Authors: Cupboard Kisses
The major wasn’t the slightest bit offended. “Sure, those swells can see and hear everything, can’t they, without worrying over the stray orange rind or two. The season costs more than my quarter’s income, though, and there is even a committee to approve the box holders.
“That’s a pretty lesson for you, my dear,” he said, patting her hand. “Being poor just ain’t as much fun as being rich.”
Cristabel drew her hand out from under his and turned back to the stage. At least the balcony was better than the pit.
The first intermission was unpleasant. Cristabel felt smothered by the press of people. The scarlet uniforms and formal black jackets were exciting to look at, but not when they were shoving and standing too close or spilling glasses of orgeat in their efforts to move through to their seats. Marie was used to it all, laughing and making small talk with the men around them when the major left with Kitty and Alice to fetch drinks. Cristabel stared at the boxes again, discouraging any overfamiliarity from the milling crowd.
Marie suggested they all walk in the lobby during the second break, and that was a little better, until another group of men hailed Mac and surrounded the small party. Cristabel didn’t catch any of the names, titles, or ranks, she just nodded unhappily, wishing Romeo and Juliet had never met.
And then Lord Winstoke was there, offering his arm. A path cleared instantly for Cristabel and the imposing viscount, whose single glance kept the other men at a distance. A respectful distance.
“So what do you think of the young lovers, Miss Belle?” he asked, as if he had not found her in an uncomfortable situation, and she was able to laugh at his description of Romeo, checking behind him to see if he had caught his hose on the fake roses, when he’d climbed to his lady-love’s balcony.
The opera was an altogether different prospect. A gentleman friend of Kitty’s had an aunt who had a box not being used that night. Cristabel switched seats to have one farther back in the shadows, after being ogled before the lights were dimmed. She could still see the opulent surroundings, the lavish gowns and jewels, and the play of people who came more to be seen than to see the performance. Then the opera started and Cristabel was lost.
No amount of noise from the rowdy bucks or gossip from the wasp-tongued matrons could interfere with Miss Swann’s pleasure in the music. She didn’t even notice the flux of visitors to and from the box at intermission, like changing tides, so rapt was she, playing the chords over in her mind. She did spare a thought for poor Miss Macklin, the voice teacher, for missing such a performance, and the great Catalani was not even singing that night!
She also gave passing consideration to the fact that Kitty and her beau, who seemed to have a title but no chin, did not return to the box after intermission. How sad for Kitty to get the headache and have to miss the rest of the opera.
The box was a great deal quieter after the second act. Coming back from her reverie with a start, Cristabel was shocked to find herself alone in the darkness with a man, until she realized it was the viscount, watching her and watching over her, smiling at her pleasure, sharing her enjoyment. He was dressed superbly, too, with a diamond stickpin reflecting the chandelier’s glimmers.
What a heady, magical night for Miss Swann the schoolmistress. There she was at her first opera, a handsome nobleman choosing to sit quietly at her side rather than pay court to society’s belles. Imagine what she would have missed if she hadn’t come to London!
His lordship was the only thing she missed in all of London over the next few days. Mac seemed determined to introduce her to the city’s marvels all at once. St. Paul’s, Pall Mall, London Bridge, and the Tower to view the menagerie. Dear Mac even took her to Astley’s Amphitheater to see the equestrian acts. Too bad the fancy riding only reminded her of Winstoke and his driving lessons. Too bad that MacDermott’s guidebook garrulity made her long for a thoughtful phrase and a companionable quiet. And too bad, especially for Mac’s plans, that when Miss Swann dressed for that romantic evening at Vauxhall, she did so with Winstoke on her mind.
Very well, we’ve been through it before, and I won’t add the lace fichu. But Marie, I never wanted to be a…a dasher, you know.”
No one would know it, to look at the once-demure Miss Swann, dressed for her evening at Vauxhall. Will she or won’t she, the retiring, mousy schoolmarm was stunning—and sultry.
