Chapter 2
“Your friend is outspoken,” said Hugo to his sister. “But she does speak with a pleasing frankness, not a snide desire to criticise.”
“I don’t know her well enough to call her ‘friend,’ but I should not mind a closer acquaintance,” said Elvira. “But I think she has a nice, frank, open way, because there is no tactful way to put it, and I wish you will take heed. At least she doesn’t simper at you.”
“No, a young female who is prepared to tell me some home truths may be painful to my ego, but I prefer it to those who hang on every word I utter.” He considered. “You know, Ellie, there’s a lot of nonsense in an excess of etiquette and sensibility about commenting on appearance. I wonder if fewer people would make clunches of themselves if they knew what women truly thought?”
“There are some silly girls about, who would declare you a beau and just the last stare, even if you went out… oh, in yellow stockings and cross-gartered, like Malvolio. But then, Hugo, you are a matrimonial prize. And yes, I know I attract fortune hunters, but at least they are calculating not pathetically flaunting themselves as those girls who cast themselves into improbable attitudes do at you.”
“By Jove, yes; I’m not always sure what they are trying to convey. Perhaps ‘Leda shocked that swans do not have a cloaca but come fully armed,’ or, ‘Artemis deciding that Actaeon was an acceptable parti.’ And some of yours write poetry,” he added, hastily, suddenly aware that his sister probably had no idea what he meant.
“Sometimes you speak the most awful nonsense, Hugo. As for my beaux, I think they poetise with genuine desire to say what they are too shy to speak of directly,” said Elvira. “One may be almost impudent in the hyperbole of flattery in a poem which would be contumelious if said as a conversational piece. And I remember when you were eighteen and pouring out your heart to that widow in bad poetry instead of making up incomprehensible attitudes.”
Hugo groaned.
“Oh, I am sorry, I should not have said that,” he said. “I… most birds have different…eh, privacies… to humans and animals, only swans… er, do not. I pray you will forget it! But, oh, dear! I wish you had not recalled that widow! It’s fully five years ago… no, six, and it was the most unsuitable infatuation!”
“And Papa said I must not say a thing to you about how much I disliked her, but he helped me write those parodies I swear you were almost ready to strangle me over.”
“It did open my eyes,” admitted Hugo. “And no, I would not have taken direct criticism in those days. So, Papa helped! I wondered where you had picked up so much in the style of Horace, whose poems about older women are not flattering.”
“And he taught me that an ode was always best used satirically,” said Elvira.
“Your lip is smoothed with rouge’s touch
Increased thereby to fulsome pout,
Do you not fear it is too much
And like a trout?” quoted Hugo. “I was mortified to discover that in with my best poetry, but it was so wickedly accurate, she did look like a fish with those overly painted lips thrust forward. I was so flattered that a woman of the world should single me out for attention, but Papa was right, she sincerely loved my inheritance. I miss him.”
“Me too,” said Elvira. “You don’t do a bad job as my heavy-handed brother.”
“Do you like Miss Worthington?” asked Hugo.
“I believe I do,” said Elvira. “I do not know her very well, but I fancy I might like to get to know her better.”
“Then we shall make sure that you shall see more of her,” said Hugo.
oOoOo
“My love, I am not sure what to do about this invitation,” said Mrs. Worthington. “It is from Mr. Botterington, and invitation to you for his sister’s ball and a scribbled addendum that Miss Botteringham wants to know you better. But they are not close acquaintances, and you can hardly attend a society ball before you make your own come-out. Why, I dare say all the world will attend, for Beau Botteringham is popular with many people of title and fashion.” She frowned. “And we hardly have time to get you a ball gown suitable for such an occasion, anyway.”
“Why, Mama, why do I not attend á la jeune fille in a fine gown but not a ball gown, so it is plain I do not expect to be dancing, and I will make myself available to Elvira, and just not dance.”
“Well, that might answer,” said Mrs. Worthington, mollified. “I will write to Mr. Bottringham with those conditions, for it will not answer if there are any expectations of you to dance and make up numbers.”
“I do not mind that,” said Kitty, earnestly. She did not; it was an amusement to see the other ball-goers, and their costume, and to note how they behaved.
Kitty, permitted the ball, in a plain sprig muslin gown such as she might wear to a Fête Champêtre, must sit back out of sight during the first dance, it being the rule that a maiden who did not stand up for the first dance signalled clearly that she did not intend to dance. She was delighted just to feast her eyes. The ballroom had a ceiling painted to be the sky, with light clouds, puffy skeins of them, in white and delicate pink. The walls were blue between pillars of marble – faux marble, she determined, there being a hole in the pillar she was sitting by, and brownish plaster inside it – with restrained gold frames around the blue panels. It was a fairly neutral background against which the dancers might show off their ballroom finery, finery on the part of the women, anyway, the men in the de rigeur black evening wear.
The women, those dancing, in any case, were in white muslin, tucked, ruched, and otherwise tortured into submission, to make the fashionable shapes of sleeves, and add interest to bodices, also covered in lace or embroidery or beads. Touches of colour and coloured satin petticoats under muslin of various degrees of transparency. The most expensive of muslins were so light, they were scarcely visible, save for any figuring woven in, or embroidery on them; few people had such gowns. Elvira was one, and her Dhaka muslin had simple satin stripes woven in, and embroidery around the hem, running up every third satin stripe for several inches. Her petticoat was a deep terracotta silk, a colour called, Kitty thought, ‘Dust of Ruins,’ which matched Elvira’s Titian hair. It was a bold choice and Elvira was lovely. Few of the young women had so bold choices, though one had a coquelicot petticoat, which Kitty though an unfortunate choice for a woman of rather high colour.
