Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady?

by Joanna Taylor (aka JS Taylor)

  ‘This is Elizabeth,’ says Edward, gesturing towards me with his palm.

  To my amazement, the housekeeper makes me a slightly confused curtsy. The chicken clucks in alarm.

  ‘I announced her to Sophie last night,’ says Edward smoothly. ‘But perhaps it slipped her mind to inform you.’

  Mrs Tomkinson’s face darkens.

  ‘I will have strong words with the girl,’ she promises.

  Edward shakes his head.

  ‘Sophie might have thought some privacy was necessary,’ he said. ‘She should not be punished.’

  Mrs Tomkinson is looking from Edward to me and back again.

  I am deeply conscious of my heavy make-up and cheap, low-cut dress.

  ‘But in any case,’ continues Edward, as though this kind of situation were perfectly regular, ‘Elizabeth will be joining me for breakfast. I should like the dining room to be prepared.’

  I am joining him for breakfast?

  I look at him questioningly. Edward makes a slight motion at me with his hands, suggesting he will explain things in due course.

  In possession of both her chicken and a viable instruction, Mrs Tomkinson seems to collect herself. She straightens, shrugging on authoritative competency like a familiar cloak.

  ‘As you wish, Your Lordship,’ she says, dropping us both a perfect curtsy and managing to make the chicken look as though it’s a deliberate part of the manoeuvre.

  ‘I will have the maids add another setting to the breakfast service,’ she says. ‘Will Miss Elizabeth be taking chocolate with her breakfast?’

  I wonder, suddenly, if perhaps I have not yet woken up and all this is some strange dream.

  Edward looks at me.

  ‘You should try the chocolate,’ he says, deducing from my blank face that I am not sure of the correct answer.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say, adopting my best speaking voice for Mrs Tomkinson’s benefit. ‘Chocolate with breakfast would be delightful.’

  Chapter 9

  I expect Edward to explain why he wishes me to attend breakfast. Instead, he advises me to make my toilette and leaves me alone in the parlour. Since I am not certain what this means, I seat myself nervously on the chaise longue, picking at a loose thread on my dress.

  I am all in a quandary as to Edward’s motives. Perhaps he will ask to see me again. Though I am under no illusions that he could be interested in a long-term arrangement. A girl like me could hardly become his courtesan. Things like that do not happen to whores in hand-stitched dresses. I should first need to establish myself far higher than I am now.

  I chew my lip in thought. It could be that he simply takes pity on my poverty. That he gives me a meal out of charity. Or maybe it is some ploy to trick me out of my money. For he has not paid the five guineas yet.

  A knock on the door distracts me from my tumbling thoughts. I rise, expecting to see Edward. But instead a maid enters. The same girl who delivered the wine last night. Sophie, I remember.

  She opens the door cautiously, and once again I have the sense of a tiny girl, swamped in her fine adult clothes.

  ‘Hello, Sophie,’ I say.

  Her eyes widen and I realise she is probably unused to strangers remembering her name. From my memories of Mrs Wilkes’s, aristocrats have a wonderful ability to ignore those in their service.

  ‘His lordship thought you would wish to make your toilette,’ Sophie says. Her quavering voice is grasping for an official tone.

  I nod vaguely.

  I know that ladies do such things, but have small notion of what it means.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my ignorance.

  She breathes a sigh of relief and turns to the hallway.

  ‘Her ladyship should like the basin brought,’ she announces.

  I open my mouth to correct the title, but shut it again uncertainly.

  To my amazement, three more luxuriantly dressed maids enter, carrying a large porcelain basin, jug, large gilded mirror and various intricately wrought silver boxes on a matching silver tray.

  They approach a little table, near to where I sit. I watch, fascinated, as the girls work expertly, setting these artefacts out to some preordained ritual, each in the right position.

  Finally, after an endless series of deft little movements, steaming water is poured from the jug and rose petals are scattered in the bowl.