Marie had come upon a roll of gold-shot natural silk which had been discolored with a small water stain right through the bolt, so the tradesman was happy to let it go for just pennies a yard. Cristabel and Marie had taken turns embroidering gold-floss butterflies over the blots as they appeared in ordered rows down the front and back panels of the narrow skirt, and another, larger gold butterfly outspread at the décolletage. A few more on the wispy gauze overskirt, and Cristabel’s gown appeared held together by gossamer wings. She floated, and the tawny color blended with her skin. A gold satin ribbon wound through the curls piled on her head, leaving a few to trail down one otherwise bare shoulder.
“You just wait till your handsome viscount sees you,” Marie teased. “Talk about fireworks!”
Cristabel fussed unnecessarily with a wayward curl. “You know he’s not
my
viscount. I have merely walked in the park with him a few times; that doesn’t mean anything, not with men of his stamp. He is just being kind.” Marie was still grinning, unconvinced. “Very well, he did seek me out at the theater and sit with me at the opera. He finds my company restful, he says. That’s all there is to it.”
“We’ll see how restful he finds you tonight. They say he’s—”
“No, I shan’t listen to gossip. None of it matters, for he’s still way above my touch and we both know it. Furthermore, Mac is my escort this evening.”
Marie wrinkled her nose at that. “Mac only thinks he is your escort. You cannot gammon me as easily.”
“We’ll see. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come with us?”
Now it was Marie’s turn to look flustered. “No, I would rather stay at home. I…I received a letter today.”
“From your beau? How wonderful for you!” Cristabel wouldn’t gossip, not even with little Fanny, but she couldn’t help knowing that Marie had been concerned with her gentleman friend’s absence. There were great expectations from him, it seemed, when he returned. “Is he back in London yet?”
“No, but he wrote that he was starting out.”
“And he’ll rush over here first thing, I’ll wager. Of course you must stay in tonight. I suppose I’ll have to reconcile myself to losing you altogether.”
“Nothing is certain yet. That is, I do have hopes, but…”
“Of course, it wouldn’t be proper to speculate further. Oh, I hope he comes back soon. Do you love him very much?”
“Well, he’s very handsome, and very rich.”
Which answered the question perfectly, to Marie’s thinking, if not Cristabel’s, who was afraid her friend was mistaking cream-pot love for something more. Heaven knew, she was no expert on these matters. Just look at the tangle her own heartstrings were in.
“I still wish you were coming along tonight,” she said. “I’d feel much better with you there. I am not sure that Vauxhall is quite the thing for a single lady.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine with Mac, and Kitty’s going along, too. Some of the other girls might stop by after the, ah, party they’re attending.”
“But Kitty’s always getting headaches, you know, and leaving early. Don’t laugh, she does. And Mac is getting, well, particular in his attentions.”
“I’m sorry for making light of your worries, really I am, and I’m certain you’ll lower Mac’s pretensions in good order. It’s just that here you are, a beautiful woman, and you still think like a downtrodden governess.”
“I am pretty, aren’t I?” Cristabel asked wonderingly. “I knew you and Fanny had done miracles with my hair and my clothes, of course, but I never realized…”
“Silly goose. Did you think it was just your conversation the men admired? You could speak Hindustani for all the difference it would make. Half the time you never open your mouth anyway and still have most of the males in London begging Mac for an introduction. Why, I’m hoping you won’t be home when Radway calls, else he might forget why he came. Now go and have a good time, and for once, bend a little. No, I don’t mean you should slouch! Just enjoy yourself.”
* * *
She tried, she really did, to savor the gay music and laughter, the twinkling fairy lights strung in the trees, even the shaved ham and arrack punch served in the private boxes. But it was hard to ignore the other side of Vauxhall: the squeals coming from behind bushes, the roving groups of bucks more than a little well to pass, the noticeable lack of fashionable matrons with their debutantes on exhibit. Although Society’s raffish sons frequented the pleasure gardens, Vauxhall was no longer a secure place for its pure daughters. Or for Cristabel Swann.
Kitty got the headache again, and her chinless swain took her home.
Cristabel thought it was a fine excuse and tried it on Mac, but he would have none of it.
