‘What’s the demi-monde?’ I ask, watching as a cloud of men light around Nancy, pouring her drinks and fawning over her.
Lady Stafford’s eyebrows go up. ‘Oh Edward, you have brought a little country mouse to the masquerade.’ She lowers her voice dramatically. ‘The demi-monde is the other world, the half world. Where women of a certain kind are condemned to live – not in society, but not quite out of it. Once a woman enters that world, she can never be respected again.’ She gives a grand flick of her fan to signal the scandalous nature of the intelligence.
The demi-monde. I turn the phrase around in my mind. The half world. I guess that’s where Harriet and Belle must be now. Successful lovers, but never respected wives.
‘Are you new to London?’ Lady Stafford asks me.
I turn to Edward, unsure of how to reply.
‘Elizabeth is from the country,’ he says.
Lady Stafford clasps my hand in her gloved ones.
‘You must join my parliamentary cause,’ she says.
‘Elizabeth is only in town for a few days—’ begins Edward.
‘Nonsense!’ announces Lady Stafford. ‘You only wish to influence the girl, because it is against your business interests.’
She taps Edward’s arm disapprovingly with her fan.
‘Do not think I haven’t heard, Edward, that your next venture is trading ships. Nothing gets past me.’
He gives a little smile. ‘I do not doubt it, Your Ladyship.’
‘Slavery is an awful business,’ she continues. ‘You may fool yourself you trade only in commodities. But you are responsible for what they are used to buy.’
She glowers at Edward for a moment. Then she turns back to me.
‘Tell me, my dear,’ she says, ‘what is your view on the slave trade?’
There is a long pause and I feel suddenly that Edward is eager to know my answer.
‘I am from the country,’ I begin slowly. ‘From near Bristol. Which, as you know, is a large port.’
Lady Stafford nods encouragingly.
‘So I sometimes saw slaves,’ I continue. ‘Not many, you understand. Since we do not employ a great deal in England.’
‘And what did you think to see them?’ prompts Lady Stafford.
‘I thought …’ I hesitate before stumbling on. ‘I thought their faces were so resigned that slave advocates must be right. Negroes are not really people.’
Lady Stafford looks disappointed. I take a breath.
‘They seemed to accept their fate so dumbly, with so little emotion … It seemed to me the Negroes must be more like cattle,’ I explain, remembering my thoughts at the time.
Lady Stafford opens her mouth to reply, but I swallow and charge on.
‘Then I came to London,’ I say, ‘and I … I saw women. Women who had been sold into bawdy houses.’
I look quickly at Edward.
‘Those women had that same look,’ I continue. ‘That same dumb, scared look. And I realised then’ – my eyes are on Edward’s – ‘that the expression is not that of someone lower than human. It is that of a person who has been beaten so low that they dare not lift their head, for fear of where the next blow will come from. It is an expression a face should never hold.’
I take a shaky sip of wine and look down, realising I have said too much.
‘So I do not think it a good business,’ I whisper. ‘This slavery.’
‘Oh my dear,’ Lady Stafford is wiping her eyes, ‘how wonderfully you speak of it.’
She turns to Edward.
‘I refuse to let you keep this lovely girl to yourself,’ she says. ‘Where have you been hiding her?’
‘She has only been in town a few days,’ he says, with a smile. ‘And already she has met Lady Montfort and Charlotte Montfort, and attended the theatre.’
‘Well then, that explains it,’ decides Lady Stafford. ‘You have taken her out in the worst company in London. She must think us city women are joyless creatures.’
Lady Stafford smiles warmly at me.
‘We are not all cold devils like Lady Montfort and those theatre-harpies, you know. Some of us can see the fun in life.’ She winks at me. ‘You must come to one of our meetings.’
I give her a little smile.
‘I am afraid I am only in London for a few more days,’ I admit, collecting myself.
Lady Stafford looks first at me and then Edward. Then she tactfully changes the subject.
