Daughters of the Storm (9 page)

Ned gave a short laugh. ‘If you mean by “understand” that I should allow you to become infected with political nonsense which is none of your business, then I don't.'

He peered harder at his paper.

‘Good God. Some of the things they print about the Queen are quite outrageous. I think the authorities should put a stop to it.'

‘May I see?' asked Sophie.

She went to take the broadsheet from him, but Ned folded it up and shook his head.

‘Ned! Will you stop treating me like a child?'

‘I will when you grow up and behave sensibly.'

‘But I have grown up. Look at me.'

Ned flicked her a glance.

‘And, anyway,' continued Sophie, determined not to give in. ‘I can hardly be corrupted in one afternoon.' She softened her tone. ‘Please let me see the broadsheet,' she begged.

Ned gave in and tossed her the offending publication.

‘The French are all hot air,' he pronounced. ‘Give me the quiet English countryside any day.'

Sophie made no comment. Ned's views had apparently not prevented him from throwing himself with gusto into their social engagements, which left very little time for private conversation. But when they did meet, he displayed this new tendency to be overly concerned with keeping a check on her movements.

Héloïse entered the room. Ned sat up.

‘Mademoiselle Héloïse, I need you. Will you please explain to Sophie that she cannot be seen in the National Assembly?'

‘Certainly she cannot,' said Héloïse at once. ‘We have far too much to do.'

Ned got up and swept her a bow. ‘You are both beautiful and wise. I knew I could rely on you,' he said in a tone that made Sophie turn away.

Héloïse laughed. Ned was so transparent and so English.

‘She cannot go because Madame,
ma mère,
requires her. But when we visit Versailles in October I shall take her into the visitors' gallery. All the best people are to be found there. So you won't object, will you, dear Monsieur Luttrell?'

Without further ado, she bore Sophie away to their boudoir where, under the marquise's sharp scrutiny, no less a personage than Mademoiselle Bertin, the queen's dressmaker, was waiting to record Sophie's measurements in her black book and to explain her ideas for the transformation of the English ‘Meez's' wardrobe. Sophie soon discovered that backs were being cut narrower, that dresses were now made in one piece and that sleeves were tighter. She emerged, dazed, a couple of hours later, having ordered a white muslin robe embroidered with chain stitch, a pink silk afternoon gown embellished with narrow green and silver stripes, a lace ball-gown, a riding habit, shoes, gloves, stockings and a cloak of black silk gauze woven in serpentine stripes.

Héloïse returned the kiss that Sophie, delighted that her toilettes would soon rival the best in Paris, bestowed on her cheek. The two cousins smiled at each other, well pleased with their growing intimacy. Not only did the Luttrells provide Héloïse with a perfect excuse for ignoring all thought of her approaching marriage, but she had come to love Sophie and to trust her – not a thing that Héloïse did easily. For her part, Sophie had seen through the façade of the elegant Mademoiselle de Guinot and her compassion went out to the girl starved of affection that lay beneath.

‘Now for tonight,' said Héloïse conspiratorially.

Sophie glanced at the card on the mantelpiece. They were going to Adèle de Fleury's ball that evening, an event which promised to be the most sought-after in the calendar. Adèle was famed for her exclusive gatherings where no expense was spared. ‘Ladies will wear white,' read the legend on her gold-edged invitation. Sophie and Héloïse had spent some time discussing this dictate and they had decided on a daring course of action. Hervé de Choissy had also promised to attend. He had been away from Paris on a visit since the betrothal and, naturally, Sophie was curious to meet him properly.

Paris had never seemed so extravagant or so glittering as it did that September. In the salons and eating houses, in the burgeoning political clubs and market-places, and down in the alleys, the heat of a late summer fanned the atmosphere to fever pitch. The talk everywhere was of a new age; the mood, except amongst the poor, was of pleasure. Seated in the de Guinot coach on the way to the ball, Sophie gazed at the sights and sounds of fashionable Paris preparing to amuse itself, and felt the memory of High Mullions grow dim. I belong here, she thought with surprise, her country-tutored eyes ravished yet again by the beauty of the city.

