Before the Storm

by Melanie Clegg

  ‘That hair cannot possibly be natural,’ Mrs Knowles remarked as she stared at the colourful newcomers who had taken seats at the far end of the Assembly Room and were now gravely surveying the other attendees, while they just as gravely stared back at them. ‘Who on earth are those people? They cannot possibly be known to anyone, surely?’

  Eliza smirked a little, pleased to be in a position to impart information to her elders. ‘It is Lord Wrotham, his wife, daughter and nephew,’ she said. ‘They have just returned to England from India. Papa says that he is a nabob and made an absolute fortune out there. I expect that is where Miss Wrotham dyed her hair that incredible shade of red. Papa has told me all about the henna dyes that the Indian ladies use.’ She touched her own fair curls and cast her mother a mischievous look. ‘I must confess that I am tempted to try it for myself. How do you think it would look, Mama?’

  ‘Very ill indeed,’ Mrs Garland retorted with a tight lipped smile. ‘I wonder that Lady Wrotham does not mind her daughter going about the place looking like that, although she is a very pretty girl to be sure.’ She looked rather resentfully up the Assembly Room towards Miss Venetia Wrotham who was resting her lovely bright head on her brother’s shoulder and laughing at something that he was telling her. A quick glance around confirmed that every single young man in the room was also staring in the same direction, a fact that made her heart and that of every other ambitious Mama present sink with despair.

  Chapter Two

  Clementine lay sleepily in bed, listening to the sound of carriages rumbling beneath her window along dusty Milsom Street and the distant chatter of servant girls gossiping, their pails of water and coal clattering and pale, sun bleached cotton skirts swishing together as they went about their duties around the house.

  There was a soft knock on the door. ‘Miss Garland?’ The maid bustled in with a bright smile, closing the door behind her with a flick of her rump before hurrying forward to put her tray down on the small table beside the bed. ‘Fresh bread, cook’s best marmalade and some newly baked fruit cake, Miss,’ she said, wiping her hands on her crisp white apron and stepping back.

  Clementine struggled to sit up. ‘Thank you, Annie,’ she said with a smile, grateful that someone had noticed that she liked to get up early and had more than once been left alone and hungry at the breakfast table, fiddling with tea spoons while she waiting for her mother and sister to drag themselves from their beds. ‘They were at the Assembly Rooms last night so I expect they won’t be up until past noon,’ she said with a wry smile.

  Annie laughed as she poured out a cup of hot chocolate. ‘Well, we couldn’t have you going hungry, could we, Miss?’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Clementine grinned, taking the delicate cup from the maid. It was thick and sweet, just as she liked it and she sipped it happily as Annie busied herself pulling open the heavy pink brocade curtains then laying out shoes and shaking sprigs of lavender and rosemary from the folds of a simple white muslin frock.

  ‘Looks like it’s going to be a lovely day,’ she remarked, squinting up at the sky from the window. ‘You’d best take a parasol with you, Miss.’ She grinned as Clementine groaned and pulled a mutinous face. ‘Just think of how your mother would be if you were to get freckles,’ she remarked cryptically.

  Clementine laughed. ‘Oh, very well.’ Freckles were strangely and rather unfairly high in Mrs Garland’s lengthy and often bizarre list of Reasons Why Gentlemen Won’t Marry Certain Young Ladies, which also covered such diverse and apparently unwomanly topics as expressing too many opinions, having too few eyelashes and, worst of all, reading history books and ‘getting ideas’. In fact ‘getting ideas’ was the most cardinal sin of all in the eyes of Mrs Garland, who could never actually say what form these forbidden and unattractive ‘ideas’ took but nonetheless knew with absolute certainty that they were extremely off putting to all eligible gentlemen and so ought to be avoided at all costs.

