Minerva

by M C Beaton

  ‘Follicles!’ was her favorite oath, having once heard it uttered in a whisper by a hairdresser and having immediately taken it to mean a part of the anatomy that had nothing to do with the roots of the hair.

  Minerva folded her lips in an even tighter line. She would endure this ball and do her best to please. But her purpose was surely to bring some virtue into Lady Godolphin’s frivolous mind.

  Having found someone she thought needed her, Minerva rapidly began to recover her poise and submitted to all the dressing and preparation with good grace. She had feared that the ball gown Lady Godolphin had chosen for her would be scandalous, but Lady Godolphin was no fool, and had no intention of puffing off a virgin by making her look like Haymarket ware.

  Her gown was a gossamer satin robe of celestial blue with a demi-train; stripes of white lace had been let into the cross way of the skirt which had a broad lace Vandyke pattern around the bottom. The short sleeves were fastened up the front by a row of pearls. Her hair was arranged à la Greque in soft curls next to the face, and her head-dress was composed of braids of hair threaded with pearls and cornelians. White kid gloves, carefully wrinkled to cover very little of the arm below, a long tippet of swansdown, and pearl earrings completed the ensemble.

  Lord and Lady Aubryns had a town house in Grosvenor Square which was within walking distance. But fashion decreed they must arrive by carriage and be delivered at the door, and so they had to wait nearly a whole hour in the press of traffic before they were deposited outside the Aubryns’ mansion.

  Lady Godolphin was wearing a thin, white muslin gown which had been damped to reveal every swelling bulge of her stocky body. On top of her newly flaxened hair, she wore zebra feathers, which, combined with her bright paint, made her look like a primitive native on the warpath. She contented herself while they waited in the line outside the Aubryns by shouting abuse at various other coaches. ‘Give way!’ she screamed, thrusting her feathered head out of the carriage window.

  ‘Call yourselves coachmen? Well, you ain’t. Follicles, the lot of you. Great bunch of follicles!”

  Minerva’s eyes began to glow. Lady Godolphin was a marvellous sinner, a splendid sinful soul crying out to be saved. Her excitement at the prospect of reforming Lady Godolphin brought delicate pink to her cheeks and a luminous shine to her large eyes. She knew that Lady Godolphin would be stared at and giggled about and be a general object of scorn. For who could look at Lady Godolphin without experiencing pity or contempt?

  But it was Minerva who winced before the battery of eyes when she entered the ballroom. The first set of country dances was over, and the pairs of dancers were promenading around the floor, before the next dance. To Minerva it seemed as if hard assessing eyes were staring at her from every corner of the ballroom. No one made the pretense of looking at her sideways or behind fans. Some gentlemen produced quizzing glasses, levelled them in her direction, and raked her boldly from head to foot.

  No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to Lady Godolphin.

  Minerva was introduced by her companion to various hard faces and hard eyes and then they made their way to a line of gilt rout chairs against the wall.

  ‘All the world and his wife is here,’ said Lady Godolphin, fanning herself vigorously. ‘I shall point them out. There is Lord Alvaney. Oh, and there is Mr Brummell. Lady Sefton is yonder talking to Mr Cope, the little man in green. Someone will ask you to dance soon, I am quite sure. Are your garters tied tight?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Minerva tersely. ‘But not too tight,’ she added in a whisper. ‘It is not good to constrict the circulation of the blood.’

  ‘Fiddle,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘Garters not tied tight is the most treacherous of things. I remember … ah, here, if I am not mistaken is your first cavalier. Mr Jeremy Bryce, handsome, spendthrift, a rattle.’

  Mr Bryce was a tall, young man with a formidable pair of cavalry whiskers. His face seemed to be a little bit to one side; his nose bent a little to the right, his eyes were focussed a little to the right, and his mouth was twisted up on the right. He had very long legs encased in extremely close-fitting black tights, and during the dance, these legs seemed to be everywhere, waving about in the air like those of an injured insect.

  There was not much chance for conversation until the set was over and he and Minerva promenaded around the ballroom.

  ‘You are newly come to town, I believe,’ he said. ‘What do you think of the Season?’

  ‘I do not know,’ answered Minerva, who had made up her mind to be honest at all costs. ‘The Season has not begun.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ he said, a shade of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘The Season is like this.’

  Minerva studied the ballroom, the richly dressed figures, heard the occasional snatch of malicious gossip, saw the anxious eyes of the debutantes.

  ‘I think it is all a farce,’ she said in melodious tones. ‘I think society cares too much for worldly things and too little for their immortal souls.’

  ‘Really, ma’am. I see Lady Godolphin is anxious to speak to you and so …’

  He promptly deposited her beside Lady Godolphin -who had not been looking for Minerva at all – and walked off, mopping his brow.

  ‘I hope you didn’t waste any time dallying with young Bryce,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘Absolutely no money there.’

  Before Minerva could reply, her next cavalier came up. ‘Widower, fancies young gels, comfortable income, nothing exceptionable,’ came the words of her chaperone, just before her new partner bowed over her hand. He was introduced as Harry Blenkinsop. Again the dance – which was a country one and lasted quite half an hour – afforded little opportunity for dalliance or conversation.

  But once again, as Minerva walked around on the arm of her partner, as was the custom, her eyes searched the ballroom, disliking what she saw, not admitting for one moment it was because the tall figure of Lord Sylvester was not present.

  ‘I was staying once with the Osbadistons,’ said Mr Blenkinsop, ‘and had the honour of hunting with your father’s pack. What an experience, Miss Armitage! He has that pack so drafted for speed and bottom that when they are running should one dog lose the scent, another is at hand immediately to cover it. They are so close and so ready, you could cover the whole pack with a blanket! How proud you must be of your father!’

  ‘My father is a man of the cloth,’ said Minerva quietly. ‘I am proud of the fact that he has given up his life to the service of the church.’

  ‘But, dash it all, the man has bred the best hounds outside Belvoir …’

  ‘At great and unnecessary expense,’ said Minerva firmly. ‘It seems a great deal of time and organization and money to kill one animal.’

  Mr Blenkinsop stopped stock still, and glared at his fair partner, who, until a moment ago, he had been considering the prettiest girl in London. ‘You would have us shoot the fox?’ he demanded harshly.

  ‘Shoot it, strangle it, poison it … it’s surely all the same,’ said Minerva, aware that she was behaving very badly indeed and not caring one whit. She was being honest, and she was not letting the foibles and fribbles and falsities of the Season impinge on her soul, and that was a very heady feeling indeed.

  If Minerva had giggled or lisped all these inanities, thought Mr Blenkinsop furiously, then he could have forgiven her. But her very air of smug superiority was maddening in the extreme.

  ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ he said abruptly. And turning on his heel, he marched off and left her to find her own way back to Lady Godolphin.

  Thanks to the fury of Mr Bryce and Mr Blenkinsop, Minerva’s fame was spread rapidly through the ballroom, and, for the next two dances, she was obliged to wait, partnerless, beside Lady Godolphin. Lady Godolphin introduced Minerva to several of the other debutantes, good-naturedly hoping to find Minerva a few friends. But Minerva treated her peers to that same brand of righteous superiority that she had inflicted on her partners and she was soon left alone. Completel
y alone. For an elderly gentleman solicited Lady Godolphin’s hand for the dance, and for the first time in her life Minerva knew what it was to be a wallflower. It was then she noticed that Lord Sylvester Comfrey had entered the ballroom. She looked down at the toes of her celestial blue slippers in sudden mortification.

  She would hardly admit to herself that she was sure that, when she saw him again, she would be surrounded by admirers, not sitting alone, abandoned even by her chaperone.

  She had forgotten how handsome he was. The beautiful tailored simplicity of his evening dress made the other men around him look either overdressed or shabby.

  Like Brummell, he was wearing a blue evening coat and white waistcoat, but instead of the tight-fitting pantaloons sported by the famous Beau, Lord Sylvester was wearing light brown kerseymore breeches, with strings to the knees, white silk stockings and shoes with buckles.

