Lord Foxbridge Butts In (32 page)

Caro opened a garage door apparently at random, and pulled me into the dark space; there was a very sporty red Lagonda inside, which she started up with a roar once we were on board.

“I didn’t know you had a car,” I yelled over the noise of the engine.

“We share and share alike in this family,” she yelled back, “Though if you want to be
strictly
precise, it’s Petterby’s car. But he’s at the Castle, he won’t notice.”

“Do you have a driving license?” I gasped in terror as she turned out of the gate and onto Knightsbridge with such speed that the wheels on my side came off the ground for a moment.

“I know perfectly well what I’m doing,” was her non-answer, laughing with maniacal glee when she nearly sideswiped another car as she barreled past Apsley Gate against the signal.

Knowing when I’m beat, I just stopped talking and closed my eyes, hanging on to the side of the car with one hand and my hat with the other; there were blaring horns and shrilling policemen’s whistles as Caro careered madly through the streets of Mayfair, Soho, and Fitzrovia, screeching to a neck-snapping halt against a kerb on Goodge Street.

The building we entered was on the corner, with an Italian grocery on the ground floor and a variety of signs sticking out of the upper floors at odd intervals; the largest sign, blazoned across a corner window, was ‘Partridge’s Costuming.’

“Partridge?” I mused as we ascended to the second floor, “The same as your maid?”

“Her aunt, actually,” Caro said over her shoulder, “Miss Partridge sent her niece to me, she was a theatrical dresser before.”

“Is she a Lesbian, too?” I wondered.

“Miss Partridge or my Partridge?” she grinned at me, her teeth showing in the gloom of the staircase.

“Either?” I hazarded.

“Both,” she smirked at me, “What about your valet? Is he queer, too?”

“Of course,” I said, “One’s personal attendants are so involved in one’s life, I can’t imagine having to pretend to my valet.”

“Well, the maid I had before Partridge wasn’t a Lesbian, but she didn’t care that I was. I never had to pretend anything, she just took it in stride. I think servants have to be a lot more morally flexible than most people.”

“Still,” I said, following her into a brightly-lit, airy studio filled with racks and racks of old clothes, “I wouldn’t trade Pond for all the tea in China.”

“All the tea in China couldn’t put that perfect dimple in your necktie,” she remarked, “Miss Partridge? Are you here?”

“Ah, Lady Caroline, how nice,” a small round woman dressed in a cotton smock over a man’s suit came out of one of the racks, a bolt of fabric under one arm, a half-dozen pencils stuck in the big braided bun at the back of her silver-shot black hair, and merry black eyes dancing behind amazingly thick spectacles, “And you brought a friend?”

“Viscount Foxbridge,” Caro introduced me with a negligent wave before getting down to business, “We need to get him into drag.”

“For fancy dress, or for a gender illusion?” she asked, her head to one side like a curious wren.

“Illusion,” Caro answered for me, “I want him to look like Lady Beatrice Todmore. Do you think you can do that?”

“Todmore? I think I know who that is,” she examined me thoughtfully, “They call her La Pantera?”

“That’s the one,” I put my oar in, “She wore a long straight black dress and a turban the night I met her, and a very nice sort of lounging negligée, dark gray with a mauve tinge, when I had tea at her house.”

“Ah, I have just the thing,” she dove suddenly into one of the racks, “The turban will be perfect, it will prevent your lordship having to wear a wig. Wigs take a great deal of getting used to.”

“And turbans don’t?” I said to myself, since no one was listening to me. Caro had followed Miss Partridge into the racks, and I could hear them debating various fabrics and cuts with the passionate intensity of craftsmen. I amused myself by poking around in another rack, examining Elizabethan doublets and Restoration pantaloons, then turned my attention to the signed photographs on the walls depicting a host of actors and actresses in a dizzying variety of historical dress.

“Come, Lord Foxbridge,” the costumier emerged and took me by the hand, followed by Caro carrying a half-dozen evening-gowns on hangers, “Let’s have a try-on.”

