Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady?

by Joanna Taylor (aka JS Taylor)

  While my hair tower is hung with swags of ribbon and lace, Sophie manages to find a collection of wicker cages and bulky petticoats to fan my borrowed skirts.

  When the style is completed, I can barely move. My neck muscles are already straining under the weight of my hair and I must turn sideways to leave the room. My skirts are so wide I can scarce touch my fingers to the edge of them on each side.

  As I arrive in the main hall, Edward seems greatly pleased by my fashionable appearance, but I feel as though I am in a walking prison.

  When I see the carriage Edward has readied for us, however, I am distracted from my discomforts and my mouth drops open wide.

  The vehicle is a bright blue highly decorated box suspended high above the London mud on four huge wheels. Six plumed horses have been reined in to drive it, and a coachman in a fine coat and hat is in the driver’s seat.

  ‘We will ride in this?’ I say, stepping forward and running my hands over the shining livery of the door.

  ‘You are the first girl who has caressed my coat of arms,’ observes Edward, opening the door and offering his arm to hand me in.

  ‘It is the least interesting thing of yours I have caressed,’ I reply, taking his hand.

  I eye the low carriage door, wondering how I might get inside.

  ‘How do women get about with their hair so high?’ I complain, as I try to manoeuvre my heavy coiffure and huge skirts inside the carriage. ‘I can hardly move at all.’

  ‘The carriage is large inside to accommodate it,’ Edward says. ‘You will be comfortable once you are within.’

  I step through, twisting my body, and manage to pull my skirts up and after me. Inside, I take in the plush interior with wonder.

  ‘It is all velvet in here!’ I call down to Edward, who is giving instructions to the coachman. He leaps easily in and takes a seat beside me.

  ‘So it is,’ he says, smiling at my amazed stroking of the soft seats.

  ‘Real velvet,’ I insist.

  Edward puts his hand over mine and bangs on the roof of the carriage. The driver cracks his whip and we start with a spurt of movement.

  ‘Oh!’ I cry, as I’m jolted forward. Edward’s arms automatically grab for me. And when the carriage movement steadies, he releases me slowly, as though he would rather keep me in his arms.

  When the carriage arrives outside Drury Lane, I am struck by the milling crowds. I had heard the theatre could be dangerous and now I understand why. Rich and poor are rarely so close together in London. And the undercurrent of discontent that characterises the city’s underclass is ever close to spilling over when a mob forms.

  I eye the milieu uncertainly. The cheering packs of plainly dressed commoners and the colourful aristocrats, the women like great butterflies with their wide silken skirts.

  There are boys selling nuts, gathered from Hyde Park, and girls selling fruit from baskets balanced on their heads. The dirt streets around the theatre have been whipped into a muddy roughness and lining their sides are ragged beggars – scrawny men and women barely clothed in filthy scraps of fabric.

  Edward reaches in his hanging pocket and distributes a few coins from the carriage window. A woman with huge ulcers on her legs hobbles up for charity. And as Edward hands her money, I am suddenly shamed by the richness of my dress.

  When I left Edward’s house, I feared my appearance would be too simple. For I wear a borrowed dress and have no jewelled hair ornaments of my own. Now, among these poorer folk, I wish I were more simply attired.

  I do not want to step into this mixed crowd adorned in such finery. It feels wrong. Dangerous. I want to be back in my old cheap dress. To move easily among the crowd. To banter and laugh and swig cheap ale.

  Edward must sense my uncertainty, because his hand closes on mine.

  ‘We have a box,’ he explains, ‘so we shall not be troubled by the crowds.’

  I swallow and nod.

  Edward’s footman has been sent to buy bottles of wine and he returns to the door of the carriage, moving through the thick of the crowd with a determined frown.

  The footman opens the door and Edward jumps down, his high leather boots landing easily on the muddy street. Then he reaches up and helps me down.

  I exit laboriously, resting my weight on his hand. Then I am out, looking up at the elaborate façade of the Theatre Royal. It is huge and white, with Greek-style pillars supporting the entrance, like some exotic temple.

