Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady?

by Joanna Taylor (aka JS Taylor)

  ‘How much would you pay me?’ I ask bluntly, deciding money will be the persuader.

  ‘Thirty-five guineas,’ he says smoothly. ‘Five a day for seven days.’

  I suppress a sharp intake of breath. This is a great deal of money. A great, great deal of money.

  ‘You want me to attend society events,’ I say slowly. ‘Dinners, balls. Things of that nature.’

  He nods.

  ‘Then you must pay me more than thirty-five,’ I say. ‘You do not buy me for company alone. I must act in front of others to be part of your charade.’

  ‘Then how much would you ask?’

  ‘Seventy,’ I say, doubling his price.

  He regards me coolly for a moment.

  ‘Forty,’ he says. ‘No more.’

  I swallow. ‘Fifty is my lucky number,’ I reply, using Piccadilly barter.

  Edward laughs. ‘Fifty it is.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it, still reeling with shock.

  Fifty guineas!

  I can scarce believe it. The sum is enough to leave Piccadilly. To rent good rooms. To buy a fine dress. If I manage the sum properly, I could secure a wealthy suitor within a year. My dream of independent income could come true.

  ‘Fifty guineas,’ I murmur, my hand limp in his. ‘Fifty guineas.’

  I break into a grin. ‘Holy Mary.’

  Edward rises. ‘I will be back this evening and we will both take dinner with some guests.’

  ‘Dinner?’ My anxiety levels reach a new peak.

  ‘It is not a formal dinner,’ he soothes.

  I swallow, resolving to work hard for my fifty guineas. I’ve had a little training, after all, in gentry ways.

  Then my eyes drop down to my dress.

  ‘Yes,’ says Edward, following my gaze. ‘You will need to get yourself a dress. I will leave a purse of money for you,’ he adds as an afterthought. ‘It will contain your five guineas for last night and more for clothing.’

  I feel a little thrill of excitement. Our arrangement is getting better and better. With a dress to disguise my humble beginnings, I can keep quiet and stay below notice. For I know I scrub up nicely in the right clothes.

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ I say, quoting from Arabian Nights, since I know he will understand the reference.

  ‘For fifty guineas, I will expect more than three wishes,’ he replies.

  Chapter 11

  Edward leaves and as promised I am left a purse of money. I open it gingerly, hardly believing my good fortune. Inside is more money than I earned in a month at Mrs Wilkes’s.

  My grin, which has become fixed to my face since we brokered our deal, widens further.

  Then I remember Kitty. I need to explain things to her. And send money.

  After a few moments’ thought, I decide to ask Sophie’s help.

  I wander out into the endless corridors and soon find her manhandling a heavy sack of potatoes through the back door.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ I say, stepping to take the sack. She looks terrified.

  ‘God’s fish, Sophie,’ I say. ‘Look at the size of you. You will never get that sack inside without it breaking open.’

  Not waiting for her answer, I pick up the other end of the sack.

  ‘Thank you,’ she concedes, her little face red and sweating. ‘They usually carry potatoes down, but they have a new delivery boy who forgot.’

  I settle the potatoes easily on my hip, the farmyard way. Sophie waddles uncertainly forward with her end.

  ‘I want to get a message,’ I say, ‘to a friend in Piccadilly. Do they collect the penny post here?’

  ‘No,’ replies Sophie. ‘His lordship uses servants to send messages.’

  I should have realised that. Of course a lord would have a liveried man to send messages.

  ‘But I can call for a message to be sent,’ adds Sophie.

  ‘Could you?’ I ask gratefully.

  She nods, still straining under the weight of the sack.

  ‘I need to send money,’ I say. ‘Will it be safe?’

  Sophie looks shocked. ‘Of course, Miss Lizzy,’ she manages, making the final waylaid step into the cellar.

  Now we have reached the bottom of the stair, she indicates a pile of similar sacks. I turn towards it.

  ‘Where should the message go?’ she asks.

  ‘Kitty French at number seventy-three Piccadilly.’

  ‘I will ask right away,’ she adds, as we heave the sack to the ground. ‘What would you like said?’

  ‘Only that this is some money from Elizabeth Ward. And I am safe and will be back in a week,’ I say.

  Sophie nods slowly, memorising this.

  ‘It will be done,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you.’ I beam at her. I take out Edward’s purse and give her three of the five guineas I earned last night. Enough to pay rent and keep Kitty’s creditor at bay a little longer. I have already decided to send more, if the arrangement works out. So that Kitty might pay off her dress and finally be free of Mrs Wilkes.

  ‘You will be sure it is put into her hand directly?’ I ask, seized with fear that one of Kitty’s shady friends will pocket the money.

  ‘You have my word, Miss Lizzy,’ promises Sophie. ‘I will make sure the money gets to her.’

  Once I have taken care of Kitty, my head returns to my own affairs.

  A silk dress. New shoes and gloves to match.

  It is all so exciting. Already I have decided on the colour and the style.

  But the situation also presents me with a problem.

  I came from the country almost direct to Mrs Wilkes. I have very little idea of how to find good dressmakers in the city.

  I puzzle on the problem. I am in Mayfair, after all, I decide. I will take to the streets and hunt out the right fabric myself. There must be dozens of fine shops for the ladies in this part of town.

  I sneak out of the house, avoiding Mrs Tomkinson, who I feel sure would make some remark. But it is much harder than I thought to find a place to have a dress made. Mayfair seems to have none at all.

  I spend the best part of the morning searching, but see nothing that resembles a dressmakers.

  I am trying to think where to go next, for I only know low dressmakers. I am considering broadening my search to Westminster when I spy a city beadle approaching me. Beadles police the streets and so this one must be able to help.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ I say, as he nears. He is a stocky sort of man, with a close beard and mean little eyes that seem to be regarding me in full derision.

  ‘What are you doing in Mayfair, girl?’ he asks. He is staring meaningfully at my cheap dress. I swallow, trying to remain dignified. I have a great purse of money about me, after all.

  ‘I look to buy a dress,’ I say.

  ‘This is not the place for your kind,’ he says. ‘You had better go to Cheapside.’

  I shake my head, blood beginning to hammer in my ears.

  ‘I have money,’ I stutter. ‘I am here to buy a silk.’

  ‘Cheapside is the place for you,’ repeats the beadle. ‘Now you had best stop roaming these streets, Missy. Before I have you whipped for plying your foul trade.’

  ‘I …’ I open my mouth and close it again, lost for words. In Piccadilly, in my face paint, I am ready for any cruel remark. But the man’s vitriol has taken me by surprise.

  I blink back the tears of shame that prickle at my eyes and without a word, turn from the beadle and stride away.

  I arrive back at Edward’s grand townhouse burning with shame. I have failed utterly. I could not even buy a dress for this evening and have been chased off the streets as a gutter whore.

  The hurt of it goes deeper than any I have felt in a long time. And it pains me that the thick shell I worked so hard to build seems so easily pierced.

  The hallway is empty as I enter and I walk quickly to the stair, with an uncertain plan of heading back to the parlour.

  ‘Elizabeth!’

  A sharp voic
e calls me back and I turn to see Mrs Tomkinson.

  My heart sinks.

  ‘What?’ I say, my painful day making my tone harsh.

  ‘Come with me,’ she instructs, making clear that she is under no illusions that I am a lady.

  When I pause, Mrs Tomkinson takes my arm and leads me officiously into a small reception room. She closes the door and gestures for me to take a seat.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ I demand, sinking bad-temperedly into a chair.

  Mrs Tomkinson does not sit.

  ‘I have heard that his lordship wants to make a guest of you,’ she says.

  I regard her face, refusing to reply. She has dark features, foreign-looking when you consider her closely. I wonder vaguely if she came from somewhere far away. There is no note to her accent.

  Mrs Tomkinson sighs at my silence.

  ‘This is a fine house, for a fine family,’ she begins. ‘What his lordship does is his own concern. But I should not like to see the good name besmirched.’

  I keep my eyes fixed on the floor.

  ‘His lordship has left no instructions as to your status in the household,’ she continues. ‘Do you have anything to tell me that might save the servants gossiping?’

  I stay silent, not quite sure what she is asking me.

  ‘I will tell the servants that you are the daughter of a country family,’ she continues, after a moment. ‘They are all London born and if you are on your best manners, the illusion may hold.’

  I look up, to see she is regarding me steadily, as though she thinks me unlikely to master this particular disguise.

  ‘But your dress,’ she says. ‘It is very cheap. No one will believe you are anyone at all if you insist on wearing such vulgar attire.’

  This final insult sparks some new spirit in me.

  ‘Then tell me how a dress can be got in Mayfair!’ I cry exasperatedly. ‘For there are no dressmakers and no fabric sellers.’

  Mrs Tomkinson blinks at me.

  ‘You went looking for a dressmaker in Mayfair?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And my feet ache from searching.’

  I do not tell her about the beadle.

  ‘Edward, his lordship, wishes me to have a dress for dinner,’ I add, tears of hopelessness springing up. ‘But I have none and no time to have one made.’

  To my amazement, Mrs Tomkinson’s face softens.

  ‘Men know nothing about such things,’ she tuts. ‘There are only a few dressmakers in London who could accomplish such a feat in a day. And you could hardly be expected to know them.’

  She shakes her head, her eyes falling to my figure, judging my inadequacy all over again.

  ‘Sophie!’ she shouts.

  I start in my chair, thinking she means to turn me out of the house.

  The door opens almost instantly. I realise Sophie must have been listening outside. I suppose I must make a rare drama for the servants.

  ‘If you mean to turn me out of doors—’ I begin.

  But Mrs Tomkinson cuts me off, speaking to Sophie. ‘I have a better task for you than listening at doors,’ she says tartly.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Sophie’s face is guilty.

  ‘Go to the yellow chamber,’ commands Mrs Tomkinson. ‘There are some dresses there that were left by Lord Erwing’s niece when she last visited. Bring me the purple silk.’

  Sophie curtsies and exits.

  Mrs Tomkinson eyes me again.

  ‘I think it should fit you,’ she decides. ‘You are tall, so the skirt may run a little short. But the lady was slender and had good colouring. I think her dress might do nicely.’

  As it dawns on me what Mrs Tomkinson is proposing, a new rush of tears rises up.

  ‘I …’ I try to reply, but there is a dangerous lump in my throat. ‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘Truly.’

  Mrs Tomkinson nods and I feel a rush of warmth towards her.

  ‘No need to thank me, child,’ she murmurs. ‘Let us first see if you can carry such a garment off.’

  Chapter 12

  For all her tutting and poking at me, I can tell Mrs Tomkinson feels a sense of pride as she examines me in the borrowed dress.

  ‘It looks very well on you,’ she concedes with a satisfied nod. And I realise this is high praise, coming from her.

  ‘Is it not too low at the front?’ I ask, tugging nervously at where my bust is on display.

  She shakes her head. ‘The richer the garment, the more you can display without cheapening yourself. You have a lot of beauty to recommend you. We women must play to our strengths.’

  ‘What will the dinner tonight involve?’ I ask.

  ‘A lot of hard work for me,’ she says, stooping to arrange my hemline.

  I smile. ‘Will there be dancing?’

  ‘Yes. French dancing,’ she adds. ‘It took me all morning to find the musicians.’

  My face falls.

  Mrs Tomkinson looks up from her manipulation of my hem.

  ‘You do not dance French?’ she guesses.

  I shake my head limply, feeling flat. Mrs Wilkes taught us English dances for ageing lords.

  Mrs Tomkinson stands fully upright and puffs out her cheeks in a sigh. She appraises me for a long moment.

  ‘You dance English?’ she asks.

  I nod listlessly.

  ‘You can dance well?’ she demands.

  I shrug. ‘I have been told so.’ There’s no point in being modest. My talent hardly helps me here.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Mrs Tomkinson leads me into the large ballroom of the house, where a harpsichord stands.