With no more concern for my modesty than Caro and her maid had shown, Miss Partridge had me out of my clothes in a trice, and put me up on a little platform surrounded by tall mirrors so I could see myself from all angles. But I was becoming so accustomed to it, I just went completely docile and let them do what they wanted, admiring my own figure in the mirrors.

I was laced into the sort of corset my grandmother’s generation wore, with a stuffed bosom and hip pads, which was strangely comfortable after it was pulled tight. Then I tried on each dress in turn, and Miss
 Partridge swarmed around me with a mouthful of pins, tucking and pulling, bunching and lifting, looking at the mirrors rather than at me as she considered how the dresses looked from a distance. I was rather pleased by a dark violet gown with delicate sparkling jet beads embroidered on shimmering panné velvet, floor-length with a bit of a train at the back, which somehow made me look even slimmer.

“It’s very nice, but not the sort of thing Lady Beatrice would wear,” Caro said when Miss
 Partridge had finished pinning that last garment on me.

“Do I
have
to look like Lady Beatrice?” I asked, finally entering the conversation, “I
like
this one.”

“Then this is the one your lordship should wear,” Miss
 Partridge beamed up at me, “Now let us discuss headgear. Perhaps an evening cloche would be better than a turban? It would make the head look smaller, more feminine.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Caro agreed, “Let’s try some.”

I was brought down off the platform and carefully seated on a stool in front of a vanity table — though no matter how careful I was, the pins pricked me in some
very
uncomfortable spots. After trying a dozen models, they finally settled on a sleek skullcap of black coq feathers with a purplish sheen, which covered my hair completely and came equipped with a wispy little veil that came down over my eyes.

Then came the matter of shoes, which were difficult to find to fit me, as my feet are rather larger than the average lady’s; in a back cupboard, Miss
 Partridge found a pair of black velvet slippers with lovely curved heels and sparkling jet decorations on the insteps, and they were a good deal more comfortable than I expected them to be, though I was rather wobbly walking in them.

“Will your ladyship lend the jewels,” Miss
 Partridge asked as I practiced gliding up and down the room without falling down, “Or should we search out something here?”

“I suppose we
should
use real jewelry instead of costume,” Caro thought, “Though I’d have to borrow something from Mamà to go with that hat and dress. We’d need something fairly massive, wouldn’t we?”

“Do you have earrings that don’t pinch?” I asked, remembering the discomfort of Caro’s screw-back earrings.

“I’m afraid your lordship would have to have his ears pierced to avoid the screws.”

“Does
that
hurt?” I asked, wondering which would be worse, pinching or piercing.

“Only for a moment,” Caro explained, “We just push a hot needle through the lobe, it doesn’t hurt after that.”

“Are earrings
absolutely
necessary?” I didn’t care much for either option.

“Yes,” both women answered as one.

I tried on some long, dangling jet earrings of a rather antique style, which weren’t as uncomfortable as Caro’s, and the effect was deemed acceptable, so a jet dog-collar choker (to cover my Adam’s apple) and several strands of jet beads were added to the costume. I had to have black kid gloves up over my elbows, as well, as my hands weren’t nearly feminine enough. A black taffeta evening-cape trimmed in fluttery black ostrich was finally draped around my shoulders, and Miss Partridge considered the illusion complete.

“Golly,” Caro admired me from a distance, like a modern painting, then came closer and ran her hands over my corseted waist, “You make
such
a pretty girl, Foxy.”

“Let me get you out of that frock,” Miss
 Partridge started undoing the hooks in the back, being careful not to  disturb her pins, and Caro helped me get out of the corset; I was allowed to get back into my own clothes without assistance.

“How soon can we have this ready?” I heard Caro asking from across the studio.

“How soon do you need it?” Miss Partridge countered.

“Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“That can be done, but I will have to charge extra for putting my other work to the side.”

“How much altogether?”

