"Yes, miss. I'll fetch another."
Inside Portia was as steaming hot as the refused cup of milk, but she schooled her face into a polite, subservient mask. She bowed slightly to Felicity and slowly gathered up the dishes. Portia realized that she had been too straightforward with her mistress. She decided to try a different tactic.
"I'll just be a moment. I thought ... I heard...” She left her thought hanging and turned to the door. “Oh, never mind."
"Wait,” Felicity called. Ever the curious minx, she counted on Portia for bits and pieces of household gossip. “What did you hear?"
Portia opened the door slightly as though to check the hallway for gossip mongers. She turned to her mistress with a knowing look and a brazen little smile.
"Well, I heard this from the cook last night, who heard it from the cook at Lord Percival's that Miss Jones is coming to town to find a husband. I had thought I would size up the competition and see what she is about. But if you need me here, then I can just send Cindy over to Mr. Jones. Though, we all know that Cindy doesn't always pay attention to the details ... not that you'd be wanting any details ... still, I thought it might be nice to take a look. Especially after what happened with the soup and all."
"Hand me that milk, Portia. I'll just take a sip of it. Perhaps, it won't be too awful."
No, not too awful, Portia thought. What a cow.
She brought the cup and biscuit back to Felicity. Felicity beckoned for her to continue.
"Now you know this is all just rumors..."
Felicity nodded and said, “What else?"
"Mind you, the cook at Lord Percival's does seem to know things pretty straight. She said that his Lord was jealous of you and planned to use Miss Jones as a wedge between you and Mr. Kincade."
"A wedge?"
"Yes, miss, a wedge.” She leaned in close to her mistress. “I remember when yon Fitzhugh Percival was just a child.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, as she glibly lied away. “He always wanted to keep Richard Kincade all to himself. He drove off every friend the poor child had."
"Really?” Felicity asked.
Portia nodded solemnly.
"I think he means to break the two of you apart.” Her words came faster and more insistent. “I think he means to use Miss Jones as a device to end your engagement. He has always been jealous of you. I had planned to act as maid to Miss Jones, and maybe see what the woman is like. I could find out where she stands in all of this."
"Of course, Portia, of course, you must go and help your uncle. How silly of me to keep you here, when Cindy can easily help me. In fact, politeness deems I make you go to help this newcomer into our midst.” She pointed and looked sternly at Portia. “You must be efficient and quiet and help Miss Jones in any way you possibly can."
"Yes, miss, I will. Are you finished with your biscuit?"
Felicity looked at her plate in amazement. “Oh, my. How did I finish so quickly?"
Portia knew how. Felicity gobbled up anything and everything put in front of her.
Chapter Five
Named for the great goddess Athena, Hugh's youngest sister possessed none of that worshipful lady's finer points of persuasion; instead, most often anything she was apt to say was more open to cavil than serious consideration. However suspect they were, Athena's sensibilities lent themselves to sympathize with her brother and become a willing party in his act of divine deception and to aid his efforts in the transformation of Byron. Besides, any shopping expedition with Hugh was bound to be fruitful for Athena as well. He could never deny his baby sister anything she desired.
"The shoes might be a problem.” That was Athena's entire objection to the entire plan. “He has deuced long feet. Narrow ones, too.” She pursed her lips in concentration. “If we have Monsieur LeBlanc fashion the shoes to match the dress, we might be able to get by.” She sketched a rough drawing of Indian-style slippers. “Perhaps we could go with an Eastern style. What do you think?"
"I don't know. Wouldn't he stand out?” Hugh asked.
"Well, we don't exactly want him to blend in,” she laughed. “But I see what you mean. Too bad the sack dress is out of fashion."
"Sack dress? That sounds horrid. I'm glad it is."
"It would have solved some basic problems, but I for one am glad that styles change. What a time we would have if les merveilleuses were still in fashion."
"Les what?"
"Les merveilleuses, you remember those narrow see-through shifts we saw in Paris last summer?"
"Dear, yes. How would we ever hide his ... you know?"
