Winsor, Kathleen (11 page)

"Quick!"
cried Amber, clasping her hands and giving an excited little jump. "Let me
see it!"

Madame
Darnier, chattering French, motioned at the girl to lay the box on a table, off
which she grandly swept Amber's green wool skirt and striped cotton petticoat.
And then, with a magnificent flourish, she flung up the lid and at one swoop
snatched out her creation, holding it at arm's length for them to see. Both
Amber and the hairdresser gasped, falling back a step or two, while the other
girl beamed with pride, sharing Madame Darnier's triumph.

"Ohhh—"
breathed Amber, and then,
"Oh!"
She had never seen anything so
lovely in her life.

It
was made of black and honey-coloured satin with a tight, pointed bodice, deep
round neckline, full sleeves to the elbows, and a sweeping gathered skirt, over
which was a second skirt of exquisite black lace. The cloak was honey-coloured
velvet lined in black satin and the attached hood had a black fox border. There
was a lace fan, long perfumed beige gloves, a great fox muff, and one of the
black velvet vizard-masks which every fine lady wore when going abroad. In
fact, all the trappings of high fashion.

"Oh,
let me put it on!"

Madame
Darnier was horrified. "Mais, non, madame! First we must paint the
face!"

"Mais
oui! First we must paint the face!" echoed Monsieur Baudelaire.

They
went back to the table, all four of them, and there Madame Darnier untied a
great red-velvet kerchief and spread out its contents: bottles and jars and
small China pots, a rabbit's foot, an eyebrow brush, tiny booklets of red
Spanish paper, pencils, beauty patches. Amber gave a surprised little shriek
when the first eyebrow was pulled out, but after that she sat patiently, in a
condition of ecstatic delight at the change she saw coming over herself.
Arguing, chattering, shrieking among themselves, in half an hour they had made
her into a creature of polish and sparkle and artifice—a worldly woman, at
least in appearance.

And
then at last she was ready to put on her gown, a major enterprise, for there
must not be one wrinkle made in it, not a hair displaced, not a smear of
lip-pomade or a smudge of powder. It took all three of them to accomplish that,
with Madame Darnier scolding and clucking, screaming alternately at the girl
and at Monsieur Baudelaire. But at last they had it settled upon her, Madame
pulling the neckline down so that all of her shoulders and most of her breasts
showed, and finally she put the fan into her hand and ordered her to walk
slowly across the room and turn and face them.

"Mon
Dieu!" she said then, with complacent satisfaction. "If you don't
outdo Madame Palmer herself!"

"Who's
Madame Palmer?" Amber wanted to know, looking down to examine herself.

"His
Majesty's mistress." Madame Darnier rustled across the room to adjust a
fold, twisting one sleeve a quarter of an inch, smoothing a tiny wrinkle from
the bodice. "For today, at least," she muttered, frowning, absorbed
in what she was doing. "Next week—" She shrugged. "Perhaps
someone else."

Amber
was pleased by the compliment—but now that she was finally ready she wished he
would come. Outside she felt new and crisp as tissue paper, but her stomach was
fluttering with nervousness and her hands were moist. Maybe he won't like me
this way! She was beginning to feel scared and almost sick. Oh!
why
doesn't
he come!

And
then she heard the door open and his voice called her name. "May I come
in?"

"Oh!"
Amber's hand flew to her mouth. "He's here! Quick!"

She
began shooing them out and the three rushed everywhere at once, gathering up
boxes and bottles and combs, flocking out the door of the bedroom just as he
reached it. Bowing and curtsying as they went, they could not resist looking
back gleefully over their shoulders to see what he would do. Amber stood in the
middle of the room, lips parted, not even breathing, her eyes glistening with
expectation. He walked through the doorway smiling and then suddenly stopped,
surprise on his face, at the threshold.

"Holy
Jesus!" he said softly. "How lovely you are!"

Amber
relaxed. "Oh—
-do
you like me this way?"

He
came toward her and took the fingers of one hand to turn her slowly about,
while she looked back at him over her shoulder—unwilling to miss the slightest
expression of pleasure on his face. "You're all the dreams of fair women a
man ever had." At last he picked up her cloak. "Now— Where shall we
go?"

She
knew exactly and was eager to set out. "I want to see a play!"

He
grinned. "A play it is—but we'll have to hurry. It's almost four
now."

It
was after four-thirty when they arrived at the old Red Bull Playhouse in upper
St. John Street, and the performance had been under way for more than an hour.
The theatre was hot and stuffy, almost humid, and it smelt strongly of sweat
and unwashed bodies and powerful perfumes. There was a bustle and stir over the
house which never ceased, and dozens of heads turned curiously as they went to
their seats in the fore of one of the boxes. Even the actors took time out to
give them a glance.

Amber
was completely intoxicated, trying to see everything at once, thrilled by the
whole noisy, bad-smelling, ill-bred but strangely exciting conglomeration. She
felt that the triumph was peculiarly her own—and did not realize they would
have
stared at any other pretty woman arriving late. Any diversion was a welcome
one, for neither players nor audience seemed seriously interested in the
performance.

