Another Heartbeat in the House (15 page)

The ballroom of the Imperial Hotel was a strange, merry, mongrel place. Maria's brother-in-law and her sister, the Viscount and Viscountess Doneraile, were among the more venerable of the guests attending the gala. The Viscountess, Lady Charlotte, had condescended to accommodate me in her brougham. She questioned me about my provenance as we trundled thither, and seemed satisfied when I told her that my father had been the favourite portrait painter of Lord Bingham (of whom he had once made a satirical sketch) and that my mother was descended from the noble family of Pirouette-Entrechats in Gascony.

‘So you speak French?' the grande dame asked.

‘Yes, very well, Your Ladyship.' I cast my eyes modestly down to the floor of the brougham, where Lady Charlotte's pug squatted. ‘I taught French for two years in a most illustrious establishment – Miss Pinkerton's academy in Chiswick. When my parents died I was fortunate enough to be offered a place there, and that is how I have earned my living since.'

‘How very refreshing,' Lady Charlotte remarked, clearly won over by my humility, ‘to encounter candour when one is constantly beset by parvenus, bragging and clamouring for notice. What position do you currently hold?'

‘Alas, I am unengaged, Your Ladyship,' I told her. ‘The anticipated post of governess that brought me to Ireland is no longer vacant.'

‘How so?'

‘It is a rather tragic story.'

‘Oh?' Lady Charlotte leaned forward in the carriage with such eagerness that she almost crushed her pug. ‘Pray, tell me.'

I adopted a low, confidential tone, even though there was no one to hear us but His Lordship, who was snoring in the corner of the brougham. ‘The gentleman who engaged me passed away, and his wife and children are emigrated to Australia.'

‘Indeed! Who were they? Should I know them?'

‘They were the Reckitts of Castlereckingham.'

‘I can't say I've heard of them. How did this Reckitt pass away? It must have been sudden?'

‘It was, madam. It was sudden, and agonizing.' I invested my voice with intense chagrin. ‘It was a consequence of the same delicate ailment that afflicted Louis XIV of France.'

‘Ah,' said Lady Charlotte: and that is all she needed to say, for it was known in all the best circles that Louis XIV nearly expired of an anal fistula.

‘I must enquire who among my acquaintance may be in need of a governess,' she continued. ‘It is to your certain advantage that you speak French, for everyone wants a French governess. It has – it has … What is the word I am looking for? It's a French word.'

‘
Cachet
,' I supplied.

‘That'll do,' said Lady Charlotte. ‘In the meantime, tell me some of the goings-on in London,' she commanded. ‘Especially the more tragic ones.'

And as the brougham lumbered on its way along the Mall, I reeled off the same stories of life among the fashionable elite of London that I had fabricated for the enlightenment of Mrs O'Dowd two weeks earlier.

The table in the supper room of the Imperial Hotel resembled a still life by some second-rate Dutch painter. It was a triumph of content over style, comprised as it was of massive trenchers of sliced beef, ham and tongue, all garnished with crudely carved vegetable flowers. There were platters of poached salmon, prawns in mayonnaise and oyster patties; there were dishes of custard, fruited jelly and vanilla cream, trays of fancy pastries and tartlets, and salvers of shortbread biscuits and bonbons. The beverages included a selection of champagnes, wines and liqueurs, and although the bottles in the ice-well clinked and tinkled enticingly, I permitted myself to drink only soda water.

While the gentlemen poured more wine and raised their glasses in a series of roistering post-prandial toasts, the ladies retired to an antechamber to rearrange their dress. A cheval glass had been strategically positioned to facilitate them in their appraisal of each other's reflections, which ritual they performed with swift, rapier glances.

The room was aflutter with skirts in organdie and tulle, gauzy sashes of tarleton and tiffany and mousse-line, gossamer lace fichus, coiffures crowned with confections of ribbon and silk, and fans, feathers and ruffles of every hue. Sharp eyes assessed the yardage of taffeta that comprised my gown and the quantity of flounces sewn into its skirts, and calculated the weight of the gems I wore. I manifested my indifference by turning my back to the glass.

