Authors: Janice Robertson
Genevieve wandered downstairs to gaze upon the resplendent
feast Hannah had prepared, ready to take into the dining room after the dancing:
swan and other graceful dishes were splendidly ornamented; crystallised fruit was
arranged as appealingly as if they still grew upon vines and bushes. She felt
so nervous that she had been unable to eat anything for days, and her stomach
turned at the sight of the glistening jellied meat.
Cut flowers and green boughs decked the doorway of the Great
Hall where brother and sister stood in readiness to welcome the guests.
Gabriel looked handsome in his dark blue coat, cream waistcoat
and pale breeches, silk stockings and buckled pumps. He cautioned Genevieve, ‘It
would be best to keep quiet about your past to those who know nothing about it.
Tell them that, from childhood, you were raised in Italy or something like
that.’
‘I don’t speak Italian.’
‘Once the wine has gone round they won’t know what language
you’re speaking. Just smile and have a delightful time.’
There came a modest chattering and laughter as friends and
acquaintances greeted one another. Never had Genevieve set eyes on ladies and
gentlemen in such rich and extravagant dress as those who swept into the hall
to the sound of music, strings and a harpsichord, very different from the
fiddles and hornpipes of the country jigs she had been used to.
Permelia and her female friends entered in a rush of
conversation, their satin dresses and Greek-style tiaras shimmering in the
light cast by the chandeliers. Genevieve’s own frock in lavender complemented
those who wore pale yellow, soft grey and mignonette-green, though Hortence
wore a startling scarlet dress.
Gabriel bowed obsequiously to Permelia’s friends. ‘May I
have the honour to present my sister, Lady Genevieve?’
‘Delighted,’ the ladies answered courteously, brushing past
her as swiftly as was respectable.
Gabriel greeted other newcomers. ‘Sir, you and your family
are most heartily welcome.’
So it continued with guests after guests arriving; fine-looking
men, chuckling girls, haughty dowagers, knights and bloated-faced squires. Most
offered their condolences on the melancholy event of Lord Robert du Quesne’s
death.
Despite her aversion to his romantic intentions, Genevieve
was relieved when a familiar face appeared. Colonel Cudbert Catesby joined
other officers from his regiment, looking elegant in his cockade hat, crimson
jacket and white trousers.
‘Catesby!’ Hortence pushed through the throng. ‘My sister
and I were thinking you had quite foresaken us.’
About the first hour of the ball was a mannerly quiet. Music
played serenely, talk was reserved. Genevieve could scarcely believe so many
people would make so little noise. Dancers shifted in delicate figures like
flowers blowing gently in a breeze, sedate and graceful, moving away as the
figure of the dance dictated. Now and then ladies retired to tweak curls and smooth
skirts.
Older ladies, wearing hats trimmed with plumes and lined
with velvet, gravitated to the enormous arched-fireplace where they sat,
leaning towards one another, gossiping behind their fans.
Hortence and other unmarried women swept across the floor
like swooping birds whilst their partners moved in the dance as delicately and
gracefully as the girls.
Soon the pace increased. Laughter and talk amplified. High
in the minstrels’ gallery the musicians played louder. Girls flirted with
soldiers and drew them towards the dancing. Hogsheads of claret broached, the footmen
braved the blaze of colour, bearing jugs of wine, sometimes two at a time, to
the feasting.
After weeks of learning how to walk on her toes instead of
plodding on her heels, and practicing the steps of the dance, Genevieve rose to
the challenge with perfection. Even in her discourse with the gentry she
succeeded in keeping off the topic of farming, which Lady Wexcombe had warned
her was a subject most unbecoming of a lady in polite society.
The parson plied Genevieve with sweetmeats. ‘It is a fine gathering,
my lady. We must do it again, or perhaps his lordship might hold a masquerade? I
have always yearned to be a, hic, please excuse me, masked angel. I believe
that my name is next on your dance card?’
He led her to where several couples, amongst them Permelia
and Gregory Bowden, the dandiest of the beaus, were taking their places. Whilst
dancing, Genevieve was uncomfortably aware of Catesby standing in the shadows,
staring at her.
