I have only seen the building once in the daytime, when a public coach carried me into London. Since the Great Fire, brick and stone buildings have sprung up all over the city. In stark contrast to the wooden buildings of my country birthplace. And while I admire the swagger of an entire street of brick and stone, the enormous Pantheon looks a little forbidding with its unyielding columns and straight walls.
‘It is styled to look like a Roman temple,’ explains Edward, noticing me staring. ‘I saw many like it as a younger man.’
‘You were in Rome?’ I am impressed.
‘Many young lords make a tour of Europe,’ he says. ‘So they can sow their wild oats.’
‘I cannot quite imagine you as a libertine.’
Edward smiles slightly.
‘I had my moments,’ he says. ‘In France and Italy I also learned more about farming methods. When I returned, I applied what I had discovered and our family estate made a profit for the first time in years.’
I nod at this. From what I know of him, this is typically Edward.
‘Should you like to travel there again?’ I ask.
He thinks about his.
‘Perhaps one day. I enjoyed travelling very much. But now I am older, I am less inclined to venture overseas.’
‘Why?’
Edward frowns.
‘Travel can be unpredictable,’ he says. ‘Managing the family estate made a business man of me. I learned what my father did not. That unnecessary risk is to be avoided.’
‘I had forgotten,’ I reply, ‘that you do not like risk.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Not in business.’
‘It sounds as though making money has become a habit that precedes all else.’
‘Perhaps,’ he says mildly, looking towards the entrance. A mass of people form an untidy queue of costumed revellers. It is too dark to easily see their outfits. But a thicket of sticks, staffs, crooks and tridents wave above the throng.
‘Looks like we shall have to get ready to push the crowd,’ I sigh, knowing all too well the mob mentality that forms whenever Londoners gather en masse.
But Edward takes my hand and leads me to the front of the queue. When he arrives in front of the two smartly dressed doormen, he takes off his mask.
The effect is immediate. The men bow and the crowd parts.
‘I see,’ I say, turning to Edward in surprise. ‘So a lordship comes with benefits besides a country estate.’
‘Some are more useful than others,’ he says with a smile, leading me on.
The masquerade has two more entrances, each with progressively stricter entrance criteria. I hold Edward’s hand uncertainly. But the instant staff see his face, we are ushered through as honoured guests.
Edward buys two hand-illustrated tickets for five guineas each and hands them to me.
‘Five guineas?’ I say, taking the ticket.
‘It helps keep undesirables out,’ he says with a little smile. ‘Although they cannot account for such factions entirely of course. That is part of the fun.’
I grin at him.
‘This must be the only place in London where people are judged solely on how much money is in their pockets,’ I say, wishing it were so elsewhere.
‘I suppose it is.’ Edward replaces his mask. ‘Are you ready to masquerade?’
‘With you, always,’ I reply, realising only as I say the words how true this is. I will be sad to leave the fantasy life I am living with Edward.
A curtain is held back for us and then we are in the huge domed ballroom of the Pantheon.
My mouth falls open in wonder.
Thousands of candles sit atop countless mighty chandeliers, and every table and surface around the room is decked in sparkling candelabras. Rippling flames play out as far as the eye can see, while the sides of the hall are decked with sweets, bread, cheeses and enormous bowls of fruit. Towards the back I make out a crowded wine service area.
‘It is like daylight!’ I whisper under the glare of the illuminations. ‘And the noise!’ I add, giddy with delight at the experience. A wave of high-pitched squeaking sweeps over us – the sound of the masqueraders enjoying frantic dialogue in disguised voices.
‘Edward, look!’ I can barely contain my excitement.
The masqueraders are a whirling mass of black featureless faces set against the most elaborate and incredible costumes. High hair pieces tower several feet in the air, their bizarre ornaments and jewels making a bobbing dance of their own above the crowd.
My eyes light on some of the more outlandishly dressed female guests.
‘Who is that?’ I ask, pointing to a near-transparent outfit.
A curvaceous young woman is draped in diaphanous materials that barely cloak her nudity. And she has not troubled herself with a mask.
