The Last Pleasure Garden (20 page)

In Edith Grove the wind grows a little stronger and the lace curtains in Rose's room flutter like the skirts
of a dancer pivoting on her toes. The gust of cool night air seems to breathe life into them, and Rose's own breath grows faster, as she clutches the piece of paper ever tighter to her chest.

‘In consequence of its Immense Success, and by Particular Desire, the splendid Decorative entertainment “A Feast of Roses”, illustrative of T. Moore's beautiful poem “Lalla Rookh” will now be repeated.'

Rose watches the stage of the old Marionette Theatre. She does not notice the man by her side at first. Rather, she dutifully observes the performance: as the Indian dancers begin to twine their arms into unlikely serpentine poses; as petals are strewn at their feet in extravagant explosions of colour; as the beat of the tabor grows ever quicker. The heroine appears stage right; the hero, turbaned and bejewelled, stage left.

But the man distracts her. A handsome young working man in his best Sunday suit, he lightly strokes her hand with his. He touches her gently, with peculiar confidence, as if he has every right to do so; as if her hand is a worthy object of his admiration. He touches her like she herself would run her hand along a piece of fine porcelain; he touches her and she forgets herself entirely.

‘Come with me, love,' he whispers, his fingers interlocking with hers. ‘And we'll make a night of it.'

And, if truth be told, she goes with him.

The breeze has died down. The room now is too warm; too suffocating. But the glass of mineral water that sits upon the dresser is untouched; the window
still only ajar, when it might better be flung wide open. For Rose sleeps on, bound up in the crumpled linen, wrapped around her restless body like a winding-sheet. And her lips seems to move in sympathetic motion to unspoken words.

Hand in hand now, the two lovers move across the Crystal Platform, as if they are the only two dancing. He picks her up and lifts her, like she has no more weight than a feather. She can feel his arm upon hers, his hand holding the small of her back. He has no proficiency in the dance, this man who holds her in his arms, but it does not much seem to matter. For it is not quite a waltz, nor a polka; it is a dance both strange and familiar, that she swears to herself she will recall when she wakes.

Another glass of champagne, then the orchestra plays louder; it is fighting to be heard above the crowd around the bar, smart young men of the fast set, superior clerks, aspiring barristers, young doctors and lawyers, downing wines and spirits of the choicest quality. Another glass. Then another.

Faster goes the song, so fast that the steps become reckless, and they fall tumbling onto the wooden boards.

Then all is quiet; the dancing has stopped; the stars have gone out and the sky is as black as pitch.

And she falls, like a stone, dropped into a deep, deep well.

Rose Perfitt wakes, conscious only of being too hot, the silk of her nightdress sticking to her skin.

She sits up, takes her glass of water and looks
across her room in the darkness. Her eyes chance upon the outline of her ball-gown, draped flat across the ottoman by the door. For a moment, she fancies it resembles a woman's body laid out as if upon some funeral bier. But only for a moment.

Puzzled, she tries to recall her dreams, until she falls asleep once more.

T
he suburban terraces of the capital each have their own rhythms, daily comings and goings that, in general, are quite unremarkable. Edith Grove is no exception. There is the dusky hour when a certain employee of the Gas, Light and Coke Company takes his ladder and attends to the street-lamps; then, in their glimmering light, the long night, the sole preserve of a solitary police constable, patrolling his beat. At dawn, a dozen or so cooks, full of age and domestic wisdom, scuttle down area steps. Breakfast is made and families roused from sleep. Front steps are freshly whitened – then scuffed by the boots of City gentlemen, marching for the morning train. It is something quite settled; a routine that suits the residents of Chelsea.

By day, even the calls paid by ladies upon their friends and acquaintances, the occasional visits of doctors or tradesmen, the importuning of pedlars and beggars, all have their place in the quiet, well-oiled mechanism of life in Edith Grove. New faces are generally noted; curtains twitch at the presence of an unexpected carriage and it is not uncommon for even the most respectable ladies, who have little else to do, to spend a good deal of their time casually observing the empty street.

The Perfitt household, despite the best efforts of its mistress, is most certainly not immune to such curiosity. Thus, when a substantial barouche, newly painted in green and gold, draws up in front of the house, with a coachman in matching livery, there is a small disturbance in the Perfitts' breakfast routine.

‘Mama!' exclaims Rose. ‘You must come and look.'

Mrs. Perfitt for once indulges her daughter and, though affecting disinterest, is equally impressed by the mysterious conveyance.

‘Why has he stopped?' asks Rose.

‘There is no-one inside,' says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Rose, call Richards – have her tell the man that he must have the wrong address.'

Rose nods, but is checked by her father, who raises his eyes from his copy of
The Times
.

‘No need for that, my dear. I hired him. From a job-master in Brompton.'

‘You, Charles?' replies Mrs. Perfitt, astonished.

‘Is it not the ball tonight?'

‘You know full well it is, ' replies Mrs. Perfitt.

‘Well, I thought we might have a decent equipage.'

‘I thought you said a cab would do.'

‘My little surprise,' replies Mr. Perfitt, with a certain paternal complacency, as he observes his daughter's face.

‘Oh, Papa!' exclaims Rose, rushing to his side and kissing her father's cheek, quite crushing his newspaper in the process. ‘You are so clever!'

‘We have him all day. I thought we might go for a little drive about the park, if the weather holds.'

‘Charles,' says Mrs. Perfitt, ‘we have too much to do. Rose's hair; the dress needs some final touches. And I have myself to think of.'

‘You can spare an hour or so, Caroline, surely?
Either that or the wretched fellow will just sit there all day. Still, something for the neighbours to cast their eye over, I suppose.'

He says this with a smile, as if to imply that his wife and daughter might not be altogether adverse to such an outcome. Mrs. Perfitt blushes and though she vigorously demurs, her objections are not altogether convincing.

In the end, despite its recreative potential, the carriage stays firmly in place for much of the day. For Mrs. Perfitt does not feel that she can do it justice in anything but her evening dress; nor, she avers, can she risk the fatal effects of an unexpected shower upon her daughter's constitution – though the sky is as blue and cloudless as anyone might wish, and the barouche equipped with a retractable hood.

As for Rose, she is kept busy enough at home; there is, after all, the small matter of her dress, to be modelled both for her mother and Madame Lannier, who has engaged to pay a final call, to see her
pièce de résistance
. The result is that the silk and trim are nipped and tucked once more, here and there, for a good hour. Then there is her hair, to be dressed by her mother's own hand, each ringlet teased and trained with intense concentration; her skin anointed with the finest
eau de toilette
. Indeed, nothing is left to chance by Mrs. Perfitt. Moreover, her efforts are not wasted – for the result is, much to Mrs. Perfitt's great pride, something akin to perfection.

It is this sense of maternal satisfaction that buoys Mrs. Perfitt's spirits through all the preparations of the day, until the family quit the house at eight o'clock, and ascend into the waiting carriage. With mother
and daughter both thoroughly fashionable, it takes a moment for them to accommodate the long trains of their skirts. Mr. Perfitt, meanwhile, seats himself opposite, with his back to the driver, dressed in the plain black suit, white tie and waistcoat required of gentlemen upon such occasions.