  As Minerva watched under her lashes, she saw Lord Sylvester being buttonholed by Mr Bryce. Lord Sylvester raised his quizzing glass and looked in Minerva’s direction. Then he dropped it, disengaged himself from Mr Bryce, and a moment later could be seen talking to Lady Aubryns.

  Minerva sat and wrestled with a suddenly overactive conscience. She had been right, had she not, to speak the truth so plain?

  ‘Vanity,’ whispered her conscience. ‘You are uncomfortable and feel inadequate so you are using honesty as a weapon to make others feel uncomfortable.’

  But that could not be right. She had been feeling elated and righteous only a moment before.

  Minerva was so lost in the examining of her conscience that at first she did not quite take in the fact that Lord Sylvester was standing in front of her, looking amused.

  ‘I shall repeat my offer, Miss Armitage,’ he said. ‘May I have the honour of the next dance?’

  Minerva collected her scattered wits. ‘Certainly, my lord,’ she said as calmly as she could, and then blushing furiously as she remembered the feel of his lips pressing down on her own.

  ‘Since we have a few moments before it begins, may I sit beside you?’ And without waiting for permission, he took the chair next to her.

  He had one hand resting on his knee. That hand which had pressed her down so firmly … Minerva blushed again.

  ‘I would ask you what you think of London, but if rumour has it aright, I fear you would subject me to a long and painful lecture on the vanities of society.’

  ‘You are impolite, sir,’ said Minerva. ‘I fear that some unkind people have found fault with my honesty.’

  ‘It appears your honesty has been undiplomatic to say the least. Do you always tell the truth?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Then I am curious to know why my presence makes you blush, Miss Armitage?’

  ‘My lord, the nature of our last meeting was such … was to say the least … I have very painful memories of our last meeting.’

  ‘I remember being very gentlemanly indeed. What exactly distresses your memory so much?’

  ‘I should not need to remind you. You should not ask!’

  Minerva sat bolt upright. Two spots of angry colour burned on her cheeks.

  ‘For a young lady who prides herself on her honesty, I find you singularly reticent. I held you and kissed you because I thought a willing young woman had leapt into my bed. Imagine my blushes, my confusion, when I found it was the good vicar’s daughter.’

  ‘You are mocking me! You were not in the slightest put out. In fact, you nearly went to sleep.’

  ‘I always feel sleepy after any great emotional crisis.’

  ‘If you choose to mock me …’

  ‘Ah, you cannot recognize honesty in anyone else. I am simply telling the truth. Our dance, I think, Miss Armitage.’

  Minerva could only be glad it was a Scotch reel, and that they were constantly being separated by the figures of the dance.

  It was when she was performing the figure eight that she began to feel a sinister slackness about her knees.

  Now Lady Godolphin’s warning about tightening her garters no longer seemed frivolous.

  A look of strain began to appear on Minerva’s beautiful features.

  She could sense the treacherous garters untying themselves.

  She stole a quick look down. Her stockings were descending in fat folds about her ankles. Little beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead.

  The dance, she knew, would last for quite half an hour.

  How long had they been dancing? Minutes? Eons?

  All the canons of polite society shrieked against her confiding such a disgrace to her partner. She performed an elegant pas de bas and sent up a silent prayer.

  The garters had been knitted for her by one of the Hopeworth parishioners in a repellent grey wool. Minerva had not thought twice about wearing them. After all, who was going to see her garters?

  Now, she decided, they were just about to be exposed to the interested gaze of London society.

  To her infinite relief, the dance finished and she sank into a low curtsy in front of her partner. As she did so, she felt her garters slip and fall; a sudden looseness, a sensation of falling silk.

  She could not rise.

  She dare not.

  The unwavering green eyes looked steadily down into her own. Was it her imagination? Or did a little spark of mischief lurk somewhere in their depths.

  ‘The supper dance, Miss Armitage,’ he said.

  Still crouched in a curtsy, Minerva looked up at him with wide anguished eyes.

  He remained bowed over her, his hand on his heart, waiting for her to arise.