‘That is Iphigenia,’ says Edward. ‘A sacrificial victim of Greek myth, undressed and ready for sacrifice.’
‘I do not mean her costume,’ I whisper. ‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Elizabeth Chudleigh. She is married and a lady. But it will be a scandal if the journals report her.’
I stare at the woman, mesmerised.
‘Should not her husband mind?’ I manage.
Edward shakes his head.
‘She has produced an heir. Her husband does not much care for her company. So she is free to take a lover as she wishes.’
I let my eyes rove the rest of the room. Aside from Elizabeth Chudleigh, most guests wear masks. And the majority are masquerading from the lower social hemisphere.
With the masquerade mask a solid disguise to the upper face and a black veil hanging over the mouth, the physical camouflage is impressive. Particularly as many attendees also wear heavy hoods, wigs or the headgear of their various professions.
Milkmaids and gardeners, footmen and flower girls, ostlers and pastoral nymphs tramp the thick wooden floorboards.
But dotted in among them are the occasional guests covered in spectacular jewels.
‘Those guests cheat,’ I protest, pointing to a lady draped head to toe in diamonds. ‘She shows she can be nothing less than a duchess.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Edward, his mouth close to my ear so as to share his thoughts with me alone. ‘Some cannot bear to be poor, even for fun. It is a little sad, is it not?’
I nod slowly.
‘Shall we have some wine?’ he asks. ‘I can have some brought to us.’
But over the din of the masquerade, I make out the first chords of a violin.
‘Music!’ I cry in delight. ‘Edward, we must dance before we drink.’ I take his hand and drag him towards an eddying huddle of guests who are arranging themselves into a circle.
He shakes his head and pulls back, but I press forward, unwilling to take no for an answer.
‘No one will know you,’ I protest, inching him towards the music. ‘And even you must know this song, Edward. It is a country dance.’
He is laughing and allowing me to coax him now.
‘Very well,’ he says. ‘You are sure it is a shepherdess you came as? And not a cattle prodder?’
I beam back at him. ‘I will be anything you like, so long as you dance with me,’ I reply, as we take our places among the other guests.
I am almost skipping on the spot from excitement and Edward is looking at me in amusement.
‘I love dancing,’ I say. ‘This is one of my favourites.’
It is a lively country melody. Completely different to the complex steps of fashionable French dancing.
I take in the other dancers. They are poised rigidly. In the way of aristocrats who have it ingrained not to make a show of themselves. I can already imagine how they will dance. Like puppets on a route march.
I frown, promising to enjoy myself in any case. The stuffy ladies can go hang, I decide. I am masked. No one knows me. I shall dance as enthusiastically as if I were at a country fair in Bristol.
The first dancing chord strikes out. As predicted, the other dancers begin a prec
ise, measured step. Only just meeting the lively beat.
I break into a wide smile, letting the music wash over me and my body follow. Masquerading truly is liberating, I realise, as I plunge full force into the dance.
At first Edward is a little out of time. But when the part comes for us to lock arms, I pull him back into the rhythm.
‘You see!’ I cry, as we spin to the music. ‘This one is easy. You step only on the third and then swing.’
I pull him into the same fast step, flinging myself wholeheartedly into the dance, letting my skirts whirl out wide.
Edward has something approaching a smile now and as we break into the second verse, he has mastered the rhythm.
By the time we are on the third, we are both laughing aloud as we skip and spin. Edward looks the happiest I have ever seen him. As though he hasn’t a care in the world.
We press close and then swing apart, looping and reeling as the music drums in our ears. Our hedonism has even rubbed off a little on the other dancers. I notice a few have picked up the beat. Others smile in approval as Edward and I whirl like mad things.
‘Are you not glad I made you dance?’ I grin, as we bounce around one another. ‘You are enjoying it hugely, I can see it.’
‘I would enjoy it more had not all those men gathered,’ observes Edward wryly.