Chapter 33
Edward and I have two more dances before he suggests we make our way home in the carriage.
‘It is still early,’ I point out. ‘Hardly past midnight. Surely you would like to be seen here a little longer?’
‘I should,’ he says. ‘But I should also like to make the most of my time with you.’
The way he says it makes his meaning clear. And quite unexpectedly, a pulse of pleased anticipation passes through me. The truth is, I am looking forward to being alone with him.
I do not dwell so much on what this might mean, but let him lead me out to the carriage, which awaits us in front of the Pantheon.
Edward’s hand tightens on mine and there is that little flutter again. The reality is inescapable. I have feelings for him. But following the heady thrill of the masquerade, this does not frighten me as much as it should.
He hands me into the carriage and as the door shuts, it is just the two of us inside the velvet-lined walls. It feels close, intimate, and the atmosphere is charged.
Edward knocks on the roof of the carriage and the horses lurch to a start. Without taking his eyes off me, he puts out an arm and draws shut the curtains, so we are completely concealed inside.
Then he leans forward and rests his hands lightly on my waist. The warmth of the contact radiates through my thin dress.
‘It has been a torture to watch you dancing in this dress,’ he murmurs.
‘Shall I take it off for you?’ I reply, in a dreamy kind of state.
He is silent. Then his hands begin to unlace my costume. The top half falls away and I shiver as the cool night air hits my naked skin.
Edward’s fingers glide softly over me, raising a trail of goose bumps. Then he pulls me slowly forward against his body.
Until now, there had been something restrained in his movements. But when our lips touch it’s as though a charge has erupted between us.
I respond to his kiss eagerly, wrapping my arms around his broad back, pulling him close.
His hands roam my body and I tip my head back as his mouth seeks out the sensitive skin on my neck. I am pushed back against the seat of the carriage. Edward moves so his weight is over me, pulling up my skirts. My hands move to tug away his clothing. It is powerful, this sudden desire for him. I can barely think, but that I want him.
I open my eyes to see his dark gaze on me and suddenly I am uncertain what is happening between us. To hide my confusion, I pull him to me in another deep kiss, wrapping my legs around him, drawing him in.
I had meant to regain control. That the act I am so accustomed to will reorder my strangely disarrayed thoughts. But this time it is different between us.
As he moves inside me, my body arcs into his of its own accord and a sigh of pleasure tumbles from my lips. Edward moves softly, never taking his eyes from mine, and though I am shamed by it, the lust for him threatens to overwhelm me.
I am pinned by his gaze. As though he sees all of me.
‘Elizabeth,’ he whispers, and it is only then that the true terror of my vulnerability hits me.
It is as if I have awoken sharply from a dream and I press my body tight against him, clawing his back with my fingers. I can see in his face that he knows. I am using every trick to reclaim myself and change the dynamic between us.
I drop my hands, driving him deeper. Forcing him to surrender.
Edward gasps and then his arms wrap tight around me as he collapses forward.
He buries his head against my neck. I stare up at the jolting ceiling of the
carriage.
Relief is washing over me like a great golden wave.
For a moment, locked in Edward’s embrace, I had a terrible feeling.
I was falling deep and far away. Into a place of no return.
Chapter 34
‘There!’ announces Sophie, holding the glass. ‘I have never seen such a fine lady. Not in all my days.’
She says this with a sense of ownership. As though I were her own lady.
I gaze back at my reflection in wonder. Today Edward and I will visit Vauxhall Gardens. I have chosen the dusky pink silk dress for the occasion, with soft clouds of lace at the neck.
‘You are fairer, even, than the Duchess of Devonshire as a debutante,’ Sophie adds. ‘And she was the best beauty London has ever seen.’
I take in my reflection, hardly recognising the fine lady looking back. The dress is art itself, fitting to every curve of my body at the top and emphasising my small waist with the flare of the skirts.
The silken sleeves are turned at the elbow in a delicate froth of French lace, making my arms look beautiful. Even my long fingers seem elegant.
