Jane and the Barque of Frailty jam-9

by Stephanie Barron

  She stepped back to survey my appearance; I felt both naked and foolish, and could not meet her scrutiny.

  “Sandals, I think — and we shall paint your toe-nails with gold leaf, as it is considered very fast. Madame Bigeon, a quantity of wadding, if you please — we must endeavour to provide mademoiselle with a bit more décolleté … ”

  If it was the dirtiest hotel in London, the quantity of candles, and the magnificence of the scene within the assembly rooms, contrived to dazzle the eye so thoroughly that every hint of grime was obscured. Eliza and I alighted from our carriage a few minutes past ten o’clock, and were admitted without much more than a cursory perusal of our figures and dress; two such bold pieces as we presented, the better part of our faces obscured by black loo masks and our hair dressed with gems, should never be turned from the Cyprians Ball.

  I am not sure what I feared more: to have my bottom slapped in a familiar way as I attempted with dignity to negotiate the stairs; to find that my arm had been pinched, or my skirts snapped above my heels; but the attitudes of the horde of gentlemen lounging along the banisters were refreshingly circumspect. If their eyes roved over the frank presentation of my charms, they kept their opinions to themselves; all but one foxed fellow, who studied Eliza with protuberant eyes and snorted, “Damme! If it ain’t mutton dressed as lamb!”

  I grasped my sister by the wrist, the better to prevent an unseemly fracas as she rounded on the jackanapes indignantly, and whispered, “Never mind! You are not here to make a conquest, recollect — but to preserve your innocence and reputation!”

  “Then I fear we are the only ladies likely to do so,” my sister returned grimly.

  The assembly rooms were in fact two dining parlours thrown together, by the elimination of certain doors, and the contiguity of a passage, with a small anteroom at its far end — Limmer’s being not the sort of place to run to dancing, in the ordinary way, and thus failing to possess a ballroom. Indeed, I had heard my brother Henry refer to the place as akin to Tattersall’s, where gentlemen of the turf laid bets of an evening in the smoke-filled coffee room. But the Patronesses, as Mr. Chizzlewit had called them in unconscious mimicry of Almack’s, had worked their magic in transforming the dingy place, with yards of striped silk suspended from the ceiling to suggest an Oriental tent, and quantities of blooming lilies in tubs, grouped round a dais, on which the musicians played.

  “Well, my dear, if the quality of the refreshments is any indication,” Eliza observed, as she sipped at a glass of champagne, “this is most certainly the anti-Almack’s. All one ever receives there is tepid lemonade. I do believe the Demi-reps have hired Gunter’s! Only observe the lobster patties!”[29]

  “Pray pardon the intrusion,” said a gravelly voice behind us, “but I could not help noticing how ravishing you appear this evening, my sprite! Such a bewitching colour! So entirely suited to one of mature years, and experience. ”

  I turned, and found to my astonishment that no less a personage than Francis Rawdon, Earl Moira, hovered on the fringe of our charmed circle. The core of my being was seized with apprehension, as tho’ with a vise; I could no more speak than I could trust myself to glance at Eliza. She had been acquainted with Lord Moira these ten years at least; and her husband was the man’s banker! Had the Earl detected us in our scandalous subterfuge? Should we be disgraced, and exposed?

  He bowed to both of us, but extended his hand to my sister — who might certainly be declared ravishing, by one several years her senior, as she stood ample-bosomed in her claret-coloured gown. Moira, it appeared, followed the Prince Regent in his tastes — that Royal personage being known to favour well-endowed ladies of a certain age.

  Eliza uttered an hysterickal giggle that could not be suppressed — put her champagne glass into my hand with trembling fingers — and dropped the curtsey that had graced Versailles itself. As I watched her sweep into the waltz on Lord Moira’s arm, I reflected that so game a pullet as the Comtesse de Feuillide should never betray my schemes.

  BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK, THE ROOMS HAD FILLED TO such an extent that the Cyprians Ball should certainly be declared a frightful squeeze, and thus, an unqualified success. Everywhere one looked, the bright plumage of the Birds of Paradise — who ranged in age from fifteen to fifty — twirled about the floor, or dangled indolently from the shoulders of various gentlemen, or held pride of place at a supper table. I will confess that I witnessed scenes that should be adjudged a trifle warm — the habits of some of the ladies, and the inebriation of some of the gentlemen, passing the bounds of what must be acceptable. I will also say, however, that the chief difference between the venue in which I found myself, and those which fell within the realm of the ton, is that such incidents were allowed to occur within full view of all assembled — for certainly as many proceed behind the cover of shrubbery, when such balls are sponsored by the Quality. I applauded the Cyprians for their lack of hypocrisy, and accepted the offer of a quadrille, and a country dance, from a dashing man in his thirties whom Eliza later assured me was no less than Freddy Ponsonby.

  He is acquitted one of the rakes of the age, and I shall always regard his anonymous, and quite unconscious, gallantry towards myself with affection; but at his attempting to steer me into the passage, in an effort to run his hands the length of my overlaced body, I told him tartly that I required a better sort of introduction before I should permit such freedoms. He then produced a fifty-pound note from his breast pocket — fifty pounds! Which is no less than I contrive to live on, for the space of a year! — and I was so overpowered I could do nothing but stutter out my apologies, and back away in shame from his laughing good looks. The experience forced me to contemplate seriously the attractions that must have weighed with one such as Julia Radcliffe — disgraced, unwed, cut off from her family, and entirely dependent upon the good offices of rakes.

  Julia herself was in high bloom. She appeared at Limmer’s at half-past eleven o’clock, unmasked and queenly, her white dress deliberately innocent — and the last word in daring exposure. I am sure she had dampened her undergown, for it clung to her limbs as she moved in a shocking degree, outlining the curves of her body, which emerged like the torso of Venus from her tightly-laced bodice; and the jewels that she wore were hardly paste. This was the ideal that such dashing, tho’ respectable, ladies as Caroline Lamb meant to emulate, in snubbing their noses at the ton; but Julia was the embodiment of the raffish dream. At her appearance, she was instantly surrounded by the highest names in the land; I could not have approached her, had I dared. Even Harriette Wilson, the dark foil to Miss Radcliffe’s white and gold beauty, was left to command a lesser court — those who discovered Miss Radcliffe’s card to be already filled, her dances already bespoke.

  Eliza, who had sustained full three dances with Earl Moira, was cooling her overheated cheeks on a balcony, well supplied with champagne and dexterously employed in foiling her old friend’s unwitting sallies. I left her to her amusements — saw Freddy Ponsonby exerting himself to charm a girl scarcely escaped from the schoolroom — and observed instead those whom Miss Radcliffe favoured.

  One was the heir to a dukedom; the other, a marquis. A third lucky fellow was George Canning, who was permitted to stand up with the Barque; and included among them all, as tho’ by special favour or afterthought, was an impoverished French count … young Julien, Comte d’Entraigues.

  I had observed the father long before, purring French obscenities into the ear of a tittering child; but Julien must have come in Radcliffe’s train, for I had not encountered him yet this evening. He looked, as a Pink of the Ton must, exquisite: His linen snowy, his satin breeches unimpeachable, his dark coating cut within a hairsbreadth of his shoulders. He had adopted Mr. Brummell’s maxim, which dictated that if a common man of the street turned to stare after one, one was certainly overdressed. Julien’s rule was to render himself inconspicuous by the sheer exactitude of his raiment; and allow his dark good looks — his refined countenance — his complete maste
ry of self — to speak for themselves. Such qualities must always distinguish the gentleman of breeding, no matter how impoverished.

  Any number of illustrious men might be everywhere seen, but I had eyes only for two of them: George Canning, who danced with an energy and enjoyment that must testify to his love of the fair sex — for the most part with Harriette Wilson, once Radcliffe released him; and Robert, Lord Castlereagh. The latter held himself aloof, his hands clasped behind his back, and a faint expression of distaste upon his lips. He had dressed with his usual style and care; he looked every inch the distinguished gentleman; but was equally so far above his company, as to support the long wall of the principal room to the exclusion of every other amiable activity. On one occasion when Lord Sidmouth chanced to speak to him, Lord Castlereagh deigned to answer; but in general, the Great Man preserved the air of an Eton schoolmaster, forced to administer an exam. I believe he presently entered the card room, and sat down to whist, from which he did not emerge until well near dawn.