  ‘Please sit,’ says Sophie, gesturing to a comfortable chair next to the basin of water. I rise and seat myself as requested, wondering what awaits me. I have hazy memories that ladies are washed all over by their maids and am dreading missing some protocol.

  Sophie dips a white linen cloth into the bowl, wrings it out and then approaches my face. She passes it gently across my forehead and down either cheek. Then she repeats the motion, washing away my thick white face paint and rouge.

  The hot water is soothing and I close my eyes as she massages my face with the cloth. The water in the bowl clouds as she works.

  Sophie makes a final satisfied wringing of the cloth and nods for a maid, who holds up the long mirror.

  I stare at my face in the glass, feeling vulnerable without my armour of make-up. A whore can take liberties with social graces. But people might expect manners of this fresh-faced girl in the mirror, which I do not possess.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Sophie. She looks surprised and nods in reply.

  Another girl steps forward with two small silver boxes. She opens them and holds them towards me.

  My gaze darts to Sophie, uncertainly. The boxes seem to have a kind of grease inside.

  ‘Would you take rose perfume, or bergamot?’ asks Sophie, registering my confusion and saving me.

  ‘Rose please,’ I say, opting for the more familiar word.

  Sophie leans forward to dab perfume at my throat.

  ‘Shall we pin your hair?’ she asks.

  I nod, thrown again into a ritual I do not wholly understand.

  A maid steps forward with one of the silver boxes. She opens the lid to reveal an array of silk ribbons, delicate lengths of lace and coloured feathers.

  ‘Which should her ladyship like?’ asks Sophie.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, feeling too ridiculous to continue with this particular lie. ‘I am not a lady.’ I smile at them. ‘You can call me Lizzy,’ I add.

  The maids seem both pleased and disconcerted by this. Sophie makes the first address. ‘What should you like in your hair, Miss Lizzy?’

  ‘I am not used to such finery,’ I admit. ‘Perhaps you could select for me.’

  Sophie looks pleased at this. ‘Of course, Miss Lizzy.’

  She scoops up a handful of my chestnut hair and lets it fall through her fingers admiringly.

  ‘I think some French lace,’ she decides. ‘Your curls are so pretty they need hardly any ornament.’

  I am not sure what to say to this, so I smile gratefully and stay silent. Seeming to need no answer, Sophie and the girls set to work on my hair, pinning and twisting.

  They are finished quickly and the glass is held for my approval. My eyes widen, taking in my new appearance.

  ‘It is not so very fine,’ apologises Sophie, ‘for we have no hairdresser and no hair pieces to make it proper. But I think it looks well enough.’

  ‘You have done very well,’ I assure her, turning my head to take it all in. My face is framed by a cloud of high hair, ornamented with exquisite swoops of lace. Two thick curls have been left to fall free over each shoulder. The overall arrangement makes my brown eyes look striking and my wide mouth more prominent.

  It is not elaborate, as very fine ladies style their hair. But it is much nicer than I usually have it. I look like a merchant’s daughter, I decide, or a country debutante.

  I breathe out. I realise, with a sinking heart, that my cheap dress looks even worse fitting against my neat-pinned curls.

  Sophie and the girls begin packing up the toilette, with the same deft assurance as when they laid it out. Then they swee
p out of the room and leave me alone, and even more anxious than I was before.

  I stand, chewing a fingernail and tracing the shape of my special banknote in my bodice.

  You can do this, I tell myself. You can eat breakfast in a lord’s dining room. Remember Mrs Wilkes’s teachings.

  Before I can work myself into a true state of terror, there is another knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I say absently, praying there isn’t another frightening aristocratic ritual to be endured.

  The door eases open and Edward walks in. I feel myself swallow, alarmed at the sudden thoughts his presence is invoking.

  Last night was … business. So why has my heart started beating faster?

  I am abruptly aware of how ridiculous I must look. A whore-styled-as-lady half-breed.

  ‘Did I startle you?’ he asks, and I realise my face must show all my trepidation.

