“Miss Cecilia assisted, although she may not have realized it. She has a fine eye for color, and fortunately, no taste for excessive flounces. It is much easier to dress a girl when she does not care too much for flounces.”
“The hair perhaps is a little elaborate for a girl her age, but tonight, it is no matter. We are among friends.”
That evening, Lady Ketley had invited around two old friends with daughters the same age as Cecilia. It was her first real encounter with her contemporaries. Any initial apprehensions were soon banished as the girls were first awestruck by her finery and then eager for her acquaintance. By the time her six weeks of London life had expired, she had experienced happy days in the company of her new friends, shopping, dancing, gazing at the Bond Street beaux, even excursions to the circus and theater. Her delight was increased by the receipt of invitations to visit her new friends in the country.
From that time on, Cecilia was not very often at Sawards. She wrote regularly to her family, often sent presents for Reginald and Amelia, and visited infrequently although reliably on high days and holidays. She did not miss a birthday or a Christmas. Initially, Reginald missed her companionship more than Amelia, but Marchmont, chastened by the errors he had committed with regard to his first child, spent a great deal more time at Sawards than hitherto, and was soon taking his son with him around the estates.
Although surrounded by young ladies whose chief object in life was to entice young men with their charms and gifts, Cecilia knew she had no need to attract and thereby proved all the more attractive to potential suitors. Ormiston's scathing opinion ensured that she had no very high regard for her looks, reinforced by both Marston and Lady Ketley, who were sparing in their praise and frequent in their criticism of her bearing, her tastes, and her hoydenish manners. Such faint encomiums as she received from her mentors were generally credited as Marston's triumphs over the odds. She knew she was greatly improved in looks since her marriage, and she understood from all that Marston and her aunt said, that looks were not guaranteed to bind a man to a woman in any case. Looks might do the initial work, but after that, it was accomplishments and charm that entwined a man in a woman's toils. In these spheres, Cecilia strove far harder than anyone suspected.
Knowing that Ormiston was a creditable artist and interested in all things Italian, Cecilia demanded a drawing master and instruction in the language of Dante and Petrarch. With her friends, singing lessons were all the rage, so she followed suit. She noted carefully that the women that men appeared to prefer were generally amusing and witty, well-read but careful to conceal their intellects, competent horsewomen, slow to frown and swift to laugh, but without giggling or simpering. She made sure that she read all the latest poets and understood the articles in
The Times
. This her father had encouraged her to do in any case, although she was quick to see that while he might encourage her to dispute his views when she disagreed with him, most men preferred their female acquaintances to accept their opinions without argumentation.
Her Uncle Ketley was the first target on whom Cecilia practiced female wiles, with some encouragement from her Aunt Letty. He soon pronounced her a sensible puss, and was as eager as his wife to display his pretty niece in Society. He made sure, once he had established that she had good hands, sufficient spirit to manage her horses well, and enough sense not to push them too hard, that she had a neat mare to ride in Hyde Park and a smart curricle to drive with a specially matched pair of gray geldings.
Neither Admiral Ketley nor his wife was aware of Cecilia's favorite form of riding, which was to perform tumbling tricks learnt from a stable boy at Sawards who had once run away to London. Jem Anderton had found employment at Astley's Amphitheatre and being a small, wiry fellow, found it easy to learn the more acrobatic feats of equestrian display from a resident troupe of Cossack dzigits. After some years, he had wearied of the life, particularly once he had grown to manhood and found himself too large to continue in the ring. Summoned back to Sawards to care for his ailing mother, Jem had found a permanent position in Marchmont's stables and an eager student in Miss Cecilia.
As a child of eight and nine, Cecilia had been fearless, but as her body changed with puberty, she had become self-conscious and unwieldy. Then she had fallen ill and disappeared to London. When she returned, lithe, limber, and more adventurous than ever, Jem had taken great delight in teaching her still wilder antics. It did not occur to him, being unfamiliar with the constraints placed about young ladies making their bow in Society, to ask how she managed to find the privacy and time to practice her skills, but every few months, she would reappear, ready for a new set of lessons. By the time she was eighteen, she could perform handstands or twist beneath a horse's belly and appear in the saddle once more while the beast was in mid-canter. Dancing and deportment lessons had instilled in her considerable grace and she seemed to have gained in strength since her sickness.
In truth, riding was Cecilia's great release. Initially, the concentration needed to perform tricks was the one attribute that drove out all thoughts of Ormiston and his harshness. Then, it became a vital escape from the constrictions of life in Society. Although Admiral Ketley kept a fine stable, he was not greatly interested by horseflesh. His grooms were not kept busy, and preferred it thus. When Cecilia arrived and one of them had to accompany her on all her rides, they were initially resentful. But she preferred to arrange for the hire of a private, indoor school where she could work on Jem's tricks and take bruising rides in all weathers while they waited for her in a dry corner, smoking and relaxing. She regularly spent the first part of the morning in this manner, and found her patience with the constant changes of clothes and largely inane conversational twittering of her companions much increased by this exercise.
