Chapter 23
The much-anticipated event is upon them—the first Almack’s ball of the Season. For weeks, Anne has dragged Herbert and Oliver to dance lessons tutored by none other than Camille Dundas, who has finely tuned the steps of such important personages as Lord and Lady Grimston and Princess Wittycapstein. These exhausting preparations have given Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Eaton and their son a dance repertoire hand-picked for Almack’s Assembly Rooms—waltzes, gallopades, and quadrilles. Anne is now quite certain that Herbert will not embarrass her on the dance floor.
Oliver accepts the tedious dance lessons as part of the necessary education of an English gentleman. Now sixteen, he has the height and bearing of a young man, with astonishingly good looks—the gift of his mother’s genes—and moist, dusky eyes that mesmerize every young lady who passes him on the street, though he doesn’t notice. He thinks through the complicated steps and gestures of the quadrille as he finishes dressing in the knee-breeches, white cravat, and
chapeau bras
dictated for male guests by the Patronesses.
The whirlwind of preparations during these past weeks has helped Ollie forget about the heated row with his father at the George & Vulture. But in the back of Ollie’s mind is the nagging fear that his father will carry out his terrible threat. And if he does, Ollie will be to blame, for Ollie had decided to make no warning and launch no defense.
The time for departure arrives. Anne is exhausted from her day-long apprehension of her first ball. Herbert is irritated by his wife’s incessant fussing. They march out of the Belgravia mansion toward the carriage where Ollie is already seated, sampling the cool night air. Anne has timed their departure so that they will arrive at Almack’s shortly after ten. Earlier would make them seem over-eager; later would unnecessarily shorten the evening, and Anne wants the evening to last forever.
Ollie peers out of the carriage window and sees the dazzling figure of his mother glistening and sparkling in the moonlight. She is wearing Mum’s brilliant diadem with
bandeaux
of the same costly jewels in her hair. A flowing tunic of white tulle, embroidered in silver, caresses a gown of rich white satin that molds itself to every curve and movement. Like an angel, she glides to the carriage, and like an angel, she remains an enigma to Ollie. He pictures her in Bushruyih, in the anderun, the favorite of the other wives, so selfless and kind, so tender and caring. But now, despite her shimmering beauty, her heart seems to have hardened. She is no longer his mother; she had given up that role to Mum upon arrival in London, washing her hands of him just as easily as she had washed off the Persian.
“Ollie,” Anne says as she is helped into the carriage, “you look like a proper gentleman. Isn’t this fun?”
Neither Ollie nor Herbert replies. Anne adjusts her gown as she sits on the cushioned seat. The horses jerk the carriage into motion. All the way to Almack’s, the three are silent. Anne stares ahead, occasionally glancing out the open side windows but ever-so-careful not to let the wind muss her hair. She seems in another world, oblivious of her companions, rehearsing in her mind the coming events. She wants everything to go perfectly! Tonight is the pinnacle of her transformation from slave-girl to London
ton
. She will be a celebrity in the highest circles—not a visitor, but
one of them
, a peer. She is tense, but has never felt more alive. Her skin tingles and her stomach churns.
And then they enter the hallowed kingdom of Almack’s, which extends out its guarded doors to King St. at St. James, where London’s most fashionable thoroughfare links up with its most aristocratic square. Herbert steps from the carriage and gives his gloved hand to Anne as she gracefully disembarks. She pauses for a moment, studies the details of her husband and then adjusts his cravat into a perfect waterfall, patting him on the chest afterward like a patient puppy. “Oooh,” she says, a kind of sigh, an admittance that the time has come to ascend the staircase.
Oliver follows behind, forgotten it seems. Orbiting around him are society’s matrons and debutantes, giggling and chattering nervously, tripping embarrassingly on their long gowns, complaining viciously about their rivals, huffing and panting with the exertion of the climb.
