The Girl in the Mask (9 page)

‘Do you like it?’ asked the dressmaker eagerly. ‘You look very fine.’

‘I feel utterly ridiculous,’ I said bluntly.

‘Oh, hush, Sophia,’ exclaimed my aunt, scandalized. ‘It’s a
beautiful
gown. You don’t know how lucky you are! Indeed this all works out
most
fortunately, for there is a ball tomorrow, and now we shall be able to attend.’

* * *

I had to admit Dawes had some skills the following evening as she dressed my soft, brown hair simply but elegantly. She pinned it up with just a few locks arranged with curling irons to tumble down to my shoulder. Then my hair was powdered. Dawes helped me into my new linen shift, my dancing shoes, my hoop, my layers of laced petticoats and my ball gown of cream brocade, tugging and adjusting them so they sat just right. She fastened a pearl necklace about my neck and I exclaimed in surprise. ‘Where did that come from?’ I asked.

‘From your father, Miss,’ said Dawes. ‘I’m to tell you it was your mother’s, like the other jewellery in this box.’

I touched the necklace lightly. I could barely remember my mother. It was a strange thought that this had belonged to her. Dawes dusted my face with powder to whiten it, applied a hint of rouge to my cheeks, fixed a patch high on one cheekbone, and said: ‘There. You’ll do nicely now, Miss.’

I regarded myself gravely in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself in the least. The hairstyle I didn’t dislike, though the powder made me look like an old lady. The gown was ludicrous, but I could see it had a certain beauty, especially the way the short train fell in shimmering folds to the floor behind me. The front of the gown was open, the fabric caught back on either side to reveal layers of cream and gold petticoats in front; a froth of lace.

The patch on the other hand was monstrous. I pulled it off and put it on the dressing table. ‘I don’t want to wear such a thing,’ I said. ‘There’s no need for me to look like a ghost, either,’ I said, critically regarding my face before rubbing it clean of cosmetics with a damp cloth. ‘I’m quite pale enough after all these days indoors.’

Dawes didn’t argue, and I descended the stairs, ready to face the people of Bath. My aunt and father awaited me, attired in evening finery, powdered, painted and patched. My father looked at me critically, but then nodded his approval. ‘A natural look. Yes, you judged rightly, Sophia. It suggests youth and innocence. Good. Let’s go.’

Annoyed at having inadvertently won his approval, I vowed that I would behave as badly as I dared tonight.

The upstairs ballroom at the Guildhall was far smaller than I’d expected; less grand and extremely crowded. When we arrived, a group of musicians was already playing, though no one was dancing yet. I moved warily into the room, my heavy, unfamiliar gown and petticoats swaying and quivering about me.

‘Take smaller steps, Sophia,’ my aunt ordered under her breath. ‘Don’t stride about like a man!’

I tried to do as she said, noting how the other ladies appeared to glide effortlessly about, as though they were in skates rather than shoes. I sighed a little and looked around me at the sea of faces and figures in bright garments that made up the world of high fashion, gathered at the Bath for the summer months. I knew no one. This was nothing I ever wanted to be a part of.

Beau Nash made us personally welcome and promised me a partner for the first dance. I felt my courage draining slowly away. The first dance began, the minuet, very slow and formal. Only one couple danced at a time, in order of social rank, while everyone else stood crowded against the walls and watched. I dreaded having to perform under the gaze of so many pairs of eyes, and clutched my hands together in their cream kid gloves, twisting the strap of my fan until it snapped. My aunt scolded me in a whisper.

I had a long time to wait, as there were far more exalted guests present than us. At last all the dukes, marquises, earls and viscounts, of whom there appeared to be an extraordinary number, had taken their turn. My father was presented to a partner and danced down the room with her. My aunt was excused dancing on account of being in half-mourning, but the Beau brought me an elderly gentleman, who bowed stiffly and offered me his arm.

‘Miss Williams, may I introduce Mr Bedford to you?’ he said with a bow. ‘He is a widower and spending the summer at the Bath.’

My intention had been to refuse all offers to dance. But under the stern yet kindly eye of the Beau, and the curious gaze of the rest of the room, I found I couldn’t do so. I curtseyed, placed my fingertips on my partner’s arm as the dancing master had instructed me, and allowed him to lead me to the top of the room.

I stumbled more than once in my high heels and was several times late on the turn, but I somehow got down the room without absolutely disgracing myself. I ignored the giggles and whispers I could hear each time I made a mistake. My partner bowed deeply to me. ‘Thank you for a most charming dance, Miss Williams,’ he said, eyeing me in a way that made me uncomfortable. ‘You dance most delightfully, if you will permit me to tell you so.’

I flushed and didn’t reply, embarrassed by compliments I certainly didn’t deserve. ‘You were clearly born for no other purpose than to grace a ballroom,’ he continued, kissing my gloved fingers. ‘You should never do anything but dance.’

I snatched my hand away. His words struck me as so false and insulting, I was moved to retort: ‘Indeed, sir, I consider dancing a pitiful waste of time. There are far more useful occupations. As for my dancing, if your eyesight were sharper, you might have noticed my wrong steps. Excuse me,’ I said, walking off without curtseying, and leaving my partner standing, his mouth half open in shock.