  It didn’t matter that Clementine had argued until she was blue in the face and almost crying with frustration that she couldn’t bear the thought of marriage to a man who would be put off by such trivialities. Mrs Garland remained absolutely resolute in believing her opinions, based on three years of bitter observation from the side lines as Eliza failed to attract a single suitor, to be right and that was that. She never allowed the uncomfortable fact that her perfect Eliza had also remained unmarried to cross her mind, or if she did, it was swiftly dismissed.

  ‘But why would I want to be married to a man who doesn’t think I should have any opinions?’ Clementine had railed more than once. ‘And why would any man want to be married to a silent, empty headed idiot? Don’t they want someone they can talk to as an equal?’

  ‘Men’s friends are their equals,’ Mrs Garland pointed out wearily, eyeing her daughter with a mixture of confusion and distaste. ‘We are their wives. That is very different.’

  Clementine tried not to think about this as she rushed through breakfast and then hopped impatiently from foot to foot as Annie helped her into her pretty flounced muslin dress, tied a wide pale blue taffeta sash around her waist then bent before her to fasten her blue silk high heeled shoes. She could hardly wait to get outside and feel the sunshine on her face. Her mother and sister were never happier than when they were elegantly arranged on spindly gilt sofas in their sugared almond hued drawing room. They were rather horrified by ‘outdoors’ as they wincingly called it, believing it to be primarily populated by wasps, rodents and mud whereas Clementine hated to be cooped up inside in the half gloom so beloved by her headache prone mother and sister and loved to be outside.

  As soon as she was at liberty to leave, she ran down the narrow white painted staircase at full pelt, trailing her straw hat by its narrow pink silk ribbon and noisily running the tip of her hated red Chinese silk parasol along the bannisters before gladly abandoning it at the bottom. Outside the imposing green painted front door, all of life awaited her and her heart sang as she pushed it open and stepped out into the fresh early morning sunshine.

  ‘Clemmie!’ She heard her mother call peevishly down the stairs as the heavy door swung shut behind her and she skipped down the wide stone steps that led down to the street. It occurred to her that she ought really to turn back and see what Mrs Garland wanted but the thought of facing her mother, wearily irritated and grey faced with her hair askew after a night of excess was not an attractive one. Clementine pushed this unappealing image from her mind and briskly carried on down the street to the elegant Grand Parade, where she usually liked to stand and gather her thoughts in the morning while admiring the view across to Pulteney Bridge.

  Clementine was used to being alone at such an early hour, but this morning was different as already leaning on the wall and looking towards the bridge was another girl, who seemed to be gazing down rather miserably at the murky grey green water that flowed rapidly past. As she drew shyly closer, she saw that this very pretty stranger was dressed in an elegant teal silk redingote and had bright crimson hair which hung down her back beneath an artfully tilted feathered hat.

  She turned to smile at Clementine, utterly unabashed and not miserable at all. ‘Hello there! It’s a lovely morning isn’t it?’ She was holding a thin brown cheroot cigar in her hand, its musky scented smoke curling provocatively into the air.

  Clementine blushed. Her father and his friends often had the occasional cigar in his study at home, but she had never seen a female smoking one before and had a vague idea that such a thing was probably considered most improper. In fact it would probably be very high on Mrs Garland’s List, should she ever conceive of such a shocking thing occurring. ‘I am sorry,’ she replied a little stiffly, backing away slightly. ‘I don’t want to disturb you.’

  The other girl laughed and drew on her cigar before blowing a careless smoke ring into the air, where it hung for a moment before floating away. ‘Oh no, you aren’t disturbing me at all! In fact, I was just hoping that someone would come along and talk to me. I am not
very fond of my own company, you see.’ She stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘This is how it is done in England is it not?’ she asked with a quizzical look as Clementine awkwardly took her hand and shook it. ‘Or is it just the men? I can never remember.’

  ‘Just the men,’ Clementine said, feeling much less awkward now. ‘I don’t think I have ever shaken hands with anyone before,’ she added, unable to stop staring at the other girl’s astonishing hair, which blazed crimson in the sunlight.