  I feel exposed, being outside without my usual painted face and wide-brimmed shepherdess hat to hide under. It was part of my armour. In contrast, my tall hair is unwieldy and prominent.

  ‘Come,’ says Edward, taking me firmly by the hand, ‘we should get inside.’

  He pulls me with practised skill through the eddying crowd. Then we are at the doors, through the lobby and into the belly of the lavish tiered theatre.

  I breathe in, letting my gaze travel from the bottom to the top.

  ‘It is like being inside an enormous bride cake,’ I say, taking in the coloured grandeur of the interior. Gold-leafed decorations adorn tier after tier of boxes and seat sets, rising to impossible heights.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ agrees Edward, looking at the sweep of the theatre.

  A servant arrives to guide us to the box.

  ‘Should we not have tickets?’ I whisper to Edward, as he takes my arm.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I have my own box here. They will put it on my account.’

  ‘Oh.’ I am always awed at how aristocrats command credit by their faces alone.

  We are led halfway up the theatre and into an incredibly grand box.

  I step in sideways for my huge skirts and take in the plush interior admiringly.

  ‘Your box must be the best in the house,’ I say, marvelling at the space we have been afforded. ‘It is a quarter of the size of the full pit area.’

  Edward smiles. ‘It is one of the best,’ he says. ‘There is one other box of this size.’

  I lean over the edge, gazing out at the dizzying array of seats and tiers below us.

  ‘I see it,’ I say, pointing to a box on the far side that has been sumptuously adorned with hand-painted cherubs in gold leaf. ‘Whose is that?’

  ‘That box belongs to His Majesty,’ says Edward.

  I turn to him, my eyes wide in shock.

  ‘No! Truly?’ I look back across, peering, but the box is empty. ‘You have the same standard box as the King himself?’

  ‘One of the few advantages of my father’s profligacy,’ says Edward, ‘was he secured our family the finest of everything.’

  I take a little step back from the side.

  ‘But your challenge is to keep it?’ I guess. ‘So the family name is not shamed?’

  Edward nods, then smiles easily. ‘It doesn’t seem like such a hardship when you have someone to share it with,’ he says.

  I smile at him before returning to my assessment of the theatre.

  Aside from the royal box, there are other boxes all around. They are filled with women in the richest dresses I have seen in London. Like mine, their hair is two feet high and their silken dresses are pulled wide. But they have far more elaborate and expensive ornaments than me and their silks are noticeably richer.

  My eyes travel down to the pit, where the commoners push and drink and laugh. And then back up to the fine folk.

  None are smiling, I realise. The rich women strike me suddenly as captive creatures. Bound tight in their social world and their heavy clothing.

  The oppression of it causes me to feel even more restricted by my own heavy hair and wide skirts. I am itching to fly free. To join the easy mix of common folk.

  My eye catches a courtesan, easily identifiable to my experienced eyes. She inhabits a box of wealthy men. One I assume to be her suitor is close by her side, laughing with her, his eyes fluttering between her face and her breasts.

  He is clearly entranced and she wears the smile of a woman in love. But I c
an see, even from here, that her smile does not reach her eyes.

  I wonder how many broken promises she had to endure to achieve her current success. How much heartache and how much conniving were necessary.

  And I wonder for all she undoubtedly went through, if she now thinks her prize worthwhile.

  The curtain behind us twitches and a servant appears. He carries a silver tray, a small table and six wine glasses.

  Edward moves to the side a little, as the servant sets us up a table, places red wine and a strange bottle with a metal cage on it, and finally steps back with a bow.

  ‘Should you like me to uncork the wine, Your Lordship?’ he asks, his head still low.

  ‘Yes please,’ says Edward. ‘We shall start with the champagne. And perhaps a few nuts and sweets if you can find them.’

  ‘Champagne?’ I ask uncertainly. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It is a new drink from France,’ explains Edward. ‘I think you should like it.’

  The servant nods and steps forward to uncork the oddly sealed bottle. It opens with a loud pop and I see several heads turn to look up at us.