I was relieved to be rid of him and glad to be putting my plan into action at last.
Social disgrace
, I reminded myself, when my conscience pricked me, telling me it wasn’t fair to treat an elderly man so disrespectfully.
If I make everyone dislike me, no one will want to marry me.

Screens were removed from behind us, revealing food. There was quite a spread. I took ham and bread and ate it with relish. My aunt gasped disapprovingly when she caught sight of me. ‘Ladies take a jelly or a syllabub at a ball, Sophia,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘The meats are for the men. It looks so … unladylike to eat so eagerly.’

‘But I’m starving!’ I objected. It was always wise, I was fast learning, to take the opportunity of food when it was offered.

‘You shouldn’t
show
it!’ exclaimed my aunt, exasperated.

I decided I’d been too docile so far this evening. What could I do to misbehave more? I had to disgrace myself as soon as possible.

Before I’d thought of anything definite, the food was cleared and the musicians struck up for the country dances. Couples took to the floor, a line running the length of the ballroom. I saw Beau Nash walking towards me, a slender man mincing on ludicrously high heels beside him and had to hide a grin. He was dressed all in pink satin and silver lace. His face was white, his lips painted red and he had three large patches on his face. His powdered wig was monstrously tall and the long skirts of his coat were whale-boned and stood out from his body as stiffly as a lady’s hooped gown. He sported an ear-ring in one ear, and, worst of all, he carried a fan which he fluttered as he walked. He stopped in front of me; bowed deeply with a flourish of a scented pocket handkerchief.

‘May I present Mr Wimpole to you, Miss Williams?’ Nash asked. ‘He’s eager to meet you.’ He bowed politely and moved away.

‘May I be so fortunate as to beg the honour of the next dance, Miss Williams?’ Mr Wimpole asked with a flutter of his fan. He clearly considered himself to be bestowing a great honour on me rather than requesting one. He glanced at my aunt as he spoke and she nodded and smiled her approval.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I said seriously. ‘But that’s not possible.’

He looked taken aback. ‘You are promised to someone else?’ he asked. He looked around as though expecting a partner to materialize suddenly.

‘No, sir, but I can’t dance with you,’ I told him, being sure to speak in a clear, carrying voice. ‘You see, I’ve learned only the lady’s part.’ I paused and looked him up and down, ‘And we cannot
both
dance it.’

It took the dandy a moment to understand I’d insulted him. A flush of anger flooded his face; he turned on his extremely high heel and walked away. Some ladies nearby had overheard and were giggling behind their fans. A handsome young man in black satin laced with gold half turned away to hide a smile.

I glanced at my aunt, and saw her looking bewildered, but it was otherwise with my father. Judging by the look of fury on his face, he’d not only heard but also understood what I’d said. He walked towards me, gripping me painfully tightly by one elbow.

‘I think, Sophia,’ he said in a carefully controlled voice, ‘that we’d better leave now, don’t you? And have a little ‘chat’ together at home?’

A shiver of fear ran down my spine, but I’d deliberately provoked him and was ready to take the consequences. I had to show him that he couldn’t force me to do his will. My father propelled me several steps towards the door, but we were stopped by the same gentleman in black and gold, standing between us and the way out, executing a very graceful bow. ‘Could I beg the indulgence of a dance with your daughter, sir?’ he requested politely. ‘I would consider myself honoured.’

I was astonished. He’d heard my rudeness. Why was he asking me to dance? My father hesitated, then pinched my elbow to ensure my obedience, bowed and passed my hand to the man.

‘Miss Williams, is it not?’ the stranger asked me, leading me away, fixing me with a disconcertingly clear stare. There was just a hint of a smile in his dark eyes but I didn’t know whether he was being friendly or laughing at me.

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.’

The man raised his brows ironically. ‘Now, I didn’t have the impression that such social niceties would trouble you.’

I blushed. ‘They don’t,’ I said defiantly. ‘I don’t care what your name is.’

The young man merely smiled at my rudeness and led me to the top of the hall where we took our places ready to begin. He moved with ease and grace, wearing his fine clothes casually, almost negligently, as though neither the heavy, opulent fabrics nor the high heels of his shoes restricted him in the least. I tried to be as calm and unconcerned as he, but my father’s fury, briefly glimpsed and still to be unleashed, had given me a shock and my hand on his arm shook a little.

The dance began. Unnerved as I was, I started on the wrong foot and had to shuffle quickly to retrieve my mistake. My partner politely ignored my clumsiness.

‘Tell me, Miss Williams, how are you enjoying the Bath?’ he asked courteously.

‘Not at all,’ I replied, struggling with the steps. They were a blur, and my only advantage was the firm lead my partner offered.

‘I’m very sorry to hear it. The fault must lie with us, for I’m quite certain you came determined to love the place.’

I was quite certain now that he was making fun of me. ‘No, I came determined to hate everything about it,’ I countered.

‘And to insult its inhabitants. How very original,’ he observed.

Thrown by this, I took a wrong step and accidentally trod hard on my partner’s foot. A pained expression crossed his face. We were parted and then came together again. I looked up at him. ‘Why did you ask me to dance, sir?’ I asked bluntly.

‘It was curiosity, I believe,’ he said, as though considering the matter. ‘I wanted to know why you chose to insult Mr Wimpole so grievously. Do you lack both manners and sense, I wondered, or was it deