by Lee Jackson
Rose watches the stage of the old Marionette Theatre. She does not notice the man by her side at first. Rather, she dutifully observes the performance: as the Indian dancers begin to twine their arms into unlikely serpentine poses; as petals are strewn at their feet in extravagant explosions of colour; as the beat of the tabor grows ever quicker. The heroine appears stage right; the hero, turbaned and bejewelled, stage left.
But the man distracts her. A handsome young working man in his best Sunday suit, he lightly strokes her hand with his. He touches her gently, with peculiar confidence, as if he has every right to do so; as if her hand is a worthy object of his admiration. He touches her like she herself would run her hand along a piece of fine porcelain; he touches her and she forgets herself entirely.
‘Come with me, love,’ he whispers, his fingers interlocking with hers. ‘And we’ll make a night of it.’
And, if truth be told, she goes with him.
The breeze has died down. The room now is too warm; too suffocating. But the glass of mineral water that sits upon the dresser is untouched; the window still only ajar, when it might better be flung wide open. For Rose sleeps on, bound up in the crumpled linen, wrapped around her restless body like a winding-sheet. And her lips seems to move in sympathetic motion to unspoken words.
Hand in hand now, the two lovers move across the Crystal Platform, as if they are the only two dancing. He picks her up and lifts her, like she has no more weight than a feather. She can feel his arm upon hers, his hand holding the small of her back. He has no proficiency in the dance, this man who holds her in his arms, but it does not much seem to matter. For it is not quite a waltz, nor a polka; it is a dance both strange and familiar, that she swears to herself she will recall when she wakes.
Another glass of champagne, then the orchestra plays louder; it is fighting to be heard above the crowd around the bar, smart young men of the fast set, superior clerks, aspiring barristers, young doctors and lawyers, downing wines and spirits of the choicest quality. Another glass. Then another.
Faster goes the song, so fast that the steps become reckless, and they fall tumbling onto the wooden boards.
Then all is quiet; the dancing has stopped; the stars have gone out and the sky is as black as pitch.
And she falls, like a stone, dropped into a deep, deep well.
Rose Perfitt wakes, conscious only of being too hot, the silk of her nightdress sticking to her skin.
She sits up, takes her glass of water and looks across her room in the darkness. Her eyes chance upon the outline of her ball-gown, draped flat across the ottoman by the door. For a moment, she fancies it resembles a woman’s body laid out as if upon some funeral bier. But only for a moment.
Puzzled, she tries to recall her dreams, until she falls asleep once more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The suburban terraces of the capital each have their own rhythms, daily comings and goings that, in general, are quite unremarkable. Edith Grove is no exception. There is the dusky hour when a certain employee of the Gas, Light and Coke Company takes his ladder and attends to the street-lamps; then, in their glimmering light, the long night, the sole preserve of a solitary police constable, patrolling his beat. At dawn, a dozen or so cooks, full of age and domestic wisdom, scuttle down area steps. Breakfast is made and families roused from sleep. Front steps are freshly whitened – then scuffed by the boots of City gentlemen, marching for the morning train. It is something quite settled; a routine that suits the residents of Chelsea.
By day, even the calls paid by ladies upon their friends and acquaintances, the occasional visits of doctors or tradesmen, the importuning of pedlars and beggars, all have their place in the quiet, well-oiled mechanism of life in Edith Grove. New faces are generally noted; curtains twitch at the presence of an unexpected carriage and it is not uncommon for even the most respectable ladies, who have little else to do, to spend a good deal of their time casually observing the empty street.
The Perfitt household, despite the best efforts of its mistress, is most certainly not immune to such curiosity. Thus, when a substantial barouche, newly painted in green and gold, draws up in front of the house, with a coachman in matching livery, there is a small disturbance in the Perfitts’ breakfast routine.
‘Mama!’ exclaims Rose. ‘You must come and look.’
Mrs. Perfitt for once indulges her daughter and, though affecting disinterest, is equally impressed by the mysterious conveyance.
‘Why has he stopped?’ asks Rose.