Something about the pink silk makes my skin appear even more flawless than usual. The square of exposed bust line looks invitingly plump – perhaps a combination of the impeccably made dress and the extra meals of the last few days.
‘We shall make your toilette to match,’ says Sophie.
I am becoming more used to being dressed and coiffed now, and sit easily as she begins washing my face.
‘You like the dress very much?’ she observes, since my eyes are glued to my reflection.
‘I cannot stop gazing at myself,’ I admit. ‘I can hardly believe it is me.’
I wonder if Kitty would even recognise me. She might mistake me for a real lady and catcall.
Sophie laughs and begins stacking my chestnut curls high onto my head. She offers an assortment of hair ornaments, and I choose pink ribbons and feathers to match the dress.
‘You shall look like a summer’s day,’ she announces happily, as the three girls work to arrange my hair.
I eye myself while my curls are woven high. My brown eyes are alive with pleasure and my mischievous look is even more evident than usual. I threaten to split my face with the wideness of my smile.
‘There’s a flush about you too,’ observes Sophie. ‘A felicity to your manner this morning.’
‘What woman wouldn’t flush to wear such a dress?’ I reply lightly, averting my gaze from the glass. ‘For you know, Sophie, dresses make women happier than men ever could.’ But even to my ears, the nonchalance sounds acted.
When my hair is finished with, the maids return with a pair of matching shoes and I am given a final view of the glass.
‘I think I need a flower,’ I say, remembering some of the finer fashions I have seen. ‘I saw some lovely pink roses in the garden. Might I have one of those?’
Sophie nods admiringly. ‘I think that would be a fine choice, Miss Lizzy. I shall fetch you one at once.’
I arrive at breakfast and Edward’s eyes grow wide.
‘You look breathtakingly beautiful,’ he says, as I take my seat.
I smile at the compliment. I take up a bread roll and pick at it.
‘I have no jewelled hair ornaments like the fine ladies do,’ I say apologetically. ‘But Sophie did her best with laces and feathers, as you can see.’
‘I think Sophie did very well. And I should be so proud,’ he adds, ‘to have you at my side. I think there will be no lovelier lady in Vauxhall.’
I swallow down the bread. ‘I … Thank you,’ I say. ‘You are most kind.’
I search for something to change the subject.
‘Your business is nearly concluded?’
‘Quite so,’ says Edward. ‘Soon it will all be concluded,’ he adds, taking a roll and biting into it. It occurs to me it is the first time I have seen him eat breakfast.
‘You are hungry today?’ I ask, taking a sip of chocolate.
‘I find I have a greater appetite than usual. These past few days.’
He looks up at me, a glint in his eye.
‘You know, it was unwise to wear such a lovely dress,’ he adds.
I take another sip of chocolate.
‘Why is that, Your Lordship?’
‘Because I imagine it will take me some time to lace back up,’ he says softly. ‘Before we leave for Vauxhall.’
Chapter 35
Vauxhall Gardens are just outside the city, to the south. And the dirt track route is packed with coaches, carriages, horses and riders as we arrive.
‘Why are so many people here?’ I ask in bewilderment, staring out of the window of the carriage.
I have heard of the pleasure gardens, of course. And Edward explained Vauxhall to me during the journey. But I am yet to understand the appeal.
‘If it is just a garden,’ I ask, leaning bodily out to see past the crowds, ‘what is there to do?’
Edward draws me back inside the carriage.
‘Take care,’ he says. ‘Horses can come by fast.’
I smile at his concern. ‘Will we just be strolling around?’ I press, sitting back beside him.
‘That is part of it.’
‘Aristocrats must be bored indeed to find that entertaining. Walking in nature is something us common folk try our best to avoid.’
This draws a loud laugh from Edward. The carriage jolts to a bumpy stop.
‘Come on,’ he says, opening the door to hand me out. ‘You will see.’