  ‘I’m Venetia Wrotham,’ the stranger said with a smile, elegantly flicking her cheroot into the water. ‘And no it isn’t natural. We’ve only just returned from India, where I was born. The ladies there use henna to colour their hair bright red.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Clementine replied with sincere admiration. ‘I’m sorry if I was staring.’

  Venetia laughed. ‘Not at all. Why else would I have done it, if not to make people look at me?’ She linked arms with Clementine as though they had known each other for years. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ she asked with a smile. ‘I’m afraid that my manners must seem very bad to you lovely, well brought up English girls.’

  ‘Oh no, not at all. I often think that people here are far too stiff,’ Clementine assured her. ‘I am Clementine Garland by the way, but people usually call me Clemmie.’

  ‘Clementine Garland,’ Venetia said as they wandered along. ‘What a lovely name. Like something from a fairytale.’

  ‘Clementine was my grandmother’s name.’ The streets were becoming more busy now and Clementine couldn’t help but notice how most of the men they went past stared in mingled shock and admiration at her pretty companion, many of them actually stopping dead in their tracks to look at her.

  ‘It is strange to be back in England again,’ Venetia said, without appearing to notice the sensation that she was creating. ‘We used to come back every so often when I was a little girl but I don’t remember very much about it other than the rain and wide streets that seemed to go on for miles.’

  Clementine looked at her companion, who was looking pensive now. ‘Do you think that you will miss India?’ she asked.

  Venetia shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m happy anywhere,’ she said breezily. ‘Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No,’ Clementine replied, shaking her head. ‘This is the furthest away from London that I have ever been.’ She felt a bit embarrassed and gauche admitting to this. ‘I’d like to travel,’ she added. ‘One day.’

  Venetia smiled and squeezed her arm. ‘One day.’ She pulled back and observed Clementine for a moment. ‘Do you know, I think I may have met your sister and Mama last night? Were they at the Assembly Rooms?’

  ‘Yes, they were there.’ Clementine’s heart sank a little.

  ‘Ah, that explains it then. You look a lot like them. My cousin thinks that your sister is quite the most lovely girl that he has ever seen. Or at least the loveliest since we left London. I wonder if they will make a match of it?’ She smiled. ‘Your mother was asking mine all about governesses. Poor Mama didn’t know what to say as I don’t think she has ever met one in all her life. I never had one, you see.’ She pulled a rueful little face. ‘That is probably obvious though.’

  ‘Governesses?’ Clementine stopped dead and stared at her new friend, a dawning sick sense of foreboding growing in her breast. ‘Why was she asking about governesses?’

  ‘Why for you of course!’ Venetia said with a laugh. ‘Unless you have a younger sister? I distinctly remember her saying that she was thinking about engaging one for her youngest daughter, to prepare her for society? Is that you? Do you require preparation, Miss Clementine Garland?’

  ‘I suppose I must do,’ Clementine muttered. ‘How awful. I don’t want to be prepared for society by some stupid old woman. I just want to be left alone.’

  Venetia looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Oh, it needn’t be that bad,’ she said consolingly. ‘One of the girls I knew in India had a governess and it turned out very well indeed as she was only a few years older and used to carry notes between the girl and her young man. They ended up married, so I suppose in a way it didn’t end all too well for the governess as she had to find a new position.’ She laughed and cast a side long look at Clementine, who was looking rather confused and mortified. ‘Except, perhaps you are not the sort of young lady who likes to meet secretly with gentlemen?’

  Clementine shook her head. ‘I don’t think that I am.’ They were walking along elegant Pierrepont Street now, where housemaids sweeping the marble front steps leading up to the houses stared at them as they went past and she idly wondered where they were heading to. It had seemed like an aimless stroll at first but now she wasn’t so sure. ‘I haven’t had much to do with young men though,’ she added with a blush.

  They had arrived at South Parade, which was lined on both sides by a terrace of imposing sun baked mansions and turned down it to walk towards the river. Six large travelling carriages had just pulled up outside one of the houses and the two girls stopped to watch as a liveried footman sprang quickly forward to let down the steps then pull open the door of the first, a splendidly gleaming yellow and black vehicle pulled by a team of sprightly chestnut horses.