Athena snickered. “The jig would certainly finish sooner than later, no doubt."
Hugh suddenly had an image of Byron's naked form showing through the sheer fabric favored in gay Paris. What a sight! “You are wicked,” he said.
"That may be so, brother dear, but I'm not a spendthrift. Let's go shopping. This should be fun."
Athena proved to be an able shopper. She haggled over prices as though the money was her own, and yet she bought only the finest of materials. In addition to the night's party dress, she purchased two colorful banyans for Byron to have for daily wear around the house. One was a dark gold with vermillion Chinese characters printed on it, and the other was a beautiful sea-blue with black dragons overlaid on the sleeves. Both were elegant and androgynous.
The shoes were a problem. No one wanted to make them up without the rightful wearer present, and nothing Athena said would compel any cobbler to relent. Finally, she settled on a pair of stocked mules made with fine buff leather and adorned with brilliant jewels in turquoise, backed with a magnificent peacock feather on each shoe. The large feather helped to hide the size of the slipper.
After much deliberation, Athena also purchased a gorgeous empire dress of silver with a soft turquoise cape. The overall effect was beguiling but simple. She chose Byron's wig with the same economy of spirit; it was beautiful and elaborate, but not pretentious in its height or design. Athena's friend, Diana, often wore a wig complete with a miniature carriage made of gold wire. Byron's wig possessed two accoutrements, a few jeweled sticks and several ribbons of silver. She hoped that Portia would be able to style the hairpiece to suit Byron.
Athena browsed through an assortment of hoops and paniers while she waited for her purchases to be packaged. A new split panier was available.
"I wonder, she mused holding up the garment, “whether or not it would be worth the trouble caused by fastening it to have the added mobility of a split panel?"
Hugh was playing with a false rump. He had just tied the thing around his waist and was modeling it with a great deal of vulgar fun, when the door of Monsieur LeBlanc's shop opened. Felicity Turner, followed closely by her mother, swept into the shop as though they were the princess and Queen Mother. Felicity seemed to have trouble deciding whether or not to notice Hugh, so he did the chivalrous thing and made himself noticed.
Galloping over to her while holding tightly to the rump, he bowed low and said, “My dear Felicity. Mrs. Turner. I'm charmed to be sure."
"Hugh,” Felicity said somewhat stiffly
Hugh was staring in fascination at a black velvet mole on Felicity's cheek. He almost reached to touch it, but Athena coughed loudly to divert his attention. It worked. He glanced at her; she shook her head no. Instead he pointed at the large affectation and asked, “Felicity, is that a mole? Are you trying to hide a pox?"
Felicity gasped, “Yes ... I mean no. I'm not hiding anything."
Athena ducked behind the rack of hoops and closed her eyes in prayer. “Don't let him do it. Please, God, please don't let him do it."
She could not bring herself to look. Finally, she peeked around the side of the large wooden rack just in time to see Hugh peel the mole from the young woman's cheek.
"You've no pox mark! You don't need this,” he shouted.
Felicity grabbed her cheek as though he had ripped off an actual mole. “Hugh, what are you doing?"
"Aiding
and abetting the vain,” he laughed. “I have just the place for this,” he said and held up the mole. He turned and slapped it on the fake posterior. “Here, on my bum.” He shook it at Felicity.
Mrs. Turner said, “I declare, Hugh, your sense of humor is atrocious."
Felicity grabbed her mother's arm and headed for the shop door.
"Mother, why didn't you chastise him? Something?"
"Shush, darling. He's the cream of society, and he may be a little eccentric, but one must always remember his station,” she whispered loudly to her daughter.
As the door closed behind them, he shouted to his sister, “Did you hear that, Athena? I'm eccentric.” He sounded hurt.
"Hugh, you are too incorrigible. Take off that vile thing; our packages are ready."
He stroked the huge backside. “Can't I keep it? I've come to like it."
"No. Mother would die. Take it off."
Finally, he was persuaded. He pulled the velvet mole from the rump and slapped it on his right cheek. Reluctantly he replaced the padded accessory back in its box.