Adèle's house was situated in the west of Paris, but for tonight she had prevailed on her dearest friend (whose husband was also Adèle's lover) to lend her house in St Germain. Resplendent in their evening attire, the marquis and marquise ascended the flambeaux-lit steps, Héloïse and Sophie behind them. Héloïse had become very quiet and Sophie did not press her to talk. She smoothed her robe into place with satisfaction: both of them, she considered, were looking their best, and she was looking forward to the reception their costumes would undoubtedly provoke.

The cousins were dressed in identical ball-gowns of soft blue crêpe. In their hair, coiffed by Léonard, the court hairdresser (procured after an enormous inducement), nodded blue ostrich feathers of an exact match. Tied with blue ribbons, their fans dangled from wrists which were sheathed in blue kid, and, in a final touch, they carried bouquets of blue forget-me-nots and white marguerites. The material frothed around Sophie's feet, on which she wore a pair of shoes adorned with diamond buckles, given to her by Héloïse as a present. Thus attired, Sophie felt interesting, very daring and ready to face the world.

She felt Héloïse tremble as they mounted the staircase, and tucked her arm into hers.

‘Thank you, but I am all right,' Héloïse murmured gratefully, but a frown on her normally smooth forehead indicated that she was suffering from nerves. Or from the prospect of meeting Monsieur le Comte.

‘Courage, chérie,'
she whispered back.

They waited at the top while the de Guinots went ahead, and Sophie looked through to the scene inside the long reception room and caught her breath.

Everywhere candles of the whitest wax blazed. Their flames painted the walls and mirrors with a mysterious brilliance, and left pools of shadow in between. Moving through these islands of light were the guests; and, like painted butterflies, they weaved from gossiping knot to another, calling out greetings. Each face wore a different mask. Frivolous pleasure-seekers, predatory fortune-hunters and speculators; faces hungry for love and avid for power, faces of spoiled innocence and corrupted expectations – together they represented all the nuances of human vanity. The colours worn by the men shimmered as Sophie watched and the whites of the women blended into shades of cream, magnolia and the palest of white musk rose. Waves of scent and wax rose into the air with a deeper odour of hot bodies, hair grease and perfumed pastilles chewed against mephitic breath.

All of a sudden, Sophie felt nauseated. She swayed and fumbled for her handkerchief.

‘Cousin.' Héloïse was beside her. ‘Sophie, what is it? Are you ill?'

Sophie raised her head and tried to smile. For a moment, amounting to no more than a split second, she had had an impression that she was watching a crowd of ghosts.

‘You must sit down,' said Héloïse. ‘Here, lean on me.'

Ignoring the ripple of surprise that greeted their nonconformist attire, she pushed her way inside and ushered Sophie to a chair. She sat down beside her.

‘What is it, Sophie?' she asked. ‘Tell me.'

Sophie shook her head.

‘My mind is playing tricks. I think my excitement got the better of me. It is nothing. See.' She held out her hands, which were perfectly steady.' ‘I am quite well now.' She pressed her handkerchief embroidered with blue flowers to her lips. After a minute, she began to feel better. This, she told herself, was the result of indulging in too much rich food, and she had better take care. These practical reflections, which reminded her of Miss Edgeworth, had the effect of quite restoring her spirits. She flashed a smile at Héloïse.

‘Where's Ned?'

Héloïse pointed. ‘I am afraid Monsieur Luttrell has not noticed us,' she said.

Lounging very much at his ease in a corner, Ned was entertaining a circle of beauties with some of his anecdotes. There was a great deal of laughter, much fluttering of fans and shrugging of powdered shoulders. He was far too occupied to notice their arrival. Sophie tried not to feel disappointed.

‘I see Adèle coming towards us,' said Héloïse. ‘We must prepare ourselves for her scolding.'

Sophie liked Adèle – who could fail to? And for some reason, known only to Adèle's volatile mind, she had chosen to champion Sophie. Sophie, seduced by Adèle's warmth and fascinated by the mingled wisdom and selfishness with which she conducted her life, had proved a ready victim. So it was with real pleasure that she made room for Adèle to join them.

‘Pouf,' said Adèle, who had abandoned a posse of disappointed cavaliers with patently insincere excuses. ‘Why do men always want to make love to you when you want to talk about something sensible for a change?'

‘Perhaps', Héloïse said shrewdly, ‘it is because you wish them to.'

Adèle regarded her for a moment and then turned to Sophie with a shrug.

