxious about losing Adele too. Leave it all to me. I shall make the arrangements and be in touch with you by some means. Don’t doubt my ingenuity. I am very clever at arranging elopements,” he assured her.
“Have you arranged many before?” she was curious enough to ask.
“No, but I have contrived dozens of illicit meetings, and the procedure is quite similar, I should think. It is the getting out of the house that is difficult. It is very exciting, fooling the oldsters, isn’t it? Elopement is my very favorite way of marrying. But I refuse to go to Scotland, my heart. I hope you have not quite settled on Gretna Green.”
She could assure him with the greatest sincerity that she had not the least interest in being married over the anvil.
“May I kiss you then, before I leave?” he asked.
With a smile between amusement and annoyance, she raised her lips and kissed his cheek. “That was not what I meant,” he told her, and folded her in his arms for a much more passionate embrace, from which she had to use all her strength to extricate herself. He was a good wrestler, but Babe was not completely unversed in fighting off persistent embraces, and eventually got away from him.