In the heat of the dance I had forgotten the loose shepherdess costume. I take a hasty glance around, to see the dance floor has attracted a little ring of male spectators. Many of whom seem to have their eyes glued to my bodice, which barely disguises the motion of my breasts as I dance.
‘You must use your crook on them,’ I decide, breathless as the song comes to the end. ‘That is what a good shepherd would do.’
‘Maybe I should use it on you,’ he says. ‘To keep you from dancing.’
I give him my widest, most beatific smile.
‘Never, Your Lordship,’ I say. ‘Now we know how much you love to dance, you must partner me every time.’
Chapter 31
We wander away from the dance, breathless and happy. Edward steers us to the wine service area, where he orders a bottle of wine.
‘Do you like the masquerade?’ he asks, pouring me a cup.
‘Very much,’ I decide, taking a long sip. ‘I love it.’
He seems pleased. ‘I hoped you would.’
‘Everywhere you take me is better than the last,’ I admit.
We are beaming at one another, lost to the world.
‘You are so different,’ I say, in a flush of honesty, ‘from the lords I met at Mrs Wilkes’s.’
Edward considers this.
‘How did you find yourself with Mrs Wilkes?’ he asks.
‘I was ruined,’ I say easily. For I suddenly feel I may tell Edward everything. ‘The story is a cliché. My seducer took me to Mrs Wilkes. And since my fine plans had been broken, I let Mrs Wilkes lead me to a life of sin with hardly a protest.’
‘Your seducer was the man who gave you the banknote?’ Edward guesses.
His perception is unexpected. I nod and frown, not wanting to say anything more. My easy admission has become complicated in the reality of painful memories.
Edward stays silent.
‘What of you?’ I ask, to break the suddenly charged atmosphere. ‘Who was your first?’
He laughs. ‘A servant girl. Like every young lord.’
‘Oh Edward,’ I tease, ‘how terribly commonplace. To seduce a poor servant.’
‘She seduced me,’ he replies. ‘My lover was a thirty-year-old widow who polished the silver. I was sixteen and giddy with lust. She used me mercilessly for profit.’ His tone is amused, as though he respects such behaviour.
‘Am I to take it you enjoyed the seduction?’
‘Every moment of it,’ he says. ‘Though my father did not like how much money I gave her. He dismissed her in the end. But I think she had enough by then to do very well for herself.’
I smile at this.
There’s a cough behind us.
‘Edward?’ says a familiar voice.
We both turn in alarm, to see a man dressed as King Henry the Eighth. He only wears a half-mask and I recognise his lower face immediately. It is Fitzroy.
I feel myself drawing close to Edward. As though my heart has been squeezed. I am hoping Caroline is not here.
In the high spirits of the masquerade, I had forgotten that Edward is a high lord with an arranged marriage.
‘Fitzroy,’ says Edward, but he doesn’t sound pleased.
‘I recognised your voice,’ replies Fitzroy. ‘I can always tell the timbre of true gentry.’
‘What a magnificent costume,’ says Edward politely.
‘I had extra diamonds stitched,’ says Fitzroy, stroking his fur-lined chest. ‘All kinds of low folk slip into the masquerade. It’s as well for them to know who is their better.’
He seems to consider Edward and me fully for the first time.
‘I did not know you were attending the masq,’ he says pointedly. ‘Had you informed me—’
Edward holds up a hand, cutting him off.
‘There is nothing to concern yourself with, Fitzroy,’ he says. ‘The business on the estate was done today. Vanderbilt can have no more objections. We will sign at the Exchange on Friday, as arranged.’
Fitzroy’s face looks as though he is searching for some objection.
‘I could have come with you,’ he says finally. ‘Born witness to the signature. So we could be sure Vanderbilt could have no other recourse.’
‘Elizabeth witnessed the signature,’ says Edward.
Fitzroy’s eyebrows shoot up. His eyes flick quickly to mine and I see something jealous there.
‘A shepherdess tonight,’ he murmurs, looking at my loose shift.
I feel my hand lift to my mask, assuring myself of its comforting presence.
‘You are privileged indeed,’ he continues, ‘to spend so much time with Edward.’