  ‘Yes,’ I admit, alive with awkwardness.

  ‘A bare face suits you better,’ he observes. ‘And your hair looks very nice indeed.’

  I give an uncertain smile.

  His eyes drop to the top of my dress. And I realise I am still fingering my special banknote.

  ‘What do you have there?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ I give a false smile to pass off my discomfort and quickly move my hand from the top of my stays.

  Edward’s face tightens and I realise my gesture looked guilty. As though I am hiding something.

  ‘Did you take something,’ he asks, ‘from this room?’ He sounds disappointed.

  My face drops in horror.

  ‘No! I …’ I am too offended to get my words out. Edward moves towards me.

  ‘I am no thief,’ I say hotly, disconcerted now by his proximity. ‘I have never stolen. Not even when I was half-starved and homeless.’

  His hand is at my stays and before I realise what is happening, his fingers close on my banknote.

  ‘What do you conceal here?’ he asks, pulling it out before I can stop him. ‘What is this?’

  He pauses, studying it. ‘A banknote,’ he says, more to himself than to me.

  I snatch it back from him.

  ‘It is money I earned when first in London,’ I blurt, angrily pushing it back into my clothing. ‘It is no business of yours.’

  Edward looks as though he is understanding something.

  ‘You did not spend the first money you earned as a whore?’ he asks.

  ‘It is no business of yours,’ I repeat. ‘You have no right to accuse me of thieving.’

  To my shame, my eyes have filled with tears. But I am furious too. How dare he judge me a thief?

  I reach up, meaning to begin tugging out the foolish hair ribbons. Edward’s hand closes on my wrist.

  ‘Please,’ he says, and his dark eyes are filled with remorse. ‘I apologise. I am very sorry to have doubted your character.’

  We stand there, my hand halfway to my head, his fingers gently restraining me.

  Slowly, I let him draw my arm away from my hair. In truth I am a little taken aback by the sincerity of his apology.

  ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Take breakfast with me. Allow me to make amends. It was wrong of me to judge you. It is just that …’

  He pauses, his hand still holding my arm. ‘I am usually a good judge of such things,’ he concludes finally, with a look on his face to suggest he has seen the worst of human nature.

  ‘Well,’ I say, some of the anger slipping away, ‘you should not judge so quickly. Just because a woman makes her living a certain way does not mean she has no morals at all.’

  He looks rather moved by this. ‘No,’ he mutters, as though thinking of something different entirely, ‘I suppose it does not.’

  Edward releases my wrist from his grip.

  His eyes roam my face and his lips are inches from mine. And just when I think he might kiss me, he turns and exits the room.

  Chapter 10

  It is Mrs Tomkinson, not Sophie, who arrives to guide me to the breakfast room. And I can tell that every part of her is straining in her effort to remain courteous to me. Her eyes linger on my cheap dress, her mouth set in a straight grim line. As though I am a personal affront to her fine household.

  I follow her, keeping my face defiantly happy as she opens the door and gestures me inside.

  A long, long table has been made up with a place setting at either end. The space in between is peppered with the various pots and plates of a lavish silver breakfast service.

  Edward is sat at the far end. He smiles at me.

  ‘What a very long table!’ I announce in a voice deliberately loud and common, to goad Mrs Tomkinson. ‘I should not hear a word my sweet Edward says.’

  Instead of sitting at my allotted place, I stride down to the end of the table and perch myself on an empty patch of mahogany surface, so I am almost in Edward’s lap.

  Mrs Tomkinson’s face sets in high alarm and her body tightens so much she is almost twitching.

  Edward is struggling with a smirk. He inclines his head very slightly to the chair at the far end. A footman dives forward, heaves it up and carries it to my self-appointed place next to his lordship. Another servant arranges a place setting for me.

  Mrs Tomkinson leans forward, glowering, and straightens a cup.

  ‘Thank you. You may leave us,’ adds Edward, addressing all the servants.

  I slide from the table into my new seat.

