‘Mademoiselle Athénaïs de Choiseul-Clermont and Mademoiselle Honorine de Choiseul-Clermont,’ the butler announced and again everyone paused and turned to stare as heads held high, Phoebe and Matilda, dressed in matching pink satin gowns, their faces hidden behind red velvet masks stepped boldly into the room.
‘My goodness,’ Clementine gasped as she stared at their friends who were making their way slowly towards them through the almost reverently parting crowd. Eliza watched them in chagrined silence, bitterly wishing that she had thought of something so eye catching and clever as matching dresses.
‘Darlings, how astonishing you look!’ Venetia exclaimed, rushing forward to hug first Matilda and then Phoebe, who flicked Eliza a quick, almost challenging look before demurely lowering her blue eyes. ‘Look how everyone is staring at you! Oh, but this is just wonderful!’
‘Oh dear, have we caused a fuss?’ Phoebe asked in mock concern, reaching up to touch the diamond and ribbon choker that glittered around her white throat. ‘I do hope not.’
‘Nonsense!’ Venetia cried with a laugh. ‘You knew exactly what you were doing.’ She smiled up at Jules as he came to stand beside her. ‘What do you think of your sisters, Monsieur le Comte?’ she asked with a mischievous laugh as he bent down to kiss her on the shoulder, risking the scandalised looks of a few nearby women who raised their eyebrows at each other then pointedly turned away. ‘Don’t they look beautiful?’
He produced a small eye glass from the pocket of his sea green silk coat then pretended to seriously look each of them over from the top of their elaborate hair to the sequinned silk and velvet high heeled shoes on their feet. ‘I don’t think that I have ever seen them look better,’ he said at last with a smile, putting away the glass. ‘The change that the Channel crossing has wrought in your complexions is nothing short of miraculous!’
Venetia laughed. ‘I think you should dance with Eliza,’ she whispered to her fiancé. ‘All the young men are circling and clearly need to be shown the way.‘ She winked at her friends.
Clementine watched enviously as her sister went off on Jules’ arm and took her place on the parquet dance floor, closely followed by both Phoebe and Matilda who immediately had their hands requested by earnest young men. ‘It will be your turn next,’ Venetia said, slipping her arm around the younger girl’s waist. ‘It’s only because you look so much younger than the others.’
Clementine laughed. ‘I know, although I must confess to feeling a little slighted by the lack of partners.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose that all the young men assume that I have nothing interesting to say.’
Venetia gave her a twinkling, side long look. ‘That will all change, never fear!’ Her face fell. ‘Oh dear, here comes one of my most ardent admirers! I fear that I am about to be wrest from your side and forced to dance!’ She discreetly jerked her head in the direction of the red faced man who had admired Eliza so shamelessly on the stairs. ‘He’s an Earl so I have no choice but to dance with him should he request it. What a bore when I would much rather stay here with you!’
‘It is of no matter,’ Clementine said with a laugh, unfurling her painted fan which was decorated with scenes from the story of Venus and Adonis. ‘It’s very hot in here isn’t it? I think I will go outside for a while.’
‘There’s a very pretty verandah leading off from the ballroom, ‘ Venetia whispered as her elderly admirer advanced relentlessly upon them. ‘I’ll come and find you just as soon as I can be rid of him!’
Clementine smiled and went on her way, gently pushing through the dense crowd that packed the sides of the ballroom. She attracted curious looks from almost everyone that she went past, their eyes glittering behind their velvet and silk masks. She’d always thought masks had a rather devious, sinister look to them and now she was certain of it and even felt scared by them.
‘How pretty these French girls are,’ a plump woman with grey powdered hair said shrilly, stepping in front of Clementine and giving her a quick look up and down. ‘Paris fashions do such a lot for a woman, don’t you think?’
‘Can they speak English?’ her neighbour asked, giving Clementine a nervous look.
‘Not a word of it, I expect. You know what the French are like. Such an ignorant race.’ The grey haired woman smiled falsely at Clementine. ‘How charming to meet you, mademoiselle,’ she said slowly in bad French. Her scarlet rouge had gone on to her yellow teeth and Clementine could not help but stare at it in fascinated revulsion.