Lady Wexcombe spoke cordially to those around her, tolerating
if not relishing all the conversation, including Gabriel’s. ‘I took the liberty
of including Bowden in your kind invitation this evening so that he may meet
local society. He belongs to the first circles, a man of a very large property
in Herefordshire. Are you much acquainted with him?’
‘I regret that I have not had that honour,’ Gabriel
answered.
‘It would seem that he is much taken by Permelia. I almost
think that if one were not quick about it, Permelia’s hand would be given to
him in marriage.’
Gabriel felt as jaded as Genevieve with this persistent
matchmaking. He addressed her with marked coolness, ‘I see Squire Hartt and his
lady have arrived late. I must welcome them. Do excuse me.’
‘After your coarse upbringing,’ the parson said to Genevieve,
when their steps met, ‘you must feel indebted to be acknowledged by such
elegant ladies as the Misses Wexcombe.’
His condescending words pierced her like an arrow for that
was how she felt, an outsider struggling towards refinement. Even at the dance,
no matter how polite the guests were to her, she knew they sensed her
ignorance. She could see in their eyes their revulsion at her disfigured
features.
At the end of the dance she was glad to rest.
Noisy merriment increased to a tumult. Wall torches burnt
low and sputtered, were replaced by others. Genevieve was surprised to see fine,
flushed gentlemen and their giggling ladies behaving more like ploughmen and
carters at a country revel. Even some of the elderly ladies had forgotten their
manners, sitting with their legs splayed and shrieking with laughter as
fireworks exploded on the lawn. Expected to partake of the vintage wine, her
head span and her lips felt numb. By now the parson was sleeping it off, his
head leaning upon her shoulder.
Gabriel approached. ‘I seem to have danced with all the
ladies except you.’ A loving smile brightened his face as he reached out his hand
to her. ‘It is only right that I should now dance with the only lady here that
means the world to me.’
For the first time that evening, brother and sister were
truly content. All the other dancers around them drifted into obscurity. Once,
Genevieve’s foot caught in the tarlatan that stiffened her ball dress and she almost
fell. Gabriel saved them from crashing to the floor, both laughing with the
silliness of it. He, too, threw caution to the wind and clung to her longer and
more closely than was deemed polite.
As the dance continued they became aware that they were receiving
grim looks. Permelia gasped, surprised at Genevieve’s indecorous manner. Voices
were cold with dislike.
‘Forget them,’ Gabriel said.
‘I already have!’ Genevieve cried.
There was a scuffle beside the door. Maygott, his manner and
attire that of a man who had fallen on hard times, was tussling with a footman,
who would not grant him admittance to the dance.
‘What’s Maygott doing here?’ Gabriel cried. ‘Duncan, eject
the man.’
The dance at an end, he led Genevieve to a cushioned settle.
‘I’ll fetch us something to eat.’
Those around Genevieve whispered to neighbours, nodding
meaningfully in her direction.
Sir Biggins stood behind Lady Wexcombe’s chair, stooping now
and again to speak quietly in her ear. Both stared at Genevieve and shook
their heads.
Hortence drifted by on the arm of her beau. On her other arm
was a reticule decorated like a stuffed pineapple. ‘Blundering about in the
dance like some common farmer’s wife, you appear to have forgotten all that my
sister and I taught you about comportment. You would do well to acquire the pride
of blood and wealth; otherwise you will find that you are not well spoken of by
anyone.’
Genevieve longed to shut off from them, their unkind words
and acid looks. Even though she told herself they could not wound her with their
unkind remarks it hurt to know that she was thought of as an oddity. The image
of the wild creatures she had once seen at the fair came to her mind. She felt
like them, stared at as though she existed behind bars. Her beautiful dress and
her practised etiquette, none of these things could bestow upon her what she
was not. She was neither one of the rich nor one of the poor. Conscious of her
loneliness she sat on, alone, a forlorn wallflower, the muscles in her face
aching from a wooden smile.
She was startled by the unexpected appearance of Captain Catesby
at her side.
‘May I?’ He took his place beside her.
Seeing her otherwise occupied Gabriel, who was returning
with refreshments, turned about and roamed amongst the guests, not wishing to
be accused of dereliction of his duties.