  ‘This is the purpose of this new drink?’ I ask, nodding to the fizzing liquid. ‘To have people hear you open it?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ says Edward. ‘That is the purpose of everything for an aristocrat. We have this box, so people might look at us too. So they might know how preposterously wealthy we are.’

  He sounds tired as he says this, as though the game of playing rich is exhausting.

  ‘Has the wine gone bad?’ I ask nervously, staring at the foaming liquid coming from the bottle.

  He shakes his head, pouring me a glass.

  ‘Try it.’

  I take an uncertain sip.

  ‘It is … it fizzes,’ I say, frowning. I take another sip. The taste is good, but the crackle of the bubbles on my tongue is loud and strange.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asks Edward.

  ‘I do not know,’ I say, taking another sip. ‘I think, perhaps I should get used to it.’

  He smiles and takes a deep draft of his own champagne.

  ‘What are the extra glasses for?’ I ask, as the servant retreats.

  ‘When you take a large box, you can expect visitors,’ he explains.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, surprised to find myself a little disappointed. This should be an excellent opportunity to meet more rich men. But the truth is, a small part of me should like to have Edward to myself.

  ‘They will not stay for the whole performance,’ he adds.

  ‘What play shall we see?’ I ask. It occurs to me that in the excitement I had forgotten to ask.

  ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’ he says. ‘It was written on the board outside.’

  I consider this. ‘I like that play,’ I say. ‘I read it as a girl.’

  ‘Have you seen a play acted before?’

  ‘Not in London,’ I say. ‘We sometimes had travelling players near Bristol. I liked them very much.’

  ‘Then I think you should like this,’ he says.

  The pit below has filled now and richly dressed young men are being escorted onto the stage.

  ‘Are those the players?’ I ask, peering closer.

  ‘No,’ says Edward. ‘Those are young men who are particularly concerned to be seen. Mostly they are the same pack that favours the gambling club and the coffee shops.’

  I watch as the men filter onto the stage. They are swigging wine from expensive-looking bottles and several are arm in arm, talking loudly, waving their hands.

  ‘They look drunk,’ I decide.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Edward. ‘They have likely been drinking since last night.’

  One of the men grabs an orange girl by the waist and she shrieks with indignation.

  ‘They like to show themselves as seducers,’ says Edward.

  ‘And their life never appealed to you?’ I ask, thinking that he is not much older than they. ‘You never thought to drink and whore for sport?’

  He smiles a little. ‘I outgrew such things. In two years, they shall have the pox, every one of them. Their homes shall be in disarray and their wives shall be sleeping with their friends. Likely they will not know for sure if their heirs are their own.’

  ‘But you do not visit taverns?’ I press, thinking of the entertainments lords favour, ‘or gambling clubs?’

  Edward shakes his head.

  ‘As you know, I enjoy women very much,’ he says, considering me with a dangerous smile.

  I have a sudden memory of his hands on my body and I hope it does not show on my face.

  ‘But not from taverns,’ Edward concludes. ‘And I never gamble.’

  ‘Never?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I do not like to take risks where money is concerned.’

  ‘Not even for sport?’

  ‘Especially not for sport.’

  There is a cough behind us and we both turn.

  ‘Edward?’ says a familiar voice.

  A man in elaborate dress stands behind a liveried servant. I recognise him immediately. It is Fitzroy. The man I overheard talking with Edward on my first morning in his townhouse. The man whose sister Edward will marry one day.

  Chapter 20

  I feel myself shrinking back as Fitzroy swaggers into the box.

  Once again he is outlandishly attired, in a bouffant white wig almost as tall as a woman’s, with elaborate pink ribbons tying his white stockings, silken hose and a coat of eye-wateringly bright green, with gold frogging from neck to thigh.

  ‘Fitzroy,’ Edward greets him warmly, moving forward to shake his hand. ‘What of business?’

  Fitzroy’s eyes dart to me and back again. He has a feral quality to him and he is small within his fine clothes. As though he wears the brightest colours and richest stuffs to give himself presence.