Before she could reply, a crooked blue velvet arm appeared beside her and a male voice was addressing her in French. ‘There you are, cousin. You look very hot - will you allow me to accompany you to the verandah?’
Clementine looked up to see a pair of light blue eyes smiling down on her from behind a black velvet half mask. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said with real gratitude. ‘Madame.’ She swept a low curtsey to the grey haired woman and placed her hand on the man’s proffered arm before letting him lead her away.
‘You looked like you needed rescuing,’ he murmured as they walked to the gilt and glass double doors that led out onto the verandah. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so piteous.’
Clementine laughed. ‘Oh dear, was I that obvious?’ she asked with a blush.
‘A little bit obvious, yes.’ He gave her a sidelong look. ‘Although you could have had a lot of fun with her bizarre assumption that you wouldn’t be able to understand English.’
‘How cruel you are,’ she reproved him before relenting and smiling. ‘But, yes, that would have been very amusing.’ He held the door open for her and she stepped out on to the verandah, which had been decorated with garlands of flowers and pretty, brightly coloured paper lanterns with tiny candles suspended inside. ‘Oh, how charming!’ she said, forgetting to speak in French then putting her hands to her mouth, hoping that he had not noticed her gaffe.
He smiled but said nothing, preferring instead to lean against a wall and bring a small Sèvres snuff box from his pocket while watching her stroll up and down the verandah, admiring the flowers and lanterns. ‘Lady D’Eversley really knows how to throw a party,’ he remarked at last.
Clementine sighed, looking back through the glass doors at the dancers in their bright silk clothes and glittering jewels. ‘It’s the loveliest thing that I have ever seen,’ she said sincerely.
‘Really? Lovelier even than your mother’s balls at the Hôtel de Choiseul-Clermont? I’ve always thought them to be particularly beautiful. The one where she made the footmen dress as cherubs with real gold dust on their wigs was extremely memorable.’
She stared at him, utterly aghast. ‘Yes, of course,’ she mumbled. ‘They are also very beautiful.’ Too late she remembered that he had called her ‘cousin’ in the ballroom and now her only thought was to get away from him as quickly as possible before she had an opportunity to further betray herself.
‘Poor Violette,’ he murmured sympathetically. ‘You have known me all your life. What a trial I must be to you.’
Clementine laughed then, unable to help herself and liking him despite everything. ‘Yes, you are. A terrible trial.’ She looked at him curiously, taking in his slight frame, dark hair which escaped from beneath his white powdered wig and bright blue eyes which looked at her now with amusement and, she fancied, sympathy. He was a threat to the success of their evening, but nonetheless she found herself wanting to know more about him.
He offered her his arm again. ‘Will you grant your unfortunate cousin the honour of just one dance?’
Clementine hesitated for a moment then smiled and nodded. ‘Of course.’ She put her hand on his arm and cast one last regretful look back over her shoulder at the pretty little verandah as they returned to the crowded, fetid ballroom. The elaborate pomaded and powdered hair coiffures of the ladies were beginning to slump and unravel now while their carefully applied face paint and powder was starting to rub off in the heat, leaving pink, shiny patches on their noses and chins. Worse still, the air of the ballroom was
thick with the heady, nauseating smell of cologne mingled with sweat.
They danced in silence, much to Clementine’s relief as she dreaded saying the wrong thing or forgetting her meagre French. He didn’t seem to mind how quiet she was though and instead contented himself by smiling across at her as they faced each other across the set and giving her fingers the occasional warm squeeze with his own.
Afterwards, he led her back to Venetia, who watched them both from the side of the dance floor with mingled amusement and concern. ‘I have been very much enjoying the company of my little cousin, Mademoiselle Wrotham’ he said in English with a low bow. ‘She has grown quite charming since the last time that I beheld her.’ He turned to Clementine with a blandly innocent smile. ‘I am seeing your mother next week, Mademoiselle Violette, and can hardly wait to tell her how enchanting you looked this evening.’