  The servants retract smoothly and as the door closes, Edward raises his eyebrow at me.

  ‘I could not help myself,’ I admit.

  ‘Perhaps you should try,’ he says. But there is no reproach in his voice.

  Something smells delicious, I realise.

  ‘Have you taken chocolate before?’ Edward asks, following my gaze and gesturing to a little steaming silver jug, with an ornate whisk beside it.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head, peering into the mouth of the jug.

  He smiles at my interest and leans forward, taking up the whisk and frothing the contents of the jug. He then pours a high stream of dark liquid into a thin china cup. He passes it to me and I take it gingerly.

  It smells like heaven itself. I take a sip and find my eyes closing, as the sweet chocolate rushes over my tongue.

  I open my eyes to find that Edward seems to be studying my face. I set the cup down awkwardly.

  ‘It is fine indeed,’ I exclaim. ‘Delicious.’

  He says nothing, but only looks at me with a gentle smile.

  ‘Do you not take chocolate?’ I ask, noticing he has no food or cups before him.

  Edward shakes his head.

  ‘I rose very early to start my business for today,’ he says. ‘I have tried a great deal of chocolate already. It is something I mean to begin importing.’

  ‘Chocolate from the colonies?’ I guess, piecing together what I know of him.

  He gives a little incline of his head.

  ‘So you will deal in the slave trade?’ I ask.

  He frowns at this. ‘No. My ship will carry guns and gold to Africa. That money will buy slaves to send to America. Then America will ship me goods in return. Coffee, chocolate. Goods of that nature.’

  ‘But you still broker in slaves,’ I point out, wondering if he has any moral stance on this. There is much talk now of making slavery illegal.

  ‘Not directly,’ he says. ‘My main business is securing a ship at a good price. That will ensure us good profits.’

  ‘But why should you care about profits?’ I ask, taking another sip of chocolate. ‘You are a rich lord.’

  It is not the kind of question a lady would ask. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Regrettably,’ he says, ‘my father was not the best custodian of the family wealth.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, understanding. ‘So the son makes amends for your father’s poor management.’

  ‘Yes.’ He seems pleased by my breezy assessment of his situation. ‘In any case,’ he adds, ‘my financial situation brings
me to London. And it might also involve you.’

  I cough on my last mouthful of chocolate.

  ‘Me?’

  He hands me a napkin.

  ‘You.’ His eyes are on mine. I dab uncertainly at my mouth.

  ‘What is it you wish from me?’ I ask, wondering if there is some illegal part of his plan he wishes to involve me in.

  ‘I need a female companion,’ he says simply.

  ‘A companion.’ I repeat his words back slowly, trying to make sense of them.

  He nods. ‘I need to do business in London. That involves hosting dinners, attending balls. If I go alone, I will be besieged by matchmaking women looking to find me a wife.’

  ‘You do not look to marry?’ I ask, thinking of the exchange I overheard.

  ‘Not for the time being.’

  ‘Surely a rich wife would bring you more money than a good ship?’

  ‘I do not intend to take a wife for some time,’ he says.

  My face twists, trying to make sense of things. Perhaps his betrothal is an informal arrangement.

  ‘Why not take a courtesan?’ I ask, thinking of the beautiful women who accompany wealthy men.

  He shakes his head. ‘They are all well known. And society ladies would not attend an event with a courtesan.’

  ‘A debutante then,’ I say. ‘Some pretty girl.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That is far too complicated. A society girl comes with a mother. A mother means all kinds of problems.’

  I swallow. ‘You would like me to be your paid companion?’

  He gives a small nod. ‘For a week,’ he says. ‘No more. After that time, my business in London will be concluded and I will return to my country estate.’

  ‘You want me to … masquerade?’ I say, searching for the words. ‘But as what?’

  The thought of pretending to be high-born makes me hot with fear.

  ‘People will be too polite to question who you are in detail,’ says Edward. ‘I will tell them you are a distant relative and a country heiress. As long as your clothes are right, your manners will not be so important.’