The supper table having been cleared away, the real business of the night – which, to feminine minds, was the quest for potential suitors – began. There was an undignified melée amongst the younger ladies as they surged from the antechamber, but I held myself back. When I finally issued forth it was with the demeanour of one whose coiffure, jewels and costume had not required a moment of attention, as if my panoply of gleaming armour had been simply shrugged on –
Voilà!
The silence that fell when I made my entrance was superseded at once by the nervous staccato of my rivals, seeking vainly to distract their beaux.

The assorted elderly gentry had kept themselves a little apart from the squireens and squiresses in an unassailable clique. I joined Lady Charlotte, who was holding forth to her fellow dowagers by the chimney-piece, and listened – not to her imperious monologue, but to the first strains of the violins summoning the dancers to the floor. I watched the young ladies float and swish past me in the arms of their escorts, and wished that I could show off some of the lively new dance steps I had learned from Monsieur Cabriole: the Polka, the Schottische, the Mazurka …

One of the old gentlemen of the company, perceiving the agitation of my satin-clad toes beneath the hem of my gown, took pity upon me and asked me to dance. I sent Lady Charlotte a look of enquiry as though asking permission, rather hoping that she would refuse and send me to fetch her an ice. But she gave a gracious nod, and so I took a turn with the pantaloon before returning him to his seat under the pretext that his dancing was too nimble for me; in truth, I was fearful that he might fall victim to a fit of apoplexy.

Shortly thereafter a gawky youth – whose pockmarked face might have benefited from a lavish application of Rowland's Kalydor – importuned me to partner him in the quadrille; then I was intercepted by a mustachioed cavalry officer of whom I asked questions that I proceeded to answer in a roundabout way myself, so that he appeared very clever without having to say a word. My fourth partner was a small, stout gentleman upon whose shining pate, fringed with a wisp of ginger hair, I gazed as I danced. His undershot jaw caused his two front teeth to protrude so alarmingly that I was put in mind of the vampires of Eastern Europe. He hummed as he danced, but spoke not a word. I was now so bored that I was mentally rehearsing the dialogue for my next encounter with Lady Charlotte, when I hoped to interrogate her on the marital status of the better-looking agriculturalists present.

I was making my way back to her when I caught the eye of a gentleman who, if he were horseflesh, I could only describe as thoroughbred: a racehorse, a bay hunter. His appearance was sleek – debonair, even – yet he had about him an untamed air. His eyes were knowing, his mouth sensual; the symmetry of the bones beneath the wind-burnt face recalled to me a painting my father had made of the Greek hero Achilles. He moved with an easy grace, that fluid articulation of the limbs peculiar to men who have practised those arts essential to true manliness – boxing, riding and dancing.

I raised my chin and adopted an insouciant attitude, toying idly with the tassel on my fan, but his saunter was so indolent, his smile so impertinent, his demeanour so cavalier, that as he approached I felt as though he had just taken hold of my ear bob and tweaked it.

With the merest suggestion of a bow, without even asking my consent, the stranger extended an arm to encircle my waist, and drew me onto the dance floor. He smelt of leather and Marseille soap.

The musicians struck up a waltz.
One-two-three, one-two-three, dip-two-three, change-two-three
…

Hallelujah! For the first time that evening I was partnered by a man who knew what he was doing. Monsieur Cabriole, whose star pupil I had been, was an expert dancer and a proficient teacher, but dancing with him had been like dancing with a pixie. The men who cavorted with me when I lived at my father's house in Soho were usually too inebriated to remain upright, and I had but a vague memory of those beaux of my mother's who had twirled me around her apartment in Montmartre.

This man was designed to be danced with. His supporting arm was firm, his palm against the skin of my shoulder cool, his movements were assured, stylish and accomplished, and I matched him glissade for glissade. The ennui to which I had been subjected while being shunted around by a succession of tongue-tied imbeciles vanished, and I felt charged with renewed vigour.

For several bars of waltz-time we danced without speaking, and I began to wonder if he was as tongue-tied as the other dolts. Then he smiled down at me and said, not quite under his breath: ‘
Quelle jolie minette
.'

I raised an eyebrow in reprimand. ‘Sir, it is ungentlemanly of you to compare me to a pussy-cat, be she ne'er so pretty.'

‘You understand French?'

‘
Je parle parfaitement la langue
.'

‘Pray accept my apologies. It was meant as a compliment, Mademoiselle.'

‘Not a euphemism, then.'

‘A euphemism …?'