Inside, the main ballroom is bejeweled with glowing oil-lamps and wax-lights that spread a soft, glimmering sheen over the entire assembly. The perimeter of the room is fringed with two rows of plump sofas that are quickly filling with guests staking out favored positions. At the far end of the room, on massive burgundy sofas embroidered with gold and silver threads, the imperious Patronesses hold court, and it is toward these imposing thrones that Anne and Herbert lead Oliver. Gracefully and politely they prance around the edges of the room, careful not to cross the unpopulated center marked off for dancing by red velvet ropes lest they violate an unspoken rule. Before the first dance, to cross this inviolate space is to call undue attention to oneself, and despite the peacock strutting and flirtatious preening of the guests, such a gaffe is considered pathetically untoward.
Oliver is dazzled by the human ornamentation that surrounds him—girls in gowns with fashionably low-cut bodices and haughty bustles made of silk and satin and velvet of every hue (some pale and delicate but others deep-hued and sensuous), their hair intricately interwoven with birds nests or fruit baskets or whole gardens of flowers, or wearing hats of crepe crested with waving plumes of feathers; and the matrons with rouged faces, false frontlets, and
ceintures
of costly brilliants, all of them ruthlessly plotting to keep their girls in the way of the “prizes” but out of the way of the “detrimentals.” The men, too—particularly those seeking an ornamental companion from the highest circles—strut and fluff their feathers, posing to flaunt their cat-skin waistcoats and mirror-finish Hessian boots and diamond-studded watch fobs. And into this sumptuous stew is stirred foreign dignitaries in full military dress or formal native costume—an ambassador from Pakistan, a German general and Spanish admiral, diplomats from America, Russia, and India. Oliver is surrounded by the titled—Ladies and Marchionesses, Princesses and Countesses; Barons and Lords and Viscounts and Earls and Marquisses and…
Oliver is unaware of the male heads turning and the hungry eyes sliding surreptitiously to capture a tasty glimpse of the delicious Anne Chadwick, who in her simple form-fitting silver sheath and flowing cloak seems almost naked compared to the embellishment of the other women.
By choice?
Her stark beauty carves through the ornamental fatigue like a perfectly cut diamond on a velvet cloth and sends hormones purring.
How daring, to buck the fashions of the day.
Isn’t she the slave-girl from Persia?
Nor does young Oliver notice the countless furtive glances in his direction by the suddenly captivated debutantes whose mothers, so astute and observant, nudge them with sharp elbows—
Look, there is Lord Longhride’s second brother!--
and point out better prospects among the older men—
I believe that Baron Rendlesham has his eye on you, my dear. Ohh, he just looked away!
As he slips past, Oliver overhears snatches of conversation that betray the matrimonial motives of Almack’s matrons.
My dear, you must not sit next to the Countess of Leuchars; she wears such a profusion of pink and yellow, it will make you look pale.
As always, these women seem to perceive a chronic shortage of prizes, and by the sudden brightening of their eyes and heaving of their motherly chests when one approaches, Oliver understands that a title and a good rent-roll are the chief criteria, not love or looks or even age (many of the main prizes are ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty years older than the young ladies who expectantly display their carefully packaged charms).
The receiving line for the Patronesses has diminished and Anne is taking the hand of Lady Cowper, who introduces her to the Committee. Herbert generously and idly stands straight and still while a great fuss is made about Anne Chadwick the author, the slave-girl, the heiress. Almost as an afterthought, Herbert is greeted by the Patronesses, who now seem eager to get the line moving again. Until, that is, Princess Esterhazy—a small, round woman, about fifty, born Princess Theresa of Thum and Taxis before marrying the Austrian Ambassador—sees the fresh handsome face and sturdy frame of Oliver Chadwick.
“And you must be the Chadwick son,” Princess Esterhazy says, looking into Oliver’s deep and dark eyes. Certainly the lad is eighteen or older, from the cut of him.
Oliver nods and smiles. Light seems to fall on the princess, and the other Patronesses now turn their heads to study the boy-man, peering at him as if he were a horse for sale.
“I understand you are half Persian,” the princess says.
A question.
“Yes, my father was a Qajar prince.”
“Ah, yes, so I recall from the book. I pictured you rather more… more childlike. You seem to be a fine young man.”
“I aim to be a true English gentleman, though I know my Persian heritage makes me less so.”
“Nonsense! There is something rather romantic about the Persians; of course, I’ve never met one.
Before
, that is. Be a good lad and come up here with us, will you?”