  Of Sylvester Chizzlewit there was no sign, until a few minutes before twelve o’clock. I was engaged in going down a country dance — having been solicited by a portly fellow whose wet mouth must give me a disgust of him, but whose awkward embarrassment at the whole situation in which he found himself, suggested the country cousin being shown the delights of the Metropolis — when I observed my solicitor standing a little apart from the general throng, with his friend Malverley by his side.

  I still went masked, and must thank Heaven for my obscurity. Despite all his regard for my pluck and daring, Chizzlewit should be shocked to discover my presence in this place — I had suppressed the full intelligence of my plan, from a fear that he should hasten to discourage me from attempting it. In the note I had sent round to his chambers, I had urged him only to bring Charles Malverley up to scratch: At all costs, the Earl’s son must put in an appearance at the Cyprians Ball. But my plans must not miscarry — Malverley could not be allowed to take fright, and leave Limmer’s Hotel before my object was achieved—

  I stumbled on my modish sandals, and let out a faint cry of pain.

  The country cousin was immediately all solicitude; nothing could exceed his concern and anxiety; I was escorted, limping, from the crowded floor and established in a vacant chair, not far from where Chizzlewit stood. I sent my puffing swain in search of a claret cup, saw him disappear into the frenzy of the refreshment tables — and moved immediately towards my solicitor.

  He had separated a little from Malverley, who was encircled — much as Julia Radcliffe had been — by a host of admiring acquaintance.

  “Mr. Chizzlewit,” I hissed.

  He turned, and bowed. “Fair lady. May I be of service? No improper pun intended, I assure you—”

  “Good God,” I said, nonplussed. “Can it be you do not know me?”

  I lifted the mask a fraction from my face, and had the satisfaction of hearing his sudden indrawn breath. I grasped his arm, and led him from the floor.

  “Miss Austen — I beg your pardon — I should never have expected — I should not have presumed—”

  “Yes, indeed, but there is no time for that now. Has Malverley seen her?”

  “Miss Radcliffe? I do not think she has yet fallen in his way.”

  “Then bring him to the little anteroom at the end of the passage,” I said, “in ten minutes’ time.”

  I left Chizzlewit, and recruited Eliza — who parted from Lord Moira with what seemed like regret.

  “My dear,” I consoled her, “only reflect how you shall be in whoops, when next you encounter the Earl in the Park! Nothing else may possibly have come of it, you know.”

  “I do realise the truth of what you say, Jane, but only conceive how delicious it is to be engaged in flirtation again! I felt myself quite twenty years younger! I do believe he was on the point of offering me carte blanche! And not the slightest chance that I should be discovered by dear Henry!”

  “Eliza, only succeed in bringing your old friend the Comte d’Entraigues to the little anteroom at the end of the hall — in twenty minutes’ time — and you may return to the Earl with my blessing,” I promised.

  I FOUND JULIA RADCLIFFE ESTABLISHED ON A STIFF-backed chair in the supper room, surrounded by her acquaintance. She was nearly impossible to approach. Julien d’Entraigues stood behind her chair, and at a motion of her finger, bent low; something she said, sent him immediately from her side. I saw my chance, and contrived to put myself in the young Count’s way.

  “Pardon,” he murmured, and would have stepped around me, but that I returned his word with a hurried phrase.

  “Julien! Are you not to play this evening? Have I only to call the tune?”

  He stopped short, and stared at me, frowning.

  “I do not apprehend … ” he said; then, “Miss Austen?”

  “The same. Do not ask what I cannot answer, I implore you — but bring Miss Radcliffe to the anteroom at the end of the passage as swiftly as may be contrived. My life — and hers — depend upon it, monsieur le comte!”

  Chapter 30

  Crimes of the Heart

  Wednesday, 1 May 1811, cont.

  THE DIM FIGURE OF A COUPLE, ENTWINED ON THE settee against the wall of the anteroom, brought me up short when I would have entered — but I perceived at a glance the pair were unknown to me. It was essential that they should be forced from the room, and so, on the spur of imagination, I reeled a little as tho’ drunk, and muttered, “Lord! My head! If I do not get a little air soon, I am sure I shall be sick!”