Catesby’s fringe had fallen into his eyes. He swept it
aside. ‘I see you are taking an interval to gaze upon the gentlemen in the
dance.’
‘Not at all,’ she answered, startled by the absurd idea.
‘Many are handsome and vigorous.’
‘And vain.’
He ignored the gibe. ‘As a woman of affluence your thoughts will,
no doubt, turn to acquiring a husband of wealth and title?’ Laughing, he added,
‘Or perhaps your heart might be given to a colonel of the yeomanry?’
‘I know enough of high society to appreciate that it is
improper of you to ask such questions of me.’
‘You must admit that I am better looking than most of the
gentlemen in this room?’
‘That much I grant you,’ she answered, keeping her gazed
averted.
‘Far wittier.’
‘I would not know.’
‘I will have to convince you.’
‘I would not care to trouble you on my account.’
To add to the mood of gaiety some men servants were dressed
as half-beasts, their tails trailing along the floor. A beast approached,
offering drinks, which Catesby accepted, passing a glass to Genevieve. She left
it on a side table.
Aware of Lady Wexcombe and Sir Biggins casting them
inquisitive glances, Catesby’s tone became formal. ‘As your first experience of
socialising with genial aristocracy how does the Assembly please you?’
‘If truth be told I am sickened by the trivial conversations.’
He dipped into his snuff box. ‘What subjects would be more
to your liking: trade and commerce, politics, or perhaps religion?’
‘Do not mock. I believe that there are more important issues
to discuss than the latest play in London or the value of one’s jewels.’
‘Like what?’
‘Is it true that your soldiers fired on starving men, women
and children who broke into a warehouse in Malstowe in search of food?’
He grimaced, showing his unwillingness to discuss this
tedious subject. ‘It is true. Many escaped, others were sent to the gallows. An
example needed to be made of them.’
She sought to curb her agitation. ‘It has always been my
firm belief that sentences should match the crime and not be unduly brutal. A
starving child is punished with the same severity as if he or she had murdered
a whole family. Do you not think it better to seek out the root of the
problem, a problem which is founded in the harsh inequalities in society, so
that the poor in their desperation and hunger would not need to take such
drastic measures as stealing food?’
‘As a woman you have no conception of the ways of the world.
The number of crimes is escalating. Public executions are a necessary
deterrent. They frighten people into keeping the law.’
‘Mass hangings do not work. Not only are unwarranted punishments
dangerous, they might trigger a revolution.’
‘Genevieve, let us stop this bickering. You must know how
ardently I love you. Granted, I come from a humble background, my father being
a silversmith, but it will be a marriage founded on companionship.’
So stunned was she by his declaration that she could find no
answer. Instead, she stared at a fly crawling over his buckled shoes.
‘You make no response?’
She shook herself, trying to fight off the effects of the
wine. ‘It is a great honour you do me, sir,’ she said, distressed by his
overbearing attitude. ‘However, it is impossible for me to do other than
decline your proposal.’
His expression hardened. ‘Do not leave me without a reason.’
A misty look came into her eyes and she spoke quietly. ‘I am
hopeful that, one day, another offer of marriage may be made to me.’
‘Might I be enlightened as to the name of the gentleman?’
‘Dawkin Scattergood.’
‘A murderer and a fugitive? I question your principles, my
lady.’
‘Dawkin did not kill Squire Bulwar, and well you know it. Besides,
I have grown suspicious of your so-called polite society. I am not without
fortune and I can hardly believe you find me a beauty in any respect.’
‘So this gentleman, as you call him, if found innocent of
the crime of murder, is the person who will claim your heart. For all your
feigned innocence, I can see through you, Lady Genevieve. Affluent women always
crave more riches, so it is desirable that the hand they seek holds wealth of
its own. Scattergood is heir to a grand estate. That is the only reason you
choose him above me.’
In her anger she felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. ‘I
don’t love Dawkin for his money. You have no conception of the depth of my
devotion to him.’
A glass of cognac to hand, Sir Biggins blundered through the
crowd towards them, swaying slightly. ‘Who would have thought of my meeting a
former mill hand at this Assembly?’