‘There is no-one inside,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Rose, call Richards – have her tell the man that he must have the wrong address.’
Rose nods, but is checked by her father, who raises his eyes from his copy of The Times.
‘No need for that, my dear. I hired him. From a job-master in Brompton.’
‘You, Charles?’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, astonished.
‘Is it not the ball tonight?’
‘You know full well it is, ’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.
‘Well, I thought we might have a decent equipage.’
‘I thought you said a cab would do.’
‘My little surprise,’ replies Mr. Perfitt, with a certain paternal complacency, as he observes his daughter’s face.
‘Oh, Papa!’ exclaims Rose, rushing to his side and kissing her father’s cheek, quite crushing his newspaper in the process. ‘You are so clever!’
‘We have him all day. I thought we might go for a little drive about the park, if the weather holds.’
‘Charles,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, ‘we have too much to do. Rose’s hair; the dress needs some final touches. And I have myself to think of.’
‘You can spare an hour or so, Caroline, surely? Either that or the wretched fellow will just sit there all day. Still, something for the neighbours to cast their eye over, I suppose.’
He says this with a smile, as if to imply that his wife and daughter might not be altogether adverse to such an outcome. Mrs. Perfitt blushes and though she vigorously demurs, her objections are not altogether convincing.
In the end, despite its recreative potential, the carriage stays firmly in place for much of the day. For Mrs. Perfitt does not feel that she can do it justice in anything but her evening dress; nor, she avers, can she risk the fatal effects of an unexpected shower upon her daughter’s constitution – though the sky is as blue and cloudless as anyone might wish, and the barouche equipped with a retractable hood.
As for Rose, she is kept busy enough at home; there is, after all, the small matter of her dress, to be modelled both for her mother and Madame Lannier, who has engaged to pay a final call, to see her pièce de résistance. The result is that the silk and trim are nipped and tucked once more, here and there, for a good hour. Then there is her hair, to be dressed by her mother’s own hand, each ringlet teased and trained with intense concentration; her skin anointed with the finest eau de toilette. Indeed, nothing is left to chance by Mrs. Perfitt. Moreover, her efforts are not wasted – for the result is, much to Mrs. Perfitt’s great pride, something akin to perfection.
It is this sense of maternal satisfaction that buoys Mrs. Perfitt’s spirits through all the preparations of the day, until the family quit the house at eight o’clock, and ascend into the waiting carriage. With mother and daughter both thoroughly fashionable, it takes a moment for them to accommodate the long trains of their skirts. Mr. Perfitt, meanwhile, seats himself opposite, with his back to the driver, dressed in the plain black suit, white tie and waistcoat required of gentlemen upon such occasions.
‘You both look like a pair of mermaids,’ says Mr. Perfitt, as the two women finally settle, the backs of their dresses, tied with tulle ribbons, artfully arranged to one side.
‘It is the fashion, Papa,’ exclaims Rose. ‘Don’t tease.’
‘I expect your father means we are fascinating creatures, Rose,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, with a rather cutting glance at her husband.
‘Goes without saying. You both look most becoming, I assure y
ou.’
Mrs. Perfitt’s look softens. Her husband, meanwhile, gives the word and the hired barouche goes at a leisurely pace along the length of the Fulham Road. It is nightfall by the time they reach Hans Place – an oval of rather grand houses in Brompton – around which a procession of carriages is already queuing for the narrow drive that leads to the Prince’s Club. In the gas-light, Mrs. Perfitt peers at the vehicles ahead. Many of them have heraldic crests emblazoned upon their doors and, at the end of the drive, there is a grand landau with twin powdered footmen at the rear. Mr. Perfitt cannot help but observe his wife’s gaze and whispers in her ear.
‘Sorry, Caroline. I could only run to the coachman. And he doesn’t come cheap.’
‘Charles, really!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt.
At last the barouche enters the courtyard of the Prince’s Club and allows the Perfitts to alight. The club itself is of the sporting kind: a home to cricket matches and rackets tournaments. Its members are a famously select body, picked from the best families in Brompton and Belgravia. On occasion, however, it allows its buildings and grounds to be appropriated to the purposes of a charity ball, and its exclusivity is temporarily diminished. Such lapses are, of course, quite laudable. Whether the guests to such occasions, having paid for their tickets, then think much about charity is another matter.