‘Surely you know what a euphemism is?'

‘You might be so kind as to give me an example.'

‘A euphemism is what an agriculturalist is, who might once have been called a farmer. Or a gentleman who is no better than a cad.'

‘So it's a namby-pamby way of not calling a spade a spade.'

‘You're an able pupil.'

He looked at me narrowly as we sidestepped and dipped. ‘I can't say I was expecting word-play to be on the agenda this evening,' he remarked. ‘I see I should have donned my considering cap.'

‘What were you expecting on the agenda?'

‘At a
ceilí
?' He gave me a mildly supercilious look. ‘What do you think?'

‘I don't know what a
ceilí
is.'

‘Now I have the advantage.
Labhairt liom Gaeilge líofa
.'

‘Bravo!' I tilted my chin up at him. ‘What a pair of linguists we make.'

The second violinist took up his bow and the music surged.
Change-two-three, left-two-three, sidestep-and-dip
…

‘Tell me, mademoiselle, where did you learn to speak French?'

‘At my mother's knee. I was born in Paris. Where did you learn to speak Irish, monsieur?'

‘My ghillie has the gift of the gab.'
Whisk-beat-change, left-two-three
… ‘So you are a genuine Parisienne?'

‘I am descended from –'

‘The Pirouette-Entrechats of Gascony. I had my spies make enquiries. Any relation to the Arabesques-Fouettés?'

I tucked the corners of my mouth into a smile. ‘They are very near cousins.'

‘Do you mean kissing cousins?'

‘If your spies were competent, you ought to know that already – just as you ought to have known, when you took the liberty of calling me “minette”, that I understood French.'

‘My … sister has a little cat called Minette,' he said. ‘You remind me of her. She is a very pretty cat.'

I dare say he was expecting me to conjure some riposte about cats and their nine lives, or cats looking at kings, or some such flirtatious flimflam. Instead I said, ‘Never antagonize a cat. They were worshipped by the ancient Egyptians.'
Dip-two-three, change-two-three
. ‘You may have heard tell of their revered cat goddess.'

He shook his head.

‘Her name was Bastet. She was the goddess of pleasure, women and secrets. And though she was but little, she was fierce.'

‘Bastet. If I get to know you better, I shall call you that. I rather fancy the notion of worshipping a cat goddess.'

His impudence was catching. ‘I confess that when I saw you, I too was put in mind of a beast.'

‘Which one?'

‘The steed that belonged to Alexander of Macedon.'

‘The best Thessalian strain,' he said. ‘You're alluding to Bucephalus.'

As the final notes of the waltz sounded, my smile was still hovering between lips and eyes. Around us the filmy sea of organdie and chiffon subsided as the dancers came to a susurrous standstill.

My partner made another bow. ‘Jameson St Leger, at your service.'

I dipped a curtsey, regarding him from under my eyelashes. ‘Miss Eliza Drury,' I said, unwinding the silk tassel of my fan from my wrist.

The orchestra leader raised his baton. Another waltz began, but as Mr St Leger claimed my hand, I snaked away from him, giving him that look I had given William earlier, the one that had warned him to pull back:
Noli me tangere
. Then, with my most winsome smile, I snapped my fan open. As I moved across the dance floor, sashaying a little in time to Schubert's
Caprice
, I rested its feather-tipped ribs upon my bare shoulder.

Rejoining Lady Charlotte and her companions, I wondered whether my dance partner was familiar with the language of fans. He was clearly an educated man. I had been impressed that my small friend Annie Thackeray knew who Bucephalus was, but I was even more impressed that a roué at a provincial shindy should do. However, the discourse of fans was a nuanced one, in which not all gentlemen were versed. Had I twisted the tassel in my left hand, it would have indicated indifference; had I wound it around my left forefinger, it would have signified that I was affianced. But by resting the blade of my fan upon my shoulder I had effectively told Mr St Leger,
Farewell – until we meet again
.

I rather hoped we would.

‘Sir Silas Sillery was very much taken with you,' Lady Charlotte pronounced, as we drove back to Grattan Hill in her brougham. Through the window I could see crowds of rowdies trooping onto the street from some hostelry less salubrious than the one we had just vacated. Shabby dandies they were, in ragged frock coats and steeple hats, staggering arm in arm across the street, and yelling songs in chorus.