Outside the shop on the street side, Hugh turned to Athena and asked anxiously, “Do you think I'm eccentric?"
"No, silly."
"I think Felicity's eccentric. She wears rouge on the tip of her nose ... makes her look like a clown."
Athena laughed and hugged him fiercely to her. “Brother, if you're eccentric, I wish all the world were odd."
She looked at the vibrant blush of his floppy bow tie and the black and white stripes of his pants. His hairstyle looked tousled like the creature it was named for, the herisson, the hedgehog.
Of course you're not eccentric; you're interesting."
"Ooo! Interesting.” He struck an effeminate pose. “That's much better. Don't you think?"
* * * *
For the first time in his life, Byron felt whole—fully complete. His heart soared, took flight; it beat so hard that he could scarcely breathe. The looking glass reflected the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and it was him. Carefully he touched her face, the face of Rebecca, the woman he had always dreamt of being. While across the city cooks and maids transformed the Hamilton grounds into a showcase worthy of the season's premier palace ball, in the confines of Fitzhugh Percival's manor house another transformation had taken place. The metamorphosis of Byron Jones was almost complete.
"Mistress Becca, would you stand please, for just a moment, and let me fasten your stays?” asked Portia.
Byron walked over and grabbed the ornately carved bed post. He had watched his sister cling to hers many times, while her stays were being laced. He inhaled deeply and awaited his initiation into womanhood.
Will this hurt? What will it be like to be bound in this get-up? He wondered.
Portia laughed when she witnessed his evident fright.
"Compared to lacing up Felicity Turner, you should be easy. Your waist is slim, and you really don't need the corset to enhance it. It's your bosom. The tighter I can lace the corset the more it will look like you have a bust."
The tighter Portia pulled the strings, the more Becca's chest swelled. His pectoral muscles were well defined for a young man which helped in their deception. Once the corset was in place, the bodice of Rebecca's dress revealed a slight but definite hint of breast, enough to be enticing and not enough to appear vulgar. Perfect.
Portia lifted the shimmering silver gown carefully over his head. “Be careful not to get any of your makeup on the dress. The lead in the makeup won't react kindly with the metal in the silver threads, sir,” she said. “You don't want that sort of a chemical reaction."
He laughed. “You're right, I don't."
Gingerly, he held the fabric away from his body, until the skirt settled around his waist.
"There, now,” said Portia. She pulled the skirt down over his hips, then cinched in the lowest hook. The entire back of the gown was fastened together with row upon row of hooks and eyes.
"Do you almost have it?"
"Be patient, lovie.” Portia patted his backside. “It takes time and patience to be a woman. You can't just throw on your knickers and skirt and go gallivanting all over the place. Creating a beautiful woman is hard work, you know, and with you,” she pointed out, “we ain't exactly starting with the right package."
"I know, I know. I'm just excited.” He clapped his hands.
She led him over to the dressing table's chair. “I know you are.” To protect his gown from the pomatum and powder, Portia laid a thin towel around his neck and over his shoulders. While she continued to rearrange the hairpiece, Byron played with the various creams and lotions on the vanity table. He took a quick whiff of the pomatum grease that Portia had used to hold the white powder for his hair. It stank something horrible.
"Eck!” he cried. “It reeks. Will I smell like this wax?"
Portia grabbed his shoulders and forced him to be still. “Would you stop moving? I'll soon have this from your head to your foot."
He realized then that she was nervous. He heard the fear in her voice. What does she have to fear? he thought. I'm the one going to the ball as a female. What could happen to her? It took a moment for him to move past his feelings for himself and to see that Portia's role in this was precarious indeed. He might be in danger of exposure, t'was true, but the servants were perhaps at a far greater risk. Society would slap his hands, but theirs they might very well brand.
"I'm sorry, dear Portia,” he said. “I'll be a good boy—girl."
"Ock, dear, you'd better be,” she said. “Now bend over slightly and let me powder that wig.” Carefully she placed the paper horn over his face and blew the white powder onto the wig. As the bellows wheezed and puffed, she added, “and whatever ye do, don't stand too near Mrs. Parker's granddaughter, Virginia. She's worn her wig so long now it's infested."