  ‘Business goes very well,’ he replies, looking at Edward. ‘Many lenders from the Exchange are here. Many lords who should like to further their fortunes in shipping.’

  He gives Edward an approving smile, showing small white teeth.

  ‘It looks very well that you are in your fine box, Edward,’ commends Fitzroy. ‘We should easily quash Vanderbilt’s objections with a few conversations tonight.’

  Fitzroy’s narrow eyes are back on me.

  ‘I have not had the pleasure,’ he murmurs, scrutinising my face.

  ‘This is Miss Elizabeth Ward,’ says Edward, stepping forward a little. ‘She is a relation on my mother’s side.’

  ‘Is that so?’ says Fitzroy, stepping closer. ‘May I?’ He takes my hand and his lips brush my fingers. There is something so unpleasant about the gesture that I suppress a shudder.

  ‘Have we met before?’ he asks. ‘You look familiar.’

  ‘Miss Ward is new to London this week,’ Edward replies quickly.

  ‘Tell me,’ asks Fitzroy, addressing me, though his eyes are moving quickly back and forth between us, ‘what brings such a lovely lady into Edward’s company?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Elizabeth is a very fine horsewoman,’ interrupts Edward, his eyes meeting mine. ‘She was very taken with your thoroughbred.’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ I agree quickly. ‘A magnificent animal.’

  ‘Samson?’ says Fitzroy, smiling at the compliment. ‘He is a fine beast. That horse cost two hundred pounds,’ he adds, scanning my face for a reaction.

  ‘Oh,’ I smile uncertainly, ‘what an expensive horse.’

  This seems to please him.

  ‘Do you mean to trade in ships with Edward?’ I add politely.

  ‘Edward and I mean to buy a trading ship,’ agrees Fitzroy, in the loud voice some men adopt when talking to a woman on business matters. ‘We should take goods and sail them to Africa.’

  ‘So Edward tells me,’ I say. ‘But do you not wish to explore, or find new wonders?’

  Fitzroy gives a braying laugh.

  ‘Exploration is for fanciful fools,’ he says. ‘Edward and I mean to make money.’
>
  ‘So you take no risks,’ I observe, sipping my wine. ‘But you make no discoveries either?’

  ‘Exactly right,’ says Fitzroy. ‘We take no risks.’

  He pauses and I sense he is waiting for something. Perhaps to be given a glass of wine, or invited to join us.

  There is a loud gong below and in the pit, musicians strike up. Though no one below seems to pay the slightest attention.

  ‘Well,’ says Fitzroy finally, ‘I had better return to my companions.’

  He casts his eyes over us both.

  ‘You have caused quite the stir with your pretty companion,’ he says to Edward, with a false casualness to his voice. ‘People are already wondering.’

  ‘Then let them wonder,’ says Edward sharply. ‘I am here to do business. Not to find a bride.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Fitzroy quickly, in a placating tone. His eyes drift to me.

  ‘Be careful, my dear,’ he says, with an affected smile. ‘I am hopeful his lordship will wed my sister next year. Do not let him toy with you.’

  I smile back.

  ‘My heart is too hard to be toyed with,’ I reply.

  Fitzroy looks disconcerted.

  ‘In any case,’ he says to Edward, making his way to the curtain as the music sounds louder, ‘Caroline is here tonight. Should I have her come greet you?’

  Edward’s face remains completely impassive.

  ‘We should be delighted to receive her,’ he says.

  Fitzroy bows low and slides out from the curtain, leaving the two of us alone.

  Edward takes a thoughtful sip of wine.

  I move to the edge of the box and stare out into the dizzying crowd.

  Fitzroy seems to have left a strange gloom in his wake.

  ‘Your box is like an entertainment all of its own, is it not?’ I ask. ‘Watching the people.’

  ‘I had not thought of it that way,’ says Edward. ‘Mostly I am occupied with knowing who is here and who is not.’

  He sounds so heavy with it all. As though he truly hates this part of being wealthy.

  Edward waves towards another box and I follow his gaze. A man waves back.