She watched her brother, blushing and tongue-tied, dancing with Elvira, and rolled her eyes, since the blush clashed horribly.
She fought her own colour rising, and scowled at it so doing, when Hugo Bottringham approached her, looking, she thought, far better for having curbed his excesses with high shirt points and high stock, so that his firm jaw was plainly apparent.
“What, not discommoded, surely, to see how your advice has improved me, Miss Worthington?” asked Hugo, slightly mockingly, seeing her blush.
“I was remembering the impertinence of my candour allied with gratification that you took my advice,” said Kitty. “I am awfully flattered that you listened, for it is a most delightful result.”
“Yes, and I have had any number of my own set demanding to know what I have done to improve my air of je ne sais quoi, and being quite unable to work it out. What you are sitting here like a wallflower for, I don’t know, come along.” He took her hand, pulling her up, and towards the end of the first country dance.
“Mr. Bottringham! Mama only permitted me to come if I wore a little girl’s dress and did not dance!” hissed Kitty, scandalised.
“My sister’s dance; I make the rules,” said Hugo. “I’ll apologise prettily to your mama, but honestly! You might as well enjoy one dance.”
“Part of me thanks you, because dancing is fun, and part of me is sinking below the floor in mortification for being seen dancing in a little girl’s dress and pantalettes,” said Kitty, severely. “Which garments should not be mentioned, especially to a gentleman, but are the sort of things gentlemen doubtless notice and talk about amongst themselves.”
“Oh, I’d tell them I was indulging a young friend of Elvira’s,” said Hugo. “You don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, do you, or leave me with a shoe of crystal glass, or fur?”
“I am neither Cendrillon nor one of her mice or rats, sir, though they became horses and footmen, the carriage having been a pumpkin all along. I should think one reason she lost a shoe was when suddenly she got pumpkin seeds between the toes,” said Kitty. “You are a very good dancer, almost anyone else would have had his feet stood on by his partner’s shock at such bouncers when everyone allemands.”
“Oh, you are light enough on your own feet not to need mine to stand on,” said Hugo. “Seriously, I did want to thank you for an astute observation, which has permitted me to rectify a sartorial mistake.”
“I am glad to be of service,” said Kitty. “You are so very good looking, it seemed a shame to spoil the look for the want of a little individuality over the accepted kicks of high fashion, like the gentleman in the blue waistcoat, who might as well hide in his stock, since he has ruined his own complexion with over-indulgence.”
“Alas, you are quite correct; and his high shirt points and stock merely serve to conceal some of the pimples attendant upon his love of sweetmeats, revealed also by the shape of his waistcoat, which is somewhat more convex than is seemly in a youth not yet one-and-twenty,” said Hugo. “Let me take you back to your mother, and apologise to her.”
It was fun to dance, and Hugo apologised so smoothly to Mrs. Worthington that Kitty was not in trouble, and moreover found herself quietly regaled with ice cream and syllabub, and small tarts which melted in the mouth, as compensation for sitting out the rest of the dancing. And which did not prevent her from discussing a very good supper when the company sat down for it.
Kitty soon got a chance to chat with Elvira.
“You can cover for me,” giggled Elvira. “Quick, out of the room, I declared that I tore a flounce to avoid having to dance with Andrew MacCraig, who has hands like a dead cod, and his face is not so prepossessing.”
“Most unpleasant,” said Kitty.
“I might put up with it if he had anything approaching conversation, but he regales me with the political news with as much inflexion as if he were reading out of a newspaper,” said Elvira. “I thought you said you were not going to dance at all?”
“Your brother is most reprehensible to dance with me, but I enjoyed it, so I am not complaining,” said Kitty. “He looks a lot better for not stretching his neck.”
“It’s hilarious,” said Elvira, sniggering. “All his friends are busy trying to find out the secret of what he has done to become even more the paradigm of a Corinthian; they think he’s been secretly working out more, fencing, and boxing, as his shoulders seem broader.”
Kitty joined her in sniggering.
“And all it is, is refraining in excess,” she said.
“He was moved to poetise,” said Elvira. “I wrote it down; he said I might show it to you.”
Kitty read the verse.
When Adam, born in wilderness,
Cast out into the world of sin
Was then as prey to great excess
To fashion’s toils he tumbled in.
A fig for a fig leaf, then he cried
Covering is not enough
My clothing must be dignified
My body clothed in stylish stuff!
No more the innocence of my skin
I must adorn in great array
To posture, garments fine begin
A prisoner now of fashion’s day.
And though each new fashion start may make folk deride
I must follow blindly for my sartorial pride.
“Oh, he remembers to use a pair of Alexandrines for his sonnets,” said Kitty, approvingly.
“So did your brother,” said Elvira.
“Only because I reminded him,” said Kitty. “How many of your swains write poetry, and how bad is it?”
“Most of them, and usually dreadful,” said Elvira. “Mr. Worthington is at least competent.” She gasped. “How much of it did you write for him?”
“The odd line to help him out,” said Kitty. “He’s not a bad brother, so I don’t mind throwing rhymes at him, though he did balk at my last line for the first stanza.” She told Elvira, who was convulsed with laughter.
“I must share that with Hugo,” said Elvira. “He’ll laugh. But he’ll think better of your brother for taking your advice. He likes the metaphysical poets.”
“I wonder why; they seem so tedious,” said Kitty.
“Oh, apparently it is all about allegory, and has hidden meaning,” said Elvira. “But he will not explain it to me.”
“Goodness! That naughty?” said Kitty. “I wonder if Miss Emmet knows about it.”
They both giggled.
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