‘Your cousin is so clever,' she remarked. ‘And now I shall exact my revenge on you two for ignoring my command to dress in white by ordering you to sit here and talk to me.'

‘For five minutes, perhaps,' said Sophie, who had been watching Adèle's recklessly abandoned swain. Adèle chose to ignore her.

‘Ah! There is de la Fourgères,' she said inconsequentially, and shuddered. ‘Another time, perhaps, I shall introduce you, but he has such a bad case of head lice tonight. They are crawling quite openly. He really should speak to his hairdresser.'

‘Who is that lady over there?' asked Sophie. She gestured towards a woman dressed in red satin. Adèle's face hardened.

‘Oh,' she said, in freezing tones. ‘De Genlis. Definitely not comme il faut, for all that she had the highest entrée. She is stuffed with republican ideas and I've quarrelled with her.'

Sophie scrutinised Madame de Genlis with interest. The mistress of the notorious Duc d'Orléans, or Philippe Égalité as he liked to be known, her weekly dinners and advanced educational ideas had made her notorious.

‘It was very, very clever, and not at all well done of you, to dress in blue,' continued Adèle. ‘Everyone is talking about you both and I am mortified because you cast me quite into the shade.'

Adèle plucked at the sleeves of her extremely expensive gown, which was of white silk trimmed with Mechlin lace and silver spangles, on to which tiny seed pearls had been sewn. She was hardly a figure in need of consolation, and she glowed with beauty and high spirits, knowing her ball was the success she had planned it to be.

Sophie inclined her head. ‘My cousin and I knew that we could not compete with you on your own terms, madame. The situation was desperate, you will agree.'

Adèle trilled with laughter. ‘Flatterer. I almost forgive you. But we will see how you stand up to the censure of my dear brother, who is even now coming to seek us out. Hervé, come here at once.'

There was no doubt that in full evening dress Hervé de Choissy was a notable sight. Clad in coat and breeches of blue and black spotted silk embroidered with satin stitch, set off by a white silk waistcoat. His hair was powdered and anchored back with a black ribbon. He wore a dress sword and a diamond pin in his lace cravat. Why, he is superb, thought Sophie.

‘You must be patient, Adèle,' said de Choissy. ‘My first duty is to greet my bride-to-be.'

He carried Héloïse's hand to his lips and let them rest there for a fraction too long. Héloïse removed her hand. She had decided that, whatever her aversion to de Choissy, she was not going to be bullied by him.

‘On the contrary,' she said. ‘I think the first introductions should go to my cousin.'

‘Touché.'
De Choissy registered the hit and turned to his sister. ‘Mademoiselle de Guinot has reminded me of my manners.'

Adèle performed the introductions and Sophie gave him her hand. She smiled easily up at him.

‘Very beautiful and very English,' he said.

‘Not entirely, Monsieur le Comte,' she reminded him. ‘I am half-French.'

‘So you are,' he agreed. ‘Then, you will enjoy many things about our country. Now it is my turn to make the presentations.'

He beckoned over the crush to a man who was standing by himself.

‘Permit me to make known to you Mr William Jones. Mr Jones is here to sell land to anyone who wishes to take up the challenge, and I have persuaded him to make the

Hôtel de Choissy his home for the present. Mr Jones, Madame la Duchesse de Fleury, Mademoiselle de Guinot and Miss Luttrell from England.'

Sophie had the impression of white-blond hair and a contrasting pair of very dark eyebrows set in a thin face. Mr Jones was dressed, not magnificently but neatly, in a suit of green silk twill with silver buttons and stood at least six feet tall. He did not look French, or English. In fact there was something about him that was quite different from anyone Sophie had met before and she could not put her finger on it. A flush burned on her cheek and she raised her fan to hide it, both intrigued and curious.

‘I should have said...' The Comte was quick to note Sophie's reaction which amused him. ‘That Mr Jones comes from that strange country. America.'

For his part, William became aware of a beautiful wide forehead and large grey eyes. Without doubt, Miss Luttrell was a striking figure.

Adèle's chatter restored Sophie's wits. She pulled herself together and made her greetings. William addressed himself politely to Héloïse, but as soon as he was at liberty to do so he turned his attention to Sophie. De Choissy claimed an unwilling Héloïse, and Adèle moved off to rejoin her abandoned swain.