  I had only to press my hand against my mouth, and choke a little, for the two to beat a hasty retreat — at which point I swiftly closed the double doors.

  The room was such as any respectable inn might offer, as private accommodation for a member of the Quality: the sort of parlour that should be hired for dining, by a gentleman in Town on a matter of business. It offered a round deal table and the aforementioned settee by way of furnishing; but there was also a hearth in which a fire was burning, and a window, draped in tarnished silk. I went to this window, and lifted the drapery from its place, to reveal — as I had expected — one William Skroggs, Bow Street Runner.

  “Miss Austen.” He saluted me with a leer.

  “You encountered no difficulty in entering the premises?” I enquired.

  “None.” The contempt of his tone must suggest that no Runner should be barred from as respectable an amusement as the Cyprians Ball. “But if you mean for me to stand all hours behind a smoky curtain, while light o’ loves plies their trades under my very nose—”

  “Do be quiet,” I said crossly. “I have done the better part of your work for you. Someone is coming.”

  I hid myself behind the opposite drapery, the far edge drawn sufficiently back for me to observe the centre of the room, and waited for the door to open.

  As I had suspected, Charles Malverley was first to enter the room, followed by Sylvester Chizzlewit, who took up a position by the doors.

  “—for the same reason, I collect, that you would bring me here,” Malverley was saying carelessly as he entered. He held a wine glass in his hand, and the beauty of his countenance was flushed. “I must thank you for your solicitude — my tortured heart is warmed by your amiable concerns — and there is at least this to applaud: You have thrown women my way, rather than the boys old Castlereagh is partial to. The man studied too much of the Greeks, during his time at Eton.”

  “Some of these girls are devilish pretty,” Chizzlewit observed mildly, “and High Flyers too. I wonder you aren’t susceptible. Has no lady ever touched your heart?”

  “Lady?” Malverley returned contemptuously. “There is not a lady among the lot, thank Heaven! I have had my fill of your ladies. Give me a Barque any day, and I’ll sail her straight into harbour! The Muslin Company! Long may they prosper, and empty men’s purses!” He raised his glass in a mocking toast.

  I wondered whether Chizzlewit had divined what he must do — whether my ter
se missive of the morning had been explicit enough. But I should not have doubted him; he was ever his grandfather’s heir. “Not all of these women are lowborn,” he said reasonably. “Miss Radcliffe, for example. Family’s devilish high in the instep. Some sort of relation of yours, is she not?”

  For an instant, I feared Malverley might strike his friend. He stood rigid, his hands clenching about his wine glass so that the frail crystal stem snapped.

  “I ought to draw your cork,” he said evenly as he tossed the shards of glass into the fire, “or demand satisfaction for such an insult, Sylvester — but we’ll agree that you’re foxed, and have no idea what you’re saying. Don’t ever mention that jade’s name in my presence, damn you.”

  Chizzlewit reached behind him, and thrust open the door into the passage. Julia Radcliffe was outlined in candlelight, divinely fair and effortlessly tempting.

  “Why should he not mention my name, Charles?” she enquired, her voice low. “Why should it be my name that distresses you so, when it was you who sullied it?”

  “I!” he retorted, his countenance flaming. “Look at yourself, Julia! Always desperate to excite admiration — tormenting decent men with your looks, your bearing, your refusal to submit — but now the whole world knows you for what you are — what you always were: a whore. You may cut me direct in the middle of Hyde Park — you may refuse me admittance to Russell Square — you may flaunt your wares before every rogue in London — but the world should never reproach me for serving you a lesson. The world knows me to be right — for disciplining you, for teaching you conduct — for breaking you to bridle—”

  The nastiness of the words was like a lash. I found that I had closed my eyes tight, so as to avoid the spectre of Malverley’s face, unmanned by passion, violent with hatred. But a sound brought my eyes flying open again. Julien, Comte d’Entraigues, stood between Julia Radcliffe and Charles Malverley with his hereditary sword unsheathed — and the point was at Malverley’s throat.