  Suddenly he smiled. ‘You should have told me your ankle was sprained,’ he said. ‘It often happens on these slippery floors. If you will but allow me …’

  He stopped and picked her up. The repellent garters fell to the floor, and, holding her tightly against his chest, he stooped again like lightning and scooped them up.

  ‘Excuse me. Twisted ankle, you know,’ he murmured as he made his way through the guests, carrying Minerva. ‘Ah, Lady Aubryns. Perhaps you could show me to some room where Miss Armitage may be able to rest for a little? Miss Armitage has wrenched her ankle.’

  ‘Perhaps Miss Armitage suffers from too much rigidity,’ said Lady Aubryns nastily. She had already heard of Minerva’s moralizing.

  She was a plump, plain woman with two plump, plain daughters and so she was not overfond of beautiful debutantes in any case.

  Lady Aubryns signalled to a footman and murmured instructions.

  Lord Sylvester, holding Minerva in what she thought was an unnecessarily tight clasp, strode after the footman, and Minerva soon found herself deposited in a small morning room.

  Her rescuer waited until the footman had departed and then dug his hand into his pocket and produced the two limp pieces of grey wool which were Minerva’s garters.

  Blushing furiously, Minerva snatched them from him and waited for him to leave.

  Since he still stood over her as she sat on the sofa where he had placed her, Minerva felt that she must thank him, and did so in an abrupt manner which, even to her own ears, sounded curt and ungracious.

  ‘Say no more about it,’ said the infuriating lord. ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘My lord,’ said Minerva, with her face flaming. ‘I appreciate your lying on my behalf. I think, however, I have been embarrassed enough. Please leave while I … while I repair the damage.’

  ‘Ah, but we must keep up the fiction, you see. Now if you go behind that screen in the corner, you can spare your blushes. I will then escort you to the supper room where we may enjoy a pleasant conversation.’

  ‘You are most kind, my lord, but again I urge you to leave. You have done enough. Do not think I am ungrateful, but …’

  ‘But since you cannot now dance, you would prefer to sit against the wall with the dowagers and wallflowers for the rest of the evening?’

  Minerva hung her head. She knew she had made herself very unpopular. It would be agony to sit ther
e, being pitied by all those more fortunate girls. She had been aware of the sharp glances of envy cast in her direction when she had taken the floor with Lord Sylvester, and she was feminine enough to like that.

  In all, she felt very confused and very young. At Hopeworth, protected from herself by the needs of others, her parishioners, her family, she really did not have much time for soul-searching. Her brothers and sisters might complain occasionally, but they did not question her sovereignty. As the vicar’s daughter, her visits were tolerated by some but welcomed by most, since, to do her justice, Minerva’s help was often more practical than spiritual. She read to the sick, looked after children, held sewing classes, and settled disputes.

  Her moralizing remarks went unnoticed by people who would have been surprised had the vicar’s eldest daughter spoken any other way.

  But hard, shiny, frivolous society simply shrugged an indifferent shoulder and damned her as a bore.

  For the first time in her life, Minerva began to sense that she was unpopular – and in danger of being considered worse than that – in danger of being considered an Original.

  And so she said a meek ‘thank you’ to Lord Sylvester.

  Moving in a half crouch, holding her falling stockings in her hands, Minerva scuttled behind the screen and wrenched her stockings savagely back up her legs and lashed them securely with the grey woollen garters.

  Then meekly she allowed Lord Sylvester to lead her to the supper room.

  She could not help worrying that he would gossip about the disaster of the garters.

  ‘You are not eating,’ remarked Lord Sylvester.

  ‘I am worried.’ Minerva’s wide grey eyes looked almost black. ‘I must throw myself on your mercy, sir.’

  ‘Really? I find that idea rather exciting. In what respect am I to be merciful?’

  ‘I pray you will not tell anyone about … about … my accident during the dance.’

  ‘My dear Miss Armitage, if I could keep to myself the vastly amusing story of having the vicar’s daughter leaping on top of me in bed, I am sure I can keep quiet about her losing her garters.’