"What?!” His voice was muffled from the horn.
"She's got fleas!"
Byron laughed, until he started coughing into the powder horn. Portia patted his back briefly but continued pumping the talc over his hair.
"It ain't no joke, if you get those lice and fleas in your head. So, mind you listen to me,” she admonished.
She pulled the horn away from his face and began dabbing at the edges of his make-up. Her voice had been stern, but the merry sparkle in her eyes begged him join in the fun.
"Well, Miss Portia, I'm mighty glad, then, that I want a man for my companion and not a society bride. I'm not sure that I'm cut out to pick off fleas, and as far as I know, none of my male companions have them."
"Don't be too sure of that, either,” she said. “Some of society ain't all that persnickety about their toilet."
"I'm sure.” His voice became droll. “Do you think I can do it—become the newest debutante? Or will I become the latest molly and the butt of everyone's jokes?"
"Truthfully, I think you can do this. And if it is love you're after, it is worth the risk. True love, Miss Rrree-becca, is hard to come by. Do you really love Lord Kincade? Or is this just some new lark to embark on?"
Rebecca Jones, beautiful yet complicated, grabbed Portia's hands and held them tightly. “I love him. I do. He's all I think about.” Rebecca/Byron poured out his feelings to the maid. “I wonder how he looks in the morning before his shave. I want to see him close his eyes in slumber at night. I daydream about him all of the time. When he speaks to me, I cannot breathe. I love the way he smells, even. Isn't that love?” she asked. “I just hope that he fall in love with me, Portia. I couldn't bear it, if he never loved me."
"Don't worry, dearie; he'll love you.” Portia turned Rebecca toward the mirror stand. “Look."
They looked at the beautiful reflection. Portia held up the turquoise cape. Gently she eased it up over the puffed silver sleeves of Rebecca's gown. The soft velvet cape against the foil silver gave Becca an ethereal grace. She tucked a finger under Becca's chin and said, “Look, miss. Who could resist you?"
Hot sweet tears came into Rebecca's
eyes. So much was at stake—to be Lord Kincade's beard and his man would be the epitome of deception and the realization of desire.
* * * *
Never was a man so grateful to arrive at his destination than Richard Kincade was to disembark his carriage at the ball. As Felicity had expected, Kincade had kept his word and escorted her to the palace garden, but his manner was exasperated, his speech clipped, and his patience thin. More than obvious was his displeasure, so obvious in fact, that she had begun to wish he were more the cad and perhaps had forgotten the conventions of polite behavior. As soon as the carriage stopped, he jimmied the door and bolted from the confines of the buggy. Scarce chance he had of knowing that his life was about to change forever.
With undue haste he pulled Miss Turner from the carriage and marched her into the blue salon of the Hamilton estate. Snippets of conversation and random chords of music wafted in through the open doorways leading out into the garden. Grand candelabras bearing flaming tapers were aligned along the marble banisters surrounding the porch. Such a hazard did they pose that the youngest of servants was present with the sole purpose of making certain that none toppled onto either the porch or a guest. The latter proved far harder to guard than did the former, especially after several glasses of rum punch had been imbibed.
Kincade wondered morosely through the throng of guests, pulling Felicity along behind him and looking for any means of extradition from her unceasing barrage of laments. Dear heavens above! he thought. Will this woman never shut up?
* * * *
Geoffrey and Godwin, waiting in the alcove just off the south porch, noticed his discomfiture and decided to extricate Lord Kincade from his predicament. Of course, their motives weren't entirely altruistic; they needed Kincade alone to orchestrate their grand scheme.
"What say you, brother dear,” asked Godwin, “should we do with yon harridan, Miss Felicity?"
"Ock, you mean how do we get rid of the bitch?"
Godwin laughed. “Exactly."
"I think Lord Kincade should have just a few more moments of her splendid company so as to better appreciate our substitute, young Byron."
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 33