  ‘Now, if I am not mistaken...’ Venetia murmured, as he helped down a small, thin woman dressed in a tight pink velvet travelling dress and with an enormous matching beribboned and feathered hat perched on top of her elaborately curled and ringleted auburn hair. She paused for a moment and looked at the two girls, inclining her head slightly and rather frigidly to them both before sailing briskly into the house, shouting orders in French as she went. Behind her there waddled four plump pug dogs whose sharp nails skittered on the polished parquet.

  ‘Who is that?’ Clementine whispered, her eyes wide with wonderment. ‘What an amazing hat she is wearing. It is almost as big as she is.’ She regretfully touched her own plain straw effort. ‘Bigger, in fact. Did you see how tiny she is?’

  ‘That lady is Madame la Duchesse de Polignac,’ Venetia whispered back. ‘Is she as famous here as she seems to be everywhere else? No? She is the best friend of the Queen of France, Marie Antoinette. They are said to be inseparable. In fact, that’s not all they say...’

  Madame la Duchesse was followed out of her carriage by a tall, brown haired young man in a long green coat who impatiently waved away the footman who came forward to assist him. He paused for a moment on his way into the house and bowed to them both, his dark eyes making no secret of his admiration for Venetia who smiled and responded with a curtsey.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Clementine asked as they watched the man go into the house with a final lingering look over his shoulder at her new friend.

  ‘That is the Comte Jules de Choiseul-Amboise,’ Venetia replied with a tiny shrug as they carried on down the street, where a dozen footmen were swarming around the carriages, busily helping the Duchesse’s fabulously dressed entourage of chattering French ladies and gentlemen down from the carriages and carrying in what appeared to be hundreds of boxes and trunks. ‘I met him once in London. He is quite handsome isn’t he?’

  ‘I think he is very handsome,’ Clementine replied rather breathlessly, feeling a little envious of her new friend.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Sidonie Roche looked about her with bright and curious dark eyes as her carriage rolled through the streets of Bath. Despite considering herself relatively well travelled, she had never been there before, and so was keen to take it all in and compare it against the dark, cramped streets of her own Spitalfields. Her father’s family had occupied the same tall, ramshackle house on Fournier Street, where the weaver’s looms rattled beneath the eaves well into the night ever since their departure from France during the reign of Louis XIV almost seventy years previously.

  The sullen looking girl sitting opposite her was rather less impressed and only looked out of the window once as they drove through town before throwing herself back into her seat and gloomily pronouncing it ‘not as pretty as
Paris’. Sidonie rolled her eyes, having become depressingly used to this refrain since their departure from London: ‘This carriage is not so good as the ones in Paris’. ‘I do not like this ale, it is not as our own French wines’. ‘The beds are not as lumpy as this in Paris’.

  ‘Really, Minette?’ Sidonie said now in French with barely a trace of irritation. ‘I think it looks very like some parts of the Faubourg St Germain to me. Just look at how elegant the tall pale houses are. I think that you are just determined not to like anything in England.’

  ‘That is not true, Mademoiselle Roche,’ the girl said now with the wide eyed astonished look that she adopted whenever she suspected that Sidonie was reprimanding her. ‘I was very pleased with the coffee that we were served this morning. Usually it tastes just like dirty water.’

  Sidonie sighed and looked across at Minette. ‘My dear, I can’t help but wonder why you came to England at all when you are clearly so much happier in France.’

  Minette shrugged. ‘I came with Madame la Princesse and then decided to stay. The English ladies, like this Mrs Garland pay a great deal for a real French maid. More fool them.’ She looked out of the window again and rolled her eyes. ‘Does it always rain in this part of England?’ she asked peevishly. ‘I don’t think it has stopped since we got here.’ It was clear that she took the rain to be as much of a personal slight as the bad coffee and uncomfortable beds.