Being an intelligent young woman, Cecilia had realized early enough that Lady Ketley wished to promote the match with Ormiston. She did attempt to make discreet enquiries about her legal position, but she lacked gravitas and time to pursue them. What she had discovered indicated that she was more closely bound to Ormiston than her fatherâor, indeed, Lord Dacreâhad anticipated. Much of the time, she was too intent on enjoying herself and diverting her companions to dwell on the future, but as time passed, her friends began to make matches, and fresh crops of young girls entered Society every year. Now she was nineteen, and had been out for three seasons. This year, she had caught from tittle-tattle that in certain circles, she was known as “The Impregnable,” and more than one young man had entered into the wager books at Brooks and Whites (and less exalted gaming clubs) his intention of capturing a kiss from the fortress.
When Admiral Ketley was sent to Paris, his wife and niece had been quick to ask whether they might accompany him. Cecilia was unsure whether Lady Ketley knew of her niece's nickname and reputation, but the removal to a foreign country was fortuitous. Or so it had seemed until the chance revelation of one of Lady Ketley's acquaintances that an eligible young English nobleman had recently arrived in Paris and had impressed Madame de Stael and so many others with his address, his elegance, his sophistication. Why, Lord Ormiston was so charming, so well travelled, so monstrous handsome, he had the pick of Paris beauties. It was said his departure from Venice had left the ladies of the Veneto heartbroken, and one particular lady near to death, such was the devotion he inspired. He had some business back in England, something to do with wills and estates, but once he had settled his affairs, he was planning to return to Italy, for he found his native land uncongenial.
Naturally, no communication had passed between Ormiston and his wife in all the years of their separation, but Cecilia was irked by her own ignorance of her husband's movements. Once it was known that he was a guest of the Ferrières family, it was easy enough to track his path through Paris, and Cecilia had immediately determined that she would inspect her bridegroom. She remembered him as a stunning youth, but before she made any decisions with regard to the future, she needed to see him once again.
So she had gone riding that morning. And the hat had come off, and she had made an exhibition of herself and caught only the merest glimpse of a dark young man sitting in a carriage with the comtesse, looking a little bored. It was not enough on which to base any plans. The difficulty would be in encountering him without revealing her identity.
Those distant dreams of subjugating the viscount still resonated in Cecilia's imagination. For so long now, her duties had led her into ways that suited her, and she was used to getting her own way through the exercise of all that she had learnt through her aunt. Finally, all her training would come into play, but Cecilia was not yet sure of the nature of the game in which she would be engaged. Marston dropped the brush. It was time to meet Aunt Letitia and discover what delights the day held.
Five
Of course Letitia Ketley had secured invitations for the Comtesse de Ferrière's great masked ball well before there had been any question of Ormiston attending. Cecilia's imagination had been captured by the collection of plunder that Napoleon had amassed from Egypt, and she spent some hours sketching images of gods and goddesses before devising a costume which she resolutely refused to discuss with her aunt or Marston. On the evening of the ball, Marston came to Cecilia's room and insisted on inspecting the contents of the mysterious boxes that had been delivered earlier that week.
The costume was more demure than Marston had feared, but also more exotic than she cared for. The dress was of fine white muslin with a full skirt, for which Marston supposed she should be grateful, but it was embroidered with gold and scarlet thread in outlandish designs, falcons and cats cavorting about the hem. The bodice was heavy with intricate gold-and-red stitching, and the sleeves were negligible puffs of white material, scarcely there. Cecilia carried a flimsy chiffon scarf with tassels of gold thread. However, the most outrageous item was the mask itself. It was a delicate creation in the shape of a lioness's head, wrought in gold leaf and pleated cloth of gold, leaving her mouth and chin free, but concealing the rest of her head entirely. The shimmering fall of the material reached just below her shoulders.
“It's heathen.”
“Intentionally so, Marston. I have taken the likeness of the Goddess Sekhmet.”
“I've no idea who she may be, and to be sure, you look seemly and fit to be seen by gentlemen, but there is something wicked about it.”
Cecilia laughed and ridiculed Marston's old-fashioned ways, but the woman's disapproval warmed her thoroughly. Tonight, she knew she was alluring. She had taken a step into unknown territory, moving away from what might be suitable for a girl, toward some undefined and infinite possibility.
Marston expected Lady Ketley, on beholding the outlandish costume, to exclaim with horror and send her niece back to her room to change, but the admiral's wife smoothly refrained from all comment apart from an almost approving murmur of “How exotic you look, my dear.”