‘Is there anything inside?’ I ask, as I drop down by his side. ‘Besides trees and grass?’
‘Many entertainments,’ he says, offering me his arm. ‘We may see a hot air balloon. Famous singers and musicians attend.’
This sounds better. I nod approvingly.
‘And towards that side are Spring Gardens,’ says Edward. ‘They are closed walks. Famously romantic.’
‘But we are not here for romance?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are we here?’
‘Purposes of business,’ he says. ‘Some of Mr Vanderbilt’s creditors will be here today. It is good to meet with them. Remind them I am of fine family and can help them in their endeavours.’
We join the milling crowds paying their entrance fee and I catch my first glimpse of several huge white-stone buildings – like high-pillared temples thronging with people.
‘What are they?’ I ask, taking in the gazebo-like structures and their unusual hexagonal shape.
‘Those are the rotundas,’ explains Edward, speaking with his mouth close to my ear. ‘They serve tea and sweets.’
‘I like them,’ I decide, as he pays over our shillings for entry. ‘Why are they open like that?’
Edward smiles. ‘So the aristocratic ladies might show off their fine dresses. And the men their fine coats.’
‘I should have guessed.’ So much of gentry living seems to be about display.
As we move through the crowds, I look up and see a magnificent archway of trees, shaped to form a closed green corridor high above our heads.
‘Look at that!’ I cry, pointing. ‘How very beautiful.’
‘It is lovely, is it not?’ agrees Edward.
I nod. ‘You will need to hold my tall hair,’ I joke, ‘for all the staring upwards I shall do.’
He smiles.
‘You did not tell me true, Edward,’ I admonish. ‘For this is not really a garden.’
My gaze is stretching up and around, taking in the huge tree-lined walkways and the impeccably landscaped beds that are all around.
He laughs. ‘It is a little grander than the average garden.’
As we move towards the rotundas we pass entertainers performing on tightropes and breathing fire for pennies.
‘Can we pay a penny?’ I beg Edward, as we pass a falconer. ‘I should love to see the bird.’
‘Very well,’ he says, with a smile. ‘Have you ever held one?’
‘N
o,’ I say, as we get closer.
‘I will show you,’ Edward says, walking me to stand beside the falconer.
‘The lady should like to hold the bird,’ he says, handing the man a coin. The bird-handler accepts it with a surprised smile and produces a strip of meat from a leather pouch.
Edward holds me close as the falconer dangles the meat near my hand. And I give a little shriek of delight when the bird hops across onto my wrist.
‘Shhh,’ advises Edward, holding me tighter, his face next to mine. ‘Do not scare her.’
‘She is heavier than I thought,’ I whisper, my eyes soaking in every part of the bird’s shining feathers and curved beak. ‘Isn’t she magnificent?’
‘She certainly is,’ says Edward, but his eyes are fixed on my face, rather than the bird.
I look away and back to the bird. She sits so tamely on my wrist. My thoughts go to the bird market and the creatures in cages.
This falcon can fly where she chooses. But she returns to a master. I turn this idea over, for consideration, as I watch her rip at the meat. I had not thought it possible that such a creature should not prefer always to fly free.
We surrender the falcon back to its handler and continue the journey down Vauxhall’s busy avenue.
‘You like birds?’ asks Edward.
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Though I should not like to keep one caged. When I am sad, I like to buy a bird from the market and set it free.’
He looks at me with interest.
‘You are sad? I cannot imagine it.’
‘You cannot imagine that a street girl could be sad?’ I return. ‘I thought you were a man of the world.’
He stops walking and holds me still, his hands on my waist.
‘I should not like to think of you sad,’ he says. I am staring into his finely featured face now, falling into those dark eyes.
He is so handsome.
‘I …’ I am not sure how to respond. In my experience, men find it easy to say things of this nature, but rarely match their words with action.
‘It is not for you to concern yourself,’ I say gently. ‘This is the life I chose. They are my mistakes. Not yours.’
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 16