Princess Esterhazy pats the sofa cushion and scoots to her left, making room for him. The other Patronesses laugh. “To become a gentleman worth knowing, you should meet the rest of London society, and this is the vantage point, I assure you. Tonight you are my guest of honor. Mrs. Eaton, I will make sure none of these squabbling matrons get their “hooks” into your son this evening.”
Anne looks on with astonishment. All she can think to say is, “Your Royal Highness, how good of you.” She sees Oliver seated on London society’s throne, cradled between Princess Esterhazy and Lady Cowper, looking suddenly younger than his age. As other guests greet the Patronesses, Ollie is introduced to them by the princess with a broad grin. The evening has begun with a surprise.
There are more to come.
Promptly at eleven, the orchestra strikes up a tuneful introduction. Guests swarm onto the floor for the first dance of the evening. Gentlemen claim their partners, the ladies they have been admiring since arrival, leaving not a few women alone in silent tears. The dance begins—a stirring gallopade, resembling more a race than an ordinary dance—launching the evening’s revelry.
On the dance floor the gallant men and their ladies begin their frantic scramble. The brightly polished floor is slippery, the product of a new French compound rubbed into the wood. A few feet find the going adventurous.
Of all the dances he has learned, Oliver likes the athletic gallopade best. He turns to Princess Esterhazy and boldly offers his hand. Though it has been some years since the princess has danced the gallopade, she smiles and walks with him to the dance floor. The other Patronesses stare after her. Two of them begin searching for their husbands, not to be outdone by the princess, but the men are hiding in the tea room.
The gallopade begins to pick up momentum. Some of the more spirited dancers dash against the ropes, rebounding back into the action. The princess gaily lifts her feet, prances in time to the music, holds Oliver’s hand and gaily shrieks as the crowd begins rushing, faster and faster. Some of the younger women now prance like headstrong fillies, pulling the men along, tapping their feet, slipping and sliding as centrifugal force flings them about. And then a gentleman of about forty, Lord Corvesa, loses his footing on the polished floor and crashes down, taking his partner with him. Three others tumble over the crumpled bodies with piercing shrieks. Princess Esterhazy is saved by the steady hand of Oliver. The orchestra stops. Every mother and chaperone in the room whose charge is not by her side suddenly races to the scene of the catastrophe. The princess, looking down at the prostrate dancers and seeing no injuries, lets out a low laugh, which grows into a comical chirp. The others begin to laugh with her.
“The gallopade is not for the faint-hearted,” she says. “My gallant partner, Oliver Chadwick, saved me from a fall.” She pats her hands together, and the crowd begins to applaud with her. And then, with a look of mock horror, the princess stares at the source of the calamity and says, “Lord Corvesa, what are you doing on the floor beneath Miss Caroline Pelham?”
Lord Corvesa sits upright and replies, “Madam, I was breaking her fall.”
The entire room breaks into laughter and the orchestra strikes up a waltz. Oliver escorts the princess back to her sofa. “Thank you, my dear,” the princess says to Oliver. “That was my first gallopade in eight years. And my last, I’m afraid. But memorable it certainly was.”
“I have never enjoyed the gallopade as much as this evening, your Highness,” he replies. And means it. “Would you excuse me? I would like some lemonade.”
“Of course. But come back to visit us before the end of the evening, will you?”
Oliver marches to the long refreshment table and sips a glass of weak lemonade. As he turns, he is chilled by the sight of a turban moving through the crowd. But then the turbaned figure turns toward him. It is a man from India.
As the evening continues, Oliver invents a plan to erase the disapproving scowls from the faces of mothers who see their eligible daughters glancing at him. He invites the mothers to dance. By midnight, he has asked four of the stunned women and received no rejections. Heartbreakingly, two of them danced this evening but their daughters did not.
At half-past-midnight, at the refreshment table, Lady Cowper finds Anne and Herbert sampling some of the dry sandwiches that are staple fare at Almack’s. No one comes here for the food. “Anne, my dear, I’ve been looking for you,” Lady Cowper says in a most urgent voice. “I have someone I very much want you to meet.” She turns and motions to someone. “He says he is an old friend of yours from Persia.”
Anne wrinkles up her nose. She has no old friends in London.