Virginia Henley (2 page)

“I think the fashion for young women is execrable,” Diana dared.

“Indeed?” replied the dame, the lines of her face seeming to freeze.

Diana almost bit her tongue, but she had begun and she might as well finish. “Skirts are so voluminous they take up the entire seat of a carriage, assuming you can squeeze through the coach door. Powdered wigs are becoming so tall it’s a wonder birds don’t nest in them. My personal favorite is the corset. The whalebone stays are so rigid they stab you in the gut whenever you bend over.”

The dame’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared beneath her wig.
“Gut
is a word a lady would never use. I can see you have had an unorthodox and liberal education.” The sergeant-major straightened to her full height,
gave two raps upon the floor, then vowed, “In spite of everything, I shall make a successful debutante of you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Diana murmured beneath her breath. She was beginning to enjoy herself, however, and decided to thoroughly shock Dame Lightfoot. “In medieval times ladies slept stark naked! The church condemned nightgowns as scandalous obscenities that would tempt men to commit lewd and lascivious acts. Obviously those first night rails bore no resemblance to the
respectable
garments I wear to bed … unfortunately!”

Dame Lightfoot reached into her reticule, unstoppered a small bottle, and sniffed a massive dose of hartshorn. Then, as if she would put a stop to such titillating talk, she whapped out a fan, snapped it open with considerable force, then handed it to her pupil.

Before the lesson was over, Diana learned that the best fans had ivory sticks covered with gauze, lace, or painted silk. She learned the meaning of peeping through it coyly, looking over it, or glancing from the side. It was all she could do to keep from laughing in her teacher’s face.

After an hour Dame Lightfoot was satisfied that Diana had learned the art of flirtation.

Comic figures of young beaus flitted through Diana’s imagination. “Now that I have mastered flirtation, with whom do I flirt?”

The sergeant-major stared her down. “I shall allow you to answer the question.”

“I should like to flirt with danger.”

Silence stretched between them. Finally the older woman made an observation. “You have a restless soul, so I shall let you in on a little secret society keeps from unfledged females. Once you have made a respectable marriage and produced an heir, a young matron can have a dashing social life, unconfined by the strictures of an unmarried girl.”

“That is the first inducement I’ve ever heard for the married state,” Diana said, tucking away the information.

Prudence returned to the music room, avid to know what dances Diana had learned.

“You go too fast, Mrs. Davenport. Lady Diana is a diamond in the rough. To make her a diamond of the first water will take a little social polishing. I teach the dance steps at my studio in Mayfair, where we have room to do justice to the minuet, contredanse, and the Scottish reel. Here is my card.” She rapped the floor with her stick. “Be there at two on Monday afternoon.”

After Dame Lightfoot left, Diana protested, “Aunt Prudence, I didn’t learn anything except how to fan myself. This is a total waste of time and money. The woman is a dragon-faced martinet … a figure of fun…” Diana’s words trailed off as she saw the hurt look on Prudence’s face.

“I would have given anything for a dancing mistress when I was your age, but my physical condition did not allow me such a luxury. I have been a martyr to pain all my life.” Her hand stroked her arthritic hip. “It pains me deeply when you rebel, Diana. It would please me if you would accept dance instruction from Dame Lightfoot.”

Diana felt ashamed of herself. “Of course I shall keep the appointment, Aunt Prudence. I didn’t realize how selfish it was of me to complain.”

“Ah, my dear, it is something you will learn with maturity, to suffer in silence, as I do.”

Diana’s suspicion that Prudence was a hypochondriac only doubled her guilt.
What if she really is in pain?
“We’re invited to afternoon tea at Emily Castlereagh’s. Do you feel up to it?”

“As a matter of fact I don’t, my dear. I fear I shall be forced to take to my couch this afternoon.”

“I’ll send a note with our regrets.”

Prudence was aghast. “You will do no such thing. Lady Castlereagh is a patroness of Almack’s. The young ladies invited to tea today will receive their vouchers. Bridget shall accompany you.”

Diana knew instinctively that Prudence didn’t feel comfortable with some of the aristocratic hostesses who led society because she had no title. Diana was invited only because Emily Castlereagh had been a dear friend of her father’s. Emily was married to the Marquis of Londonderry and her father was the Earl of Buckinghamshire. Though she was at the summit of the social scale, Diana didn’t find her in the least daunting. In fact she was an endearing eccentric who adopted an oddity of dress.

“You can wear the chocolate bombazine walking dress; it would be perfect for Lady Castlereagh’s tea.”

Chocolate my foot,
thought Diana.
It’s the closest shade to cat ca-ca I’ve ever seen.

“And I know I don’t need to remind you never to walk along St. James’s Street where the gentlemen have their clubs.”

“Of course not,” Diana replied, deciding on the spot that’s exactly what she would do.