Certainly Rose Perfitt appears more impressed by her surroundings than any such abstract notion, and gives little thought to the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity, in whose honour the ball is staged. For the hall in which they eventually gather has been laid out in breathtaking style. Indeed, the building itself, known as the Pavilion, a rather grand converted mansion, is quite impressive at the best of times, when no great effort has been made. Inside, however, rows of palms now conceal the wainscoting and regular furniture has been replaced by rout seats. Doors have been unhinged and mysteriously transformed into hangings of gossamer-thin muslin; a crystal fountain gushes in front of the main stairs, sparkling in the light of a dozen candelabras, which themselves supplement the colourful Chinese lanterns that hang from the ceiling. In short, it is a spectacle to gladden the heart of the most hard-hearted suppressor of mendicants.
It is unlucky, then, that the first person to greet the Perfitts, as Mrs. Perfitt strains to see her bosom friend Alice Watson, does not seem at all enthusiastic. It is Mrs. Bertha Featherstone, who emerges effortlessly from the crowd, dressed in black, as is her custom. Her only concession to gaiety are a small pair of jet earrings, that only serve to add to the drabness of her costume.
‘Ma’am,’ she exclaims, accosting Caroline Perfitt, ‘how good to see you and your delightful family here.’
Mrs. Perfitt stops short, torn between appropriate politeness and a desire for superior company. ‘Mrs. Featherstone. You are here for the ball?’
The question has an unfortunate hint of incredulity about it, but fortunately one that appears lost on its addressee.
‘The Reverend is a governor of the Society, ma’am. We are rather obliged. I confess, I was not quite certain if I could bring myself to come, after our recent misfortune. But the Reverend insisted I rouse myself.’
‘I am so glad,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, though seemingly a little distracted. ‘Oh, Rose – there is Beatrice Watson just gone by and she has no idea we are here. Do go and find out where her dear mother is – I must see her dress.’
Rose needs no prompting to speak to her friend. Before anyone else may speak, Mrs. Perfitt begins again. ‘Charles – on reflection, I had best go with her. But what was it you said you must ask Mrs. Featherstone? I am sure there was something.’
Charles Perfitt struggles with a reply, as his wife and daughter disappear into the throng.
‘I just wondered, ma’am,’ he manages at last, turning to the clergyman’s wife, ‘how is your husband keeping?’
The Reverend Featherstone, in fact, stands alone upon the balcony that runs around the hall of the Pavilion, observing the gathering crowd, listening to the gentle babble of excited chatter amongst the ladies, leavened by the occasional guffaw that bursts forth from a rotund, military-looking man by the stairs. If his eyes fix anywhere, however, it is upon a certain mother and daughter, as they find their way round the hall; his eyes fix upon them, and do not let them go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The hour for dancing is ten o’clock. It is clearly marked upon the programmes distributed to ladies upon their arrival in the Pavilion. Unfortunately, this knowledge does little to quell Rose Perfitt’s eagerness to begin. Thus, waiting in the ball-room, she repeatedly quizzes her father for the correct time and pays little heed to conversation between her mother and Alice Watson. The one thing upon her mind is the dance and, indeed, the only thing that fully commands her attention are introductions to prospective partners. And there are several such gentlemen that fall into the Watsons’ circle – friends of the Watson family; a business acquaintance of her own father; a second cousin of her mother. In each case, Rose diligently takes up her pencil, attached to her programme by a red ribbon, and writes their name against the dance of her choosing. One, it transpires, is a naval officer; she reserves the lancers for him, perhaps in some unconscious idea of a military connection; for the younger men she sets aside the galops; for the older gentlemen – those of twenty-five years or more – she selects the more sedate waltzes. It is not long before a dozen arrangements are made and Rose’s card is filled until midnight. The particular men are of little consequence to Rose herself, for she would gladly partner an automaton if it gave her the opportunity to dance upon the polished boards of a grand ballroom. Mrs. Perfitt, however, is rather a different matter. She sits with her daughter, sipping iced champagne, and looks over Rose’s card with a discerning eye, one that replaces each dance with an estimate of the annual income, respectability and future prospects of the man whose name sits beside it. It grieves her that none quite meets her expectations.