“Eighty-five pounds for the costume,” the lady said after making some calculations, “And twenty pounds for the overnight service.”

“Have you got a hundred guineas on you, Foxy?” Caro called out.

“May I write a cheque?” I asked, joining them at the counter near the entrance.

“Of course, Lord Foxbridge,” Miss
 Partridge smiled happily. And with that, I became an official transvestite.

*****

Lady Bea was absolutely entranced by the idea, when I sprung it on her over lunch at the Dorchester next day, and insisted that
both
Caro and I come with her in our disguises; she was well-known enough to the Marquis and his set to bring as many guests as she wanted. I’d brought Caro to lunch, too, so the two ladies could get better acquainted, and they got along famously; they took
such
a strong liking to each other that I soon felt like a third wheel as they nattered on about rival Parisian dressmakers.

It was decided that Caro and I would dress at Buckland House, borrow the Duchess’s car and driver, and pick up Lady Beatrice in Park Lane before having supper together at Ciro’s (which I dreaded but they insisted on as a sort of dress-rehearsal); then we’d proceed to Seven Dials, where the auction was being held in the ballroom of an old-fashioned hotel in Monmouth Street.

I hesitated to share this plan with Pond, but had learned my lesson about not telling people what I was up to; he went into such contortions to try to keep from laughing that I actually had to give him permission to make fun of me lest he herniate something.  Once he stopped laughing, he considered the plan a sound one, unlikely to end with me in mortal danger; but he got a very funny look in his eye when I asked him not to breathe a word of this plan to Twister — or anybody
at all
, if it came to that.  He felt Twister should be apprised of my plans, but I was firm: I couldn’t bear to have Twister know I was doing something illegal, and wearing a dress while doing it.

With that settled, I went around to Trumper’s for the best shave money can buy, so my face would be as baby-smooth as possible, and then into a cab to Buckland House.

Partridge was very gentle with me as she put me into my violet gown and makeup; then I practiced walking around the room in my high heels while Caro got into her white tie (shocking me again by stripping naked right in front of me) with considerably less interference from Partridge than I usually got from Pond. We left Buckland House by a back stair that let us out in the stable-yard, where a massive and stately Rolls Royce saloon stood at the ready, a handsome young chauffeur holding the door for us and trying not to giggle as I tried three times to step into the car without catching my train on anything.

In Park Lane, Caro got out and went to fetch Lady Beatrice, as a gentleman should, and Lady Bea exclaimed over and over again how pretty I was, how handsome Caro was, and what
fun
we were going to have together. She seemed to have forgotten entirely about poor Claude and our reason for coming to the auction, caught up in the adventure of it all.

Dinner was a trial, having to let the waiter seat me and let the sommelier defer to ‘Charley’ instead of me, not to mention trying to eat without disturbing the thick layer of rouge on my lips, and then having to visit the ladies’ room with Lady Bea so I could use the facilities and reapply my powder. But nobody at Ciro’s seemed to notice that Caro and I were not what we seemed, so I suppose it was a good trial run before the main event.

The ballroom of the Hampton Hotel, when we arrived there, looked nothing like where I’d expect a sadomasochists’ slave auction to be held: it was positively
Victorian
, frothing with German rococo plasterwork and bristling with kentia palms in great china tubs, the walls covered in flocked green paper and the floors in yards of fake Aubusson. The attendees of the auction were a little more true to type, decadent-looking fops and
femmes fatales
scattered among the more usual white tie and black evening gowns, with a goodly number of opulent middle-European military uniforms dotted among the crowd.

Caro and I followed meekly in Lady Bea’s wake as she made the rounds, being openly addressed as La Pantera and reveling happily in the quite scandalous chit-chat that was offered. Even Caro was shocked by some of the conversation, which I was pleased to note. Nobody paid much attention to us after we were introduced as Mr.
 and Mrs. Charles Savarell (my mother’s maiden name), though my bottom was pinched rather more often than I thought polite.