Diana chose the most outrageous hat she owned to compensate for the respectable brown walking dress with morocco half-boots to match. The hat sported a full rooster-tail from some hapless leghorn who had met with misfortune.

Bridget, the maid who accompanied her, asked, “Aren’t we going the wrong way, Lady Diana?”

“Yes, Biddy, we are. We are going the long way about so we can walk along St. James’s Street.”

Bridget McCartney had a face crowded with freckles and a turned-up nose. Prudence would have dismissed the Irish maid long ago if Diana hadn’t put her foot down.
Biddy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ooh, I’m game if you are.”

Diana’s lips twitched. “If that remark is prompted by my hat, I assure you I won’t start crowing.”

When Biddy giggled, Diana thought how lovely it was to have someone share her sense of humor.

Coming out of Brooks’s Club at number 60 were two men who looked over the females with an appreciative eye. An occasional whore got up enough cheek to walk along St. James’s, but a lady with her maid was scandalous. One drawled, “There goes a prime article.”

“And a cunning little baggage with her,” the other observed.

With lashes lowered, Diana crossed the street. This was not to avoid the men, but to get a closer look at Boodle’s and White’s on the opposite side.

The Macaronis lounging about outside the clubs raised their quizzing glasses and tossed about witticisms. One bold fellow in black and white striped pantaloons stepped forward. “If you are looking for a
cher ami,
permit me to offer my services.”

Diana’s cool glance swept him from head to foot. Then she said to Biddy, “We’ve inadvertently wandered into the zoo.”

The zebra’s companions guffawed at the cake he’d made of himself. Diana was in high good humor. She’d worn the cock’s feathers for attention and understood that the fop outside White’s wore the zebra stripes for exactly the same reason.

Peter Hardwick ran up the steps of 21 Grosvenor Square, presented his calling card, and was ushered into the library by the majordomo.

Richard Davenport had been expecting him and so lost no time joining him, offering the customary wine and wafers.

Prudence, stationed behind the lace curtains of the drawing room, caught a glimpse of the young man and was favorably impressed. The moment Richard had uttered the name
Hardwick,
she had apprised him of Peter’s lineage, the title to which he was heir, and the location of the ancestral home. Prudence smiled with satisfaction. The young buck cut a fine figure, one that even Diana wouldn’t be immune to.

Prudence made sure Diana was absent each afternoon, hoping Peter Hardwick would show up. Now that he had, Richard would strike the secret bargain behind the closed door of the library, and only then would he present the quarry to Prudence. She waited with great expectations.

Diana told Biddy to go and enjoy herself Monday afternoon while she went for her dancing lesson. “There is no point in both of us being miserable. Meet me at the corner of Grosvenor and Brook Streets at five o’clock.”

As Diana made her way toward Shepherd’s Market, where Dame Lightfoot had her studio, she spied her Junoesque figure approaching from the opposite end of the street.

“Good afternoon, Lady Davenport, I heartily approve of promptness.”

“Good afternoon, Dame Lightfoot,” replied Diana, thinking it was a damned good thing she hadn’t been early.

The dame led the way into a large studio with mirrored walls. She removed her hat, patted the iron-gray wig into place, then announced, “Make yourself at ease, I shall be with you in a trice.”

Diana looked about with delight. Her image was reflected back to her from every side. The room had been designed so that a woman could watch herself dance. How enchanting! Diana removed her hat, then on impulse she removed her powdered wig and shook out her golden curls. She knew her hair was pretty, and she hated hiding it beneath
a wig. Suddenty she felt like dancing. Light streamed in through the windows so that tiny rainbows were reflected from the mirrored walls. It made the room warm and welcoming and for a moment Diana felt bathed in magic.

She removed her shoes, tossed them after her hat, and began to twirl about. Her skirts flared out to reveal her legs, her hair cascading about her shoulders in wild disarray.

Dame Lightfoot, about to reenter the studio, paused rigid on the threshold. She stared at Diana for a full minute, then lowered her corseted form to the piano stool and began to play.

Diana did not so much hear the music as feel it. She swirled about madly, matching her movements to the tempo of the music, which went ever faster. She could feel the rhythm in her blood as she gyrated sensually, enjoying it deeply, until she could feel the heartbeats in her throat and the soles of her feet. With a crescendo she fell to her knees and allowed her glorious hair to sweep the floor. Then she opened her eyes and laughed up into the face of the dragon.

The dragon said slowly, “You are a free spirit who has been caged up too long. Your body has a fluidity I haven’t seen in years.”

Breathlessly, Diana said, “If I weren’t wearing this restrictive corset, I could really dance!”

Dame Lightfoot was silent for another minute, then she said, “Why don’t we both remove our corsets? Mine is killing me! You can use that dressing room over there.”