All
the bottom floor of the house was called the pit and its benches were crowded
with about three hundred young men who buzzed eternally among themselves. A few
women were seated there also, most of them rather well-dressed but boldly
over-painted, and when Amber asked Bruce in a loud whisper who they were he replied
that they were prostitutes. There had been no prostitutes in Marygreen and if
there had they would have been set up in the stocks and pelted with refuse by
every right-thinking farmer and housewife. And so she was amazed to see that
here the young men used them with apparent respect, talked to them openly, and
even occasionally kissed or embraced one of them. Nor did the ladies themselves
seem in any wise self-conscious or remorseful. They laughed and chattered
loudly, looked happy and quite at ease.

Ranged
against the apron-shaped stage, which extended out into the pit, stood
half-a-dozen girls with baskets over their arms, bawling out their
wares—oranges and lemons and sweetmeats—which they sold at exorbitant prices.

Above
the pit, but down close to the stage, was a balcony divided into boxes, and
there sat the ladies of quality, gorgeously gowned and jewelled, with their
husbands or lovers. Above that was another balcony filled with women and
rowdies. And in one still higher were the apprentices who beat time to the
music with their cudgels, gave a loud hum by way of disapproval and, when
really indignant, sounded their catcalls—loud whistles that filled the theatre.

Essentially
the audience was aristocratic—the harlots and 'prentices being almost the only
outsiders—and the ladies and gentlemen came to see and to be seen, to gossip
and to flirt. The play was a secondary consideration.

Amber
found nothing to disappoint her. It was all she had expected, and more.

Taut
with excitement and happiness, she sat very straight beside Bruce, her eyes
round and sparkling and travelling from one side of the theatre to the other.
So
this
was the great world! Yet she could not but be poignantly aware
of her new gown, her elaborate coiffure, the scent of her perfume, and the
unfamiliar but pleasurable feeling of cosmetics on her skin, the silken caress
of her fur muff between her fingers, the voluptuous display of her breasts.

And
then, as she looked around at the boxes near them, she encountered the eyes of
two women who were leaning slightly forward, watching her—and the expression on
their faces was a sudden rude shock.

They
were both handsome, richly dressed, sparkling with jewels, and they had an
indefinable hauteur and confidence which she already associated with quality.
Bruce had bowed and spoken to them when they came in—as he had spoken to
several other
men and women nearby and had acknowledged waves of greeting from gentlemen in
the pit. But now, as her eyes met theirs, they gave her a sweeping contemptuous
glance, exchanged smiles with each other; one woman murmured something behind
her fan—and with a concerted lift of the eyebrows they both looked away.

For
an instant Amber continued to stare at them, surprised and hurt, almost sick
with humiliation, and then she looked down at her fan and bit her lower lip to
force back the sudden impulse of tears. Oh! she thought in passionate
mortification, they think I'm a harlot! They despise me! All at once the glory
was gone from her outing into the gay world and she wished she had never come,
had never exposed herself to their scorn and disdain.

When
Bruce, who had evidently seen the exchange of glances, gave her hand a warm
reassuring pressure her spirits lifted a little and she flung him a look of
gratitude. But though she returned her eyes to the stage then and tried to take
an interest in what was going on she found it impossible. She only wished that
the play would end so that she might get back to the comforting seclusion of
their apartment. How ashamed Sarah would be, how furious Uncle Matt, to see to
what a condition she had come!

At
last the epilogue had been spoken and the audience began to rise. Bruce turned
to her with a smile, putting her cloak over her shoulders. "Well, how did
you like it?"

"I—I
liked it." She did not look him in the eyes and dared not glance about for
fear of confronting the two women again, or some other sneering face.

Below
in the pit several of the men were clustering about the orange-girls, kissing
them, handling them familiarly, while others indulged in horseplay among
themselves, clapping one another on the back and pulling off hats. The actor
who had impersonated Juliet, still in his long blond wig and a gown with padded
chest, came out and stood talking to some of the beaus. Others were climbing up
onto the stage and going back behind the scenes. Overhead they could hear
tramping feet making for the exits, and the ladies and gentlemen about them
were pausing in small groups—the women kissing one another and squealing while
the men smiled with smug tolerance. But all the while Amber stood with a
troubled frown on her face, her eyes fixed on Bruce's cravat, wishing they
would all get out.

"Shall
we go, my dear?" He offered her his arm.

Outside
the theatre they made their way through the loiterers to his coach where it
stood in line with several others, all jamming the streets until foot-traffic
was almost at a standstill. Everyone was pushing to get through and vendors and
porters were swearing angrily. All of a sudden a beggar thrust himself before
them, making weird undistinguishable sounds, his mouth open, and he put his
face up to Amber's to show her where his tongue bled from having been cut out.
Sickened with
pity and a little frightened she drew closer to Bruce, holding his arm.

Bruce
tossed the man a coin. "Here. Out of the way."

"Oh—that
poor man! Did you see him? Why did they do that to him?"

They
had reached the coach and he handed her in. "There was nothing wrong with
him. It's a trick they have of rolling their tongues out of sight and poking
them with a stick until they bleed."

"But
why doesn't he work instead of doing that?"

"He
does work. Don't think begging's the easiest profession in the world."

She
sat down while he turned to talk to two young men who had called his name, and
she saw them both looking at her from over his shoulder, frank appraisal in
their eyes. For one bold instant Amber returned their stares, lifting her brows
and slanting the corners of her eyes—and then suddenly she blushed and looked
the other way. Oh, Lord! they were most likely thinking the same thing about
her that the women had! But still she could not resist sneaking them another
slow cautious glance—and her eyes met once more the full stare of the handsomer
one. Swiftly she glanced away. And yet—there was no doubt it did not seem so
insulting, coming from a man.