“We can’t go home so early,
ma belle,
not without seeing the fireworks. We haven’t even had a dance yet, and you haven’t tasted the syllabub. Here, have another sip of punch. It will take care of your headache in a trice.”
The spiced drink was more like to give her a megrim for real, Cristabel decided. She took advantage of Mac’s conversation with the party in the booth next to theirs to spill her cup onto the grass beneath the box. Mac filled her glass immediately again when he turned to introduce her. The women’s faces were painted, Cristabel would swear to it, even in this uncertain light. For once she was glad of Mac’s casual manners.
“Belle, this is Coco. That’s Tiffany. Fellow on the ground is Orr, and the chap with the foolish grin is Mr. Smith. Here, let’s have a toast. To
amour.
What else in the pleasure gardens?”
Cristabel realized Mac was already foxed, so she spilled out his glass, too, the next time he looked away. He kept refilling them, and she kept emptying them, and the strays and rodents that lived on the crumbs beneath the boxes would all have headaches in the morning.
“Come on, Lyle, why don’t we go for a walk?” she suggested. If the motion wouldn’t sober him, at least he would be away from the punch bowl, and those dreadful people.
“Sure, I know of the prettiest little bower just a few steps away down that path there.”
There were no lights where he was pointing.
“I’ve changed my mind. What about that dance you promised me?”
If Cristabel had a shilling for every hour she’d spent playing the pianoforte during the students’ dancing lessons, she would be wealthy, enough to open her own academy, which nevertheless made her an unpracticed dancer. She had natural grace and music sense, and knew all of the steps, yet she felt clumsy, off-tempo. Mac’s lead was awkward, the music was too loud, and the other couples on the planked dance floor were not keeping to their patterns either, bumping into them and laughing uproariously. Soon Cristabel was hot and damp, with aching feet where Mac had danced right on her thin silk slippers, leaving black smudges across the toes.
“Mac, do you think we could take a break? I would dearly love something cool to drink.”
“Of course, my love. Let’s go back to the box and have the waiter refill the punch bowl.”
That was another bad idea. “No, not more of the punch. Some lemonade perhaps? Why don’t I wait here while you fetch it, then we can have another dance.”
“Fine, fine, whatever you want. Lovely night, isn’t it? Maybe they’ll play a waltz.”
Miss Swann would have the grandfather of all headaches—no, she would have a fainting fit—before she let the major maul her about in the intimate embrace of that dance. Miss Meadow permitted no practice sessions, not even for the senior girls, and only one demonstration, where the pouter-pigeon headmistress herself waltzed with the oily dance instructor. If that wasn’t enough to kill any romantic notions the girls may have had about the new dance, nothing would. They’d practice with their brothers, when the Almack’s patronesses gave permission.
“Care to dance, lovey?” Mac was nowhere in sight, and an old man in a bagwig was bowing in front of her. She could hear his corsets creak.
“Thank you, no. I am waiting for my companion.”
“So, one’s as good as t’other. Come on now.”
“No, I really prefer to wait for—”
“What’s a matter? I’m not good enough for the likes of you? Hah! I’ll just show you—” And the aged roue grabbed her arm and started dragging her to the dance floor.
Cristabel struggled to free herself, looking around frantically for Mac. Then suddenly the grip on her arm changed.
“This is my dance, I believe.”
She looked up into angry gray eyes and clenched jaw. “L-Lord Winstoke,” she stuttered, “how did you—That is, thank you.”
“You little fool. What are you doing here by yourself?” He gave her arm a shake.
“Mac went to fetch some lemonade and I didn’t know there would be a problem. That man—”
“You should have known, damn you! What did you expect, coming here dressed like that? Good grief, girl, you’re enough to drive any man to mayhem. If I weren’t a gentleman, I’d drag you down the Dark Walks myself!”
If that was a compliment, it was a long way from warming Miss Swann’s heart. “Very well, I have made another foolish error, like wandering off in Hyde Park with a strange gentleman and letting him kiss me. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”
“Pull in your claws. I know I’ve no right to lecture you. What could that gudgeon MacDermott be about, to bring you here and then leave you?”