I glance at Edward, uncertain of how to respond.
‘And your costume is certainly beguiling,’ adds Fitzroy, his gaze openly roaming my figure now. ‘A king can admire such country purity.’
I smile rigidly and make a curtsy.
‘I am grateful for your royal favour,’ I reply.
‘I saw you both dance,’ says Fitzroy. ‘You were well spoken of to be sure, Miss Shepherdess. I think you will be besieged by admirers if you leave Edward’s side for an instant.’
He stares at me for a long moment, as though he suspects me of something. Then he turns his attention back to Edward.
‘I thought you did not dance,’ he says, letting the observation hang on the air like an accusation.
‘This lady found the dancer in me.’ Edward is looking at me warmly.
Fitzroy frowns.
‘Be watchful, Edward,’ he says, with a meaningful glance at my loose dress, ‘that you do not lose sight of your purpose in town.’
‘You forget yourself, Fitzroy,’ says Edward, his voice suddenly cold, ‘if you think to tell a lord how to conduct himself.’
Fitzroy blinks as though he has been slapped.
He gives a low bow.
‘Of course, Your Lordship,’ he murmurs.
He straightens, his eyes shifting to a point over Edward’s shoulder, and he gives us both a short bow.
‘Do excuse me,’ he says. ‘I believe I see Lord Grey with his mistress. He means to debate on slavery next week and I must hear his view.’
He glances at Edward, seeming to recover his early self-assurance. ‘This will influence our business,’ he adds. ‘Your trade could be assured for another two years at least.’
Fitzroy pauses and regards us both. ‘I shall send Lady Stafford to speak with you,’ he adds. ‘She will influence his lordship badly if she overhears us speak. You might distract her.’ He yawns affectedly. ‘Her ladyship likes to take on pet charitable issues. Slavery is her latest.’
Fitzroy darts away and I bring my wine
glass close to my mouth, looking out into the crowd.
I can’t forget the look on his face when Edward chastised him. Something tells me Fitzroy is the kind of man who would make me pay for it if he could.
‘Who is Lady Stafford?’ I ask as Fitzroy retreats.
‘She is Lord Grey’s mistress,’ says Edward.
‘Oh.’ I take a sip of wine. ‘Do any aristocrats stay faithful?’
Edward laughs easily. ‘Not many. But I mean to,’ he says. ‘Once I have a wife.’
He is looking into the crowd, in the direction of Fitzroy. And I am suddenly very grateful that Caroline doesn’t seem to be in attendance.
Chapter 32
Lady Stafford comes to greet us dressed as an orange girl. She has teamed the simple costume with a striking diamond necklace and silk gloves. And despite her towering hair, it’s almost impossible not to stare at her enormous bosom spilling from the low dress. But somehow Edward manages.
‘This is Elizabeth,’ he says, bowing by way of introduction.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ I say, politely curtsying. Since Lady Montfort, I am a little wary of older ladies. But Lady Stafford gives me a warm smile.
‘How lovely to make your acquaintance,’ she says sincerely. ‘Edward, you have a beautiful girl there. What a charming smile she has! What a tumble of curling hair! Why you are like a little elfin thing, with those sparkling eyes.’
She leans closer. ‘You should beware of him, my dear. Lord Hays is easily friended but impossible to wed. Many girls have been disappointed.’
‘Oh,’ I say, smiling back, ‘I have no wish to marry. Besides, Edward spends his whole time making money. Being his wife would be a lonely thing indeed.’
Lady Stafford gives a pleased laugh. ‘That is what London is for,’ she says, touching my arm. ‘So us poor women can avoid our dull husbands.’
Even Edward laughs at this.
A diamond-clad woman walks past and as my eyes follow her, Lady Stafford lowers her voice disapprovingly.
‘That’s Nancy Fisher,’ she says. ‘She’s the most celebrated woman in the demi-monde. Until the next favourite takes her place.’
I cannot stop staring. I have heard tales of Nancy Fisher, the famous courtesan. She moves with such ease and grace that I can well see why she is famed.
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 15