The admiral was more effusive. “Fine getup, m'dear. You'll be all the rage. Must keep an eye on you.”
“In that mask, it shouldn't be difficult to track her down should she go astray,” commented Lady Ketley dryly as she buttoned up her gloves and fastened her cloak.
The drive to the Hotel de Ferrières was brief, but as the carriage approached the house, it slowed to a crawl as the jam of vehicles gradually inched forward, depositing guests and pulling away. Brilliant light shone from every window of the great mansion, in which every sconce and chandelier appeared to have been lit. Even the garden was illuminated, revealing trees and a box hedge trimmed into geometrically precise borders of knee-height to protect the lawn from marauding feet. The Ketleys and Cecilia stepped out of the carriage and climbed a shallow flight of stairs into the great hallway, where footmen were running to and fro collecting evening cloaks and dispensing glasses of champagne or orgeat for the softer-headed. As soon as he had shed his cloak, the admiral collected his flute of sparkling wine and stood in an unobtrusive corner, promising to wait for the ladies while they retired to repair the ravages wrought by their journey to the ball.
Cecilia helped Aunt Letty adjust her headdress and skirts. Lady Ketley was looking exceptionally fierce, brandishing a spear and a reticule and sporting a horned helmet above her black domino. The admiral had steadfastly refused all entreaties to wear any costume other than his full naval regalia, though he did accept the need to wear a mask.
The ladies rejoined the admiral, who was gazing at the steady stream of eastern concubines, dancing girls, Saskatchewan savages, maharajahs, cannibal kings, bull fighters, assorted gods and goddesses from both Greek and Roman pantheons, and packs of Gauls who strolled through the ornate marble hallway into salons leading to the east and west wings of the house. The waiters in sober black, bearing trays of drinks to and fro, were the most dignified inhabitants of the house.
“Deuce of a lot of houris from Pondicherry attending tonight. They're receiving in the ballroom, so if you're ready, ladies, let us follow the teeming masses.”
They walked through a yellow, then a leaf-green, then a rose salon. Pursuing their fellow guests to the strains of a mazurka, they arrived at the entrance to the ballroom. Given the press of carriages at the gates, it was no surprise that they had missed the opening polonaise of the evening. At the great doorway leading into the ballroom, a majordomo was ushering in the guests. Of course, since it was a masked ball, there was no announcement of names, but the Comtesse de Ferrières and her son were greeting their guests and clearly had recognized most as they entered the astounding room.
Once through the doorway and past their hostess, guests found themselves at the head of a shallow flight of stairs, overlooking the huge room. Five huge, arched windows ran down each side. Those on the street side were curtained, but the ones leading to the courtyard at the center of the house were open, allowing air to circulate in the crowded room while also permitting footmen to bring refreshments to those overcome by the press of guests.
The ceiling was heavy with gilded plasterwork, a riot of seashells, cupids, and wreaths. Above gold-and-white wood panelling, the walls were decorated with murals depicting the Muses cavorting with fauns and satyrs. In each window recess hung a great brass chandelier, each capable of holding what seemed to be a hundred candles; the walls were also decorated with matching sconces.
At the far end, the musicians were positioned on a low dais, with doors on either side leading to more rooms where apparently food and drink was laid out. The scent of gardenias from the courtyard filled the air, and Cecilia could just make out the rush of water running over a massive fountain. As the dancers moved, she caught glimpses of the dark wood of the floor.
As she surveyed the guests, Cecilia wondered how Ormiston might look now. He had been tall enough as a youth and might have grown a little more. He would have remained slim, she was sure. His companion, the Scottish artist who had accompanied him to Italy, wrote regularly to Dacre to report on the viscount's progress. The viscount's prowess in Neapolitan swordsmanship featured large in the accounts. So the young man would probably still be slender and wiry, though perhaps a little fuller about the shoulders than when she had last seen him. He had not struck her as a flamboyant typeâquite the reverse. Her memory was of a shambolic, almost ragged boy who favored black, emulating Hamlet, taking to mourning on his wedding day. Immediately, her eyes scanned the floor in search of a darkly dressed figure.
She could identify no likely candidate, but her eye was caught by a man leaning against a doorway at the far end of the huge ballroom. He wore the clothes of two centuries earlier, in the style of followers of the cavalier King Charles I. He was clean-shaven, with long black hair which spilled over a high lace collar onto the shoulders of his pewter velvet jacket, fastened with tiny buttons and slashed to reveal white lawn beneath. His three-quarter-length trousers, tucked into black boots of Spanish leather, were of the same stuff as the jacket. Idly, he swung in his right hand a wide-brimmed hat of black felt adorned with a single scarlet plume.