“I intend to find that out myself, my lord. If you would just walk me back to my box…”
“Don’t you remember? It’s my dance.”
Of course, it had to be a waltz. And, of course, the viscount danced exquisitely, making even the inexperienced Cristabel feel light as a moonbeam, like a butterfly new out of its cocoon, trying its wings. Miss Meadow, eat your heart out!
No wonder they don’t let debutantes waltz, Cristabel considered in a daze. It really was dangerous. She could feel Winstoke’s hand strong and confident at her waist through the thin fabric of her gown, and she could breathe the scent of his lemon soap. Most of all, she was close to that softly curling smile, the lips—
“There you are, Belle. I was wondering where you’d got to. I had the devil’s own time finding lemonade. Servant, Winstoke. Come along, Belle, the other girls have arrived. They’re waiting in the box.”
“We haven’t finished our dance, my dear,” Winstoke said quietly.
Oh, how she wanted to stay in his arms. And what a dangerous mistake that would be, she knew from his narrowed eyes and from her own heart’s thudding in her chest.
“I’m sorry, milord. I must return with Major MacDermott. Thank you again.”
He bowed over her hand and turned away without another word.
“Bit high in the instep, huh?” Mac remarked. “He didn’t, ah, go beyond the line, did he?”
“That’s just what I want to discuss with you, Lyle. I think we should go home and have a long talk.”
“Fine, fine, long carriage ride and all. I just promised some of the chaps a chance to meet Alice and Gwen and Angel. Only take a minute.”
It took a great deal longer, threading their way through the crowds, louder now and more coarse in their comments and gestures. The girls in the box were already sipping their punch and giggling at the usual complement of red-coated officers. One of her least favorite of the boarders, Lucy, who rouged her cheeks, was drinking from a glass held, of all things, by the ancient rake who had accosted Cristabel at the dance area, a Sir Winklesham. Mac was calling to men across the box rows, sending Alice and Gwen off to dance with a stammering baronet and an obese man he whispered to Cristabel was Mr. Frye, a nabob with one of the trading companies.
“They’re going in the wrong direction for the dancing, Mac.”
“What’s that? Oh, they must be going off to watch the fireworks instead. Should be starting soon. We ought to get along, too, to get a good spot for viewing.”
“Mac, I am not going anywhere until I have some answers,” she hissed. “Get rid of all your friends and for goodness’ sake, put down that glass.”
“There now, no need to get in a pother. See, everyone’s leaving for the entertainment anyway. We can stay right here and have a comfortable coze. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time now anyway.”
“You have? I’ve seen you every day and you’ve never said anything.”
“Always people around and all. But you go first, my love,” he offered pleasantly, patting her shoulder.
She cringed, but went on gamely. “Mac, this isn’t a proper place for you to bring me. You do know that, don’t you?”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I thought you might have a good time, that’s all. The other girls never minded.”
“That’s another thing. You are forever introducing the girls to your friends from the barracks and all those lords and wealthy merchants. But they aren’t really interested in poor shop girls, are they? I mean, they’d never marry Kitty or Gwen or Alice, or take Lucy or Angel home to their families, would they? Why don’t the girls go out with footmen or clerks or even common soldiers, so they can make respectable marriages?”
“Ah, the very thing I’ve been wanting to mention.”
“You have?” Drat, how did she make such a mull of this? The one thing she wanted to avoid was a declaration from Mac. Once she would have been tempted to accept; once she would have wept for the offer. He was still the same charming companion—at least before tonight—with the same ready smile and devil-may-care attitude. It was her attitude that had changed, no, her perspective, finally ready to look beneath the surface, past the laughing, empty eyes. That new cynicism told her that it was only a matter of time before Mac realized he could avoid paying rent altogether if he married the landlady. Obviously he’d found the time.
“Mac, please don’t say anything more. Marriage is too…too important a step.”
“Marriage? Who said anything about marriage?” He scratched his head, trying to remember. His fingers found a lock of hair and twirled it round and round.