A surprised Diana was not loath to do the dame’s bidding. Inside the dressing room, Diana’s eyes widened. Dozens of costumes were hanging on racks. Every color and material the mind could conjure was there, some sequined, some feathered. Diana reached out a hand to caress the irresistible creations, thinking they were dance attire or stage costumes for some theatre. Perhaps Dame Lightfoot was not the old martinet she had thought.

Diana removed her corset, then slipped back into her
gown. She had always longed to make herself a costume; perhaps Dame Lightfoot could help.

It was Diana’s turn to pause upon the threshold. The dragon no longer resembled a dragon. She had removed the iron-gray wig to reveal jet-black curls, and now that her corset was removed, her breasts were voluptuous. In fact she no longer looked old. Diana decided she wasn’t young either; what she looked was ageless. “Dame Lightfoot—”

“Oh please, call me Allegra.”

Diana blinked. Even her voice had taken on a provocative, throaty quality. “Allegra is a beautiful name, cleverly adapted from a musical term.”

“Indeed. All my intimates call me Allegra.”

“The costumes in the dressing room fascinate me!”

“Try one on,” Allegra urged.

“Oh, I shall, thank you. I’ll try them all, if I may. But I’ve been toying with the idea of creating my own. Would you help me?”

“I should be delighted. What strikes your fancy?”

“Diana, Goddess of the Hunt.”

“But of course! And what a perfect Diana you will make.”

“I picture a white tunic that bares one shoulder,” Diana said with much daring, although the goddess would probably have bared one breast.

“Short also,” Allegra agreed, “to show off your lovely long legs.”

“A golden bow and arrow,” Diana added with enthusiasm.

“And gilt sandals with golden ribbons to crisscross up your calves, and your own glorious golden hair, unpowdered, to cascade down your back.”

“Golden amulets on my upper arms,” Diana added, carried away by the picture they were creating.

Allegra, her head on one side to observe the beautiful girl, alive with animated enthusiasm, said thoughtfully,
“The new Pantheon in Oxford Street is to be opened by a masquerade ball. How would you like to attend?”

“I should love it, but of course it’s out of the question. Prudence would think it far too worldly for an unmarried lady.”

“Mmm,” was all Allegra murmured.

“But I’d still like the costume,” Diana insisted.

“Well, let’s teach you the steps to all the dances this afternoon, then tomorrow when you come we can devote the afternoon to creating the huntress!”

Diana had such an enjoyable time at Allegra’s the following day, she regretted she could not also go on Wednesday. But Wednesdays from now on would be devoted to that holy shrine of the ton known as Almack’s.

Prudence chose a gown in the fashionable shade called pomona, an apple green taffeta that emphasized her embonpoint. She beamed such approval at her niece’s appearance, it made Diana doubt her attraction. This was her first ball gown and the corset and three petticoats made it feel most restrictive. Prudence had let her make the final choice of color.
Fat choice, allowing me to choose between prissy pink and baby blue,
thought Diana. The gown had a high neckline with rows of tiny frills covering the entire yoke. How ironic that the corset flattened her breasts to such a degree she needed the frills as a bust enhancer.

As she picked up her Kashmir shawl and followed Prudence out to the carriage, Diana admitted to a certain amount of excitement at her debut into society. Her excitement was soon dampened when Prudence took the opportunity of the carriage ride to catalog her rigid rules and regulations. Her aunt concluded, “You must not attract the wrong sort of man under any circumstances. You must be protected from both fortune hunters and rakes at all costs.”

Anyone listening would have thought Prudence wished only to protect Diana, but had they been able to read her thoughts, they would have been quickly disabused of the notion.
She is so lovely she will attract a peer of the first
water, then Richard and I won’t get a smell of her money. I shall have to watch her like a hawk and discourage any titled, wealthy suitors. It’s a good thing wigs are in fashion, her beautiful blond hair is enough to take a man’s breath away!

The coachman knew better than to even drive along St. James’s Street when the ladies were in the carriage, so he took the circuitous route down Duke to King Street.

There was such a crush at Almack’s that there was actually a line outside. Prudence was most flattered when Lady Melbourne greeted her. She had her daughter Emily and her son William Lamb in tow. William immediately moved close to Diana.

“May I have the first dance, Lady Davenport?”

“Of course you may, sir.” It was so ridiculous that she could not call him William when she had known the chinless boy all her life. She wrote his name on her dance card as they entered the foyer and was much relieved to hear Prudence say, “You young people run along and enjoy yourselves. My hip doesn’t allow me the pleasure of dancing.”

Diana joined a group of her friends who were also making their debut tonight. Hary-O Devonshire, younger sister of Georgiana, Penelope Crewe, and Fanny Damer had been brought by their hopeful mothers in expectation of popping them off in marriage to a wealthy and titled husband. They had been well schooled to employ artifice and cunning in duping the opposite sex, for all women knew they must deploy force even though their fathers were willing to pay vast amounts of money for their matrimonial settlements.