  ‘The musicians are not here yet,’ she says. ‘We shall have to sing it ourselves. That should not be hard for you,’ she adds, and I realise she’s referring to my chicken song.

  ‘You would teach me the dances?’ I say, overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘You think I could learn the steps?’

  ‘It depends how fast you learn,’ she says. ‘French is complicated. But if you are a good dancer, then you might be able to learn enough to pass. Sophie will partner you,’ she adds. ‘The girl spends half her time watching dances when she should be working. She knows the steps.’

  I nod, chewing my lip.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘We shall have none of that,’ says Mrs Tomkinson. ‘You will learn nothing at all with that littleness.’

  She frowns. ‘Keep your face straight,’ she instructs. ‘Stand taller. Show your good figure to its advantage.’

  Mrs Tomkinson examines me critically.

  ‘You are very lovely,’ she adds without sentiment. ‘People will be looking at your face, not your feet. You may be able to fool them yet.’

  Chapter 13

  I am so alive with nerves that the long preparation for the evening is over before I realise. Sophie and an army of maids flock around me, lacing my dress and ornamenting my person.

  Motivated by Sophie’s instructions, the girls have spent a solid two hours building my curls high over my head. So I have my first taste of the weight that fine ladies carry on their heads.

  I am so grateful for their help I hardly know how to express it. But the maids seem to take a quiet delight in styling me for dinner.

  As the time for Edward’s return nears, I descend the wide staircase and wait anxiously in the hall, my neck muscles stiffening under the weight of my tall hair.

  The servants are all in a flurry now, racing back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, fetching and carrying.

  I spy Mrs Tomkinson heading to the kitchen.

  ‘We shall take three kinds of wine before dinner,’ she announces to a passing servant. ‘A Bordeaux, a burgundy and the cellared Haut-Brion. Have them decanted and ready.’

  ‘Bridget!’ I hiss, as she races past.

  Mrs Tomkinson stops, noticing me for the first time.

  ‘Well,’ she says, breathing out, ‘you look quite the lady.’ She steps forward, fussing over me and adjusting my dre
ss a little.

  Then she catches my terror-filled face and tuts.

  ‘Breathe slowly, stand tall and smile,’ she advises.

  Suddenly, I hear Edward’s voice.

  ‘Do we have a guest, Mrs Tomkinson?’ He sounds confused.

  I turn and his face looks blank, before dawning recognition sets in.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ His expression is one of stunned delight.

  I smile uncertainly. He steps forward, taking me in. Then, as if remembering himself, he backs away a step and bows low.

  ‘I am undeserving of such beauty and grace,’ he says, directing the words to my feet.

  I grin and he straightens, offering me his arm.

  ‘Our guests will arrive shortly,’ he says. ‘Would you do me the honour of joining me in the reception room? You look beautiful,’ he adds. There is so much warmth in his voice that I find myself feeling bashful.

  I rest my hand on his arm, allowing him to lead me forward.

  ‘Your Lordship, I should be delighted,’ I reply.

  We glide away together. And just for a moment, I feel like a real lady.

  Chapter 14

  Edward leads me into a richly furnished room on the ground floor. I have never been inside it before, though I did catch a glimpse from the street when I set off to try to find a dressmaker, and thought it very fine.

  The room commands the very front of the house, with enormous windows in the modern sash style. The walls are panelled with gold-leaf edging right up to the towering, elaborately corniced ceiling.

  The servants have been hard at work in here and the whole room has a freshly scrubbed and decorated feel.

  The huge marble fireplace is adorned with swags of silk, though no fire has been lit, since it is a balmy summer night. The large crystal chandelier is decked with glittering candles and many more shine from the sides of the room.

  A colourful Persian rug has been beaten clean to within an inch of its life and the artfully scattered carved-wooden furnishings are waxed to a high shine.

  ‘Tell me about the reason for this dinner,’ I say, hoping for something to distract me from my rising nervousness.

  ‘It is partly business,’ admits Edward slowly. ‘I wish to buy a ship. The owner would rather not sell.’