At last, the band takes to the raised platform at the end of the ball-room, seating themselves beneath the purple satin canopy draped from the ceiling. They are military men in uniform, reputedly the string band of the Royal Artillery, and try Rose’s patience by commencing upon ‘God Save the Queen’. But once the anthem is complete, the master of ceremonies demands that sets be formed for the first quadrille of the evening. Whilst Rose Perfitt happily accepts the arm of her companion for the dance, her mother remains seated.
‘You would not care to dance with your husband?’ asks Charles Perfitt.
‘Later, if I may, Charles. I prefer to watch,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, observing her daughter as she curtsies to her partner. ‘I must say, I was not at all sure about her hair, but it has turned out just as I should like it.’
‘She looks a picture,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘Quite the belle of the ball.’
‘Tell me again, Charles, who is that young man?’
‘A junior broker. Nephew of old Chantry, I think.’
Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘No, he will not do at all,’ she says, in a hushed voice.
‘Seems to know the steps.’
‘You know precisely what I mean,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.
‘I won’t have Featherstone announce the banns next week, then, eh?’ replies Mr. Perfitt.
‘Do not joke, Charles, please,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, with no humour in her voice whatsoever, smoothing the grey silk of her dress.
‘I am doing my best, Caroline, under the circumstances. I am sorry, but I cannot help thinking of other matters.’
Mrs. Perfitt frowns.
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she says, squeezing her husband’s hand.
The band of the Royal Artillery calls a temporary halt to proceedings at the stroke of midnight. After two hours in a state of almost continual motion, Rose Perfitt appears content to separate from a certain City gentleman – of whose precise name she is rather uncertain, without reference to her card – and to return to her family.
‘You look a little fatigued,
Rose,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, straightening a stray lock of her daughter’s coiffure.
‘I am quite all right, Mama,’ replies Rose, although truthfully there is at least a pink blush to her cheeks.
‘A bite to eat, I think,’ suggests Mr. Perfitt, ‘build our strength if we are to meet all Rose’s engagements for the evening. How many is it, my dear?’
‘Six more, Papa,’ replies Rose, perusing her programme with the air of a connoisseur, the names of six more partners already in black and white.
‘Come then, this way,’ exclaims Mr. Perfitt, directing his wife and daughter in the direction of the supper-room.
A ball supper, as with most things that arise from necessity, is never the most relaxing affair. The supper-room laid on at the Prince’s Club proves no exception. It is large enough to accommodate no more than fifty but, at the cessation of the dancing, it finds itself obliged to cope with almost five hundred. And, although the buffet is elegant and the company terribly polite, there is the inevitable heated overcrowding as gentlemen compete to retrieve the best of the game pie, whilst ladies tactfully strive to find suitable seats. For some, the omnipresent aroma of lobster salad becomes too overpowering, and they give up the notion of sustenance altogether; for others, the Perfitts included, seating simply cannot be found, and so they retire to a lamp-lit conservatory at the side of the building.
There they discover that a few small groups have also found refuge under its glass roof. Seated on wicker chairs, the Perfitts are swiftly joined by Mrs. Alice Watson and her daughter Beatrice. The night is still warm enough, thankfully, to enjoy the chilled champagne and what titbits of food can be salvaged. Thus, whilst the elders discuss the merits of the Royal Artillery Band, and Rose and her friend discuss the merits of their respective partners, a good hour or so is beguiled until the dancing is about to recommence.
The relevant announcement is made by a liveried footman, who appears at the door to the conservatory, looking rather weary. But before the Perfitts can return to the ball-room, they are interrupted by the tentative approach of a young man of rather handsome appearance and neat dress. Mrs. Watson effects an introduction and Rose’s card soon bears one last name, destined for the penultimate waltz of the evening.