The fellow reminded Cecilia powerfully of a portrait she had seen, although she could not quite remember where or when. He seemed to be watching her, but her attention was then distracted as another young gallant, wearing lurid, particolored hose and a green-and-red-checked doublet, invited her to dance. She stepped onto the floor with her Florentine dandy and in her effort to recall the variations of the quadrille as practiced in Paris, forgot all about the elegant Royalist at the other end of the room.
It took some time for Ormiston to track down his host. Finally, as the flow of guests slowed, he took the opportunity to question his friend.
“The girl in Egyptian dress, with the head of a lioness. Do you know her?”
“I can't remember. Who did she come in with?”
“A Royal naval officer and a Viking lady with a spear.”
“I don't know them. The Viking lady was a friend of my mother's, but I can't tell you more than that. I remember the lion-goddess, certainly, but I hadn't realized she came with the admiral and his wife.”
“No name, then?”
“No, I'm sorry. She speaks superb French, though, your lioness.”
“She isn't French?”
“I don't think so. There is some sort of accent there, although, of course, there was not much time for me to establish where she might have come from.”
“And the naval officer really is English?”
“Oh yes! A man of a certain age who is prepared to wear the domino, but no other form of disguise. I think he may be an admiral. I can inquire of my mother, if you wish.”
“No, it doesn't matter. I'll soon find out if she is from England.”
“So you are in hot pursuit? What of your lovely
principessa
? Or was she a contessa? No pining for the Italian nobility now?”
Ormiston smiled, looking predatory rather than amused. “Since you show yourself so able, I shall leave you to your speculations, my dear friend.” He absented himself in search of the object of his interest.
The viscount was certain that the young lady was the same girl who had so captured his imagination in the Bois de Boulogne. There was something in the way she moved, something in the line of her neck and chin, something in the way she held herself that persuaded him of her identity. And some other impulse, quite foreign to him, was forcing him to seek her out against all his instincts and calculations. Buchan would have been astonished, perhaps even delighted, since the Scot felt that his pupil, while apt, would never achieve greatness as an artist until he unleashed his own passions.
Until now, Ormiston had dismissed his teacher's words as nonsense, for ardor had always struck him as beneath a gentleman. Casual insouciance and competent ease seemed much more admirable attributes to the viscount, and he strove in all things for detachment and unflappability. Now, though, he knew he must find the girl, speak with her. If he had followed the thought through, it would have taken him inexorably toward the realization that he must lie with her, too.
The musicians were tuning up for the opening bars of a new melody. The restored monarch of France had banned the waltz at his court, but the Ferrières were prepared to defy the ban, since His Majesty had arrived at the ball and left within half an hour, accompanied by the attractive Comtesse du Cayla, his favored companion, and her own particular friend, an unprepossessing man called Villele who, it was rumored, wrote all the letters the comtesse sent to the king. It was widely believed that the ban on dancing the waltz owed more to Louis's uncertain health and excessive girth than any doubts regarding the suitability of the dance.
The viscount wound his way through the crowd in search of his Egyptian goddess. He was determined to dance with her. Finding her proved harder than he expected, for several ladies were wearing white and gold, and from the back, it was hard to tell whose identity they had assumed. Finally, he saw the rounded curve of lion's ears and the shimmering veil concealing her hair. She was choosing between two aspirants for her hand, one in the dress of a courtier under Francis I, the other in the yellow embroidered coat of a Cathay emperor. Ormiston bowed deeply and said, “The lady is promised to me.” He took her outstretched hand and whirled her away as her two attendants stood dumbfounded by his audacity.
“Have I offended?” He spoke in French, but had to wait some moments for her reply.
“Rather you should ask if you have sinned,” Cecilia replied faultlessly in the same tongue. She knew it was Ormiston as soon as he spoke.
He gazed down into her beguiling eyes. “For you are a goddess, and I am instantly in your thrall.”
“How easily you pledge yourself.” She smiled, but her eyes were cold. Quickly, she veiled them before he could see that his words had angered her. “To how many others have you made pledges so lightly?”
Ormiston did not check, although his hands tightened around her. She looked up again, once more mistress of her emotions. His eyes searched hers, and she returned his gaze without wavering. He forced himself to relax. He only remembered his child-bride because he was on his way to England to sever the farcical ties which bound him.
“I have made one pledge which will be dissolved. And then I shall be free to worship you as you deserve.”
“What if I choose not to wait until you are free?”
“A goddess may rule as she pleases. But she cannot prevent her worshippers from thronging to her altar. But tell me, what do you govern?”
“I am Sekhmet, with power over sunsets and sorrow. In my fury, I will bring down destruction on my enemies, but I can also heal what I hurt.”
A frisson of discomfort shivered through the viscount, but instantly he dismissed it. She was simply a woman dressed in a costume, playing a game. Well, he would play at her game and see where it would end.