Clementine’s heart ran cold but before she could muster the wits to make a proper reply, he had bowed again, turned on his red glossy heel and walked away. ‘My goodness, Venetia! Who is that man?’ she demanded, her cheeks turning crimson with horror and shame under her heavy rouge as she watched him walk off then pause to speak to a pretty girl in a rose pink silk dress, who looked back over her pale shoulder at Clementine and laughed as he bent to whisper in her ear.
Venetia laughed and unfurled her ostrich feather fan. ‘That’s Jules’ cousin, Antoine. He’s very handsome underneath that mask, you know.’ She discreetly pointed with her fan. ‘Do look, Clementine! There’s the Duchess of Devonshire! How pretty she is in that pale yellow dress! And just look at how she has done her hair! How old is she now? Thirty? She doesn’t look it at all.’
‘Never mind the Duchess!’ Clementine exclaimed impatiently. ‘I think Antoine knows that we are all frauds! Oh, what shall we do? If he tells someone, we are all undone and will never been invited anywhere again!’
‘Do?’ Venetia laughed again. ‘My dear, we shall do nothing at all! Jules and Antoine are the best of friends and from what I know of him, he probably thinks it is all the most delightful joke.’ She gave Clementine a sidelong look as she continued to stare at Eugène and the pretty girl in pink, who were still talking, while surrounded by a swirl of dancers. ‘She is his sister,’ she said with a smile. ‘So you can stop glaring at them both.’
Clementine flushed beneath her mask. ‘I wasn’t glaring,’ she protested before conceding a smile. ‘Much.’
Chapter Nine
Venetia and Jules were married at the fashionable church of St George’s on Hanover Square on a sunny August morning that caused the stained glass windows that lined the church’s walls to blaze with a fury of light and colour that tumbled like a broken rainbow on to the stone pavings on the floor. It was a beautiful ceremony, with the bride looking suitably gorgeous in a flounced cream silk dress, patterned all over with flowers and with a wide blue velvet sash around her now noticeably thickening waist. She had decided not to powder her bright crimson hair for the occasion and wore it backcombed and ringleted with roses and orange blossom pinned to the muslin pouf placed on top.
Clementine, Eliza and Phoebe acted as her attendants and stood to the side dressed in long sleeved white muslin gowns with matching pink velvet sashes around their waists and sweet little pink rose nosegays in their hands. Clementine could not help but be moved as she watched her friend blushing and smiling as she repeated the words that would bind her to Comte Jules, pale and nervous looking in a blue velvet suit and cream silk waistcoat embroidered with roses and forget-me-nots, forever.
It was not the first wedding of the day though - early that morning, in front of just two witnesses, Venetia and Jules had been married in a Catholic ceremony in the private chapel of the French ambassador. Catholicism was still very much outlawed in England but Venetia’s parents had insisted upon this first ceremony to ensure that the marriage was equally valid in both France and England: their daughter’s noble husband was not going to be allowed to slip through their fingers.
Clementine allowed her eyes to wander over the few wedding guests as the couple said their vows but did not see the engaging Antoine that she had met at Lady D’Eversley’s ball. She was far too shy to ask Venetia what had become of him and could only suppose that he had returned to Paris and his own life.
When the ceremony was over, they rushed forward to kiss and congratulate Venetia who clung to each of them as though her life depended on it. ‘Oh, I am so happy,’ she whispered to Clementine. ‘It’s terrifying too though.’ She and Jules were due to set out for Paris that very evening, stopping for the night at a hotel in Dover before crossing the Channel in the morning. ‘I wonder when we will all meet again? You will all come and visit, won’t you?’ She was smiling but her trembling voice betrayed how scared she actually was at the prospect of going away for good.
Clementine smiled. ‘Of course. Just try keeping us away from Paris and all those shops.’ She stepped aside as Jules, still pale but smiling now as if with relief, came forward to take his wife’s hand. To the sound of joyful organ music, he led her proudly back down the aisle as their guests filed out after them, to emerge blinking and half blinded from the dusty gloom into bright summer sunshine.
Phoebe heaved a sigh and turned to the others, while shading her eyes with her hand. ‘Which of us do you think will get married next?’ she asked with a grin. ‘Mama is talking about taking Matilda and I back to Bath again soon to see if we can catch husbands as easily as Venetia did.’
Eliza shook her head, fastening her lips rather primly. ‘I love her dearly but I do not like Venetia’s manner of getting a husband,’ she whispered with a meaningful look after the happy couple who were hurrying hand in hand down the church’s steps to a yellow and black carriage that waited for them at the bottom. A trail of white and pink flowers that had fallen from Venetia’s bouquet followed them, blowing this way and that in the dusty breeze. ‘Imagine if he had abandoned her and the baby?’
Phoebe smiled. ‘Very true but our lovely Venetia does not exactly want for admirers does she?’ They linked arms and made their way carefully down the steps, admiring the way that their soft white muslin skirts frothed and billowed against each other. ‘I am sure she would have had no difficulty finding another husband.’
‘I wish that I had your confidence,’ Eliza replied with a shrug before darting a shrewd look at her friend. ‘Surely it isn’t something that you would consider attempting yourself?’
‘Why not?’ Phoebe responded, laughing. ‘You said that you wouldn’t let religion stand between you and the perfect match and I feel the same way about my virtue.’
Eliza stopped dead in her tracks and stared at her friend in shock. ‘You cannot possibly be serious, my dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘That is a very risky stratagem indeed!’ She stared at Phoebe, thinking not for the first time that there was a lot that she didn’t know about her best friend. She’d suspected for a while now that Phoebe had a secret that she was keeping from all of them and now she found herself wondering what was really going on behind the other girl’s candid blue eyes.
Phoebe shrugged. ‘Well, we shall see, won’t we?’ She allowed the footman to help her up into the waiting carriage and moved aside to make room for Eliza. ‘Oh, come now! There’s no need to look at me as though I am some sort of fallen woman!’ she whispered reprovingly as soon as the door had shut behind them and the carriage had begun to rumble away towards Lord Wrotham’s over heated rented mansion on Bloomsbury Square. ‘It’s just that getting a husband is such a miserable and awkward business that it seems like madness to place even more barriers and restrictions in the way.’
‘What you see as a restriction, I see as protection,’ Eliza whispered back, blushing a little with embarrassment and annoyance. ‘I fear for you, Phoebe if this is indeed the path that you have chosen for yourself.’
‘You need have no fears for me!’ Phoebe replied breezily, looking out of the window and smiling down at a passing urchin. ‘I know what I am doing. The
question is - do you?’
Eliza stiffened. ‘I’m certainly not employing any vulgar strategies to secure myself a husband,’ she retorted angrily. ‘That’s not what men want.’
Phoebe raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t they?’ Her eyes danced with mirth as she reached across the carriage to take her friend’s hand, well aware that Eliza was having to fight the irresistible urge to snatch it away from her. ‘Oh don’t be angry with me,’ she said. ‘I’m not a complete disgrace.’
‘No?’ Eliza stared balefully at her friend, before eventually her gaze faltered and tears began to well in her eyes. ‘Sometimes I think that I will never get married,’ she whispered, her fingers repeatedly folding and pleating the soft muslin of her skirt. ‘Papa wants me to be introduced to the sons of some of his business associates but Mama won’t hear of it as she has set her heart on my marrying some rich man with a country estate and a house in Mayfair. If he also happens to have a title then so much the better.’ She drew a ragged breath and looked at her friend. ‘They argue about it all the time. Mama won’t accept that the husband that she wants for me just doesn’t exist and for my part, I am starting to think that perhaps Papa is right. Perhaps there is just no point going on with this, when they demonstrate over and over again that they just don’t want us.’
Phoebe silently pulled a small linen handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to her friend. ‘Don’t give up,’ she said after a moment as she sympathetically watched Eliza dry her eyes. ‘The right husbands are out there somewhere. We just need to find where they are hiding.’ The carriage pulled up outside the Wrotham’s house and a footman who had been watching from the open doorway, ran forward to open their door and let down the metal steps with a satisfying clatter.
The wedding breakfast was suitably lavish, with two dozen guests sitting around a vast table that was weighed down with food and highly polished silverware. Each guest had a liveried footman, specially hired for the occasion, who stood behind their chair and darted forward and replenished their glass with champagne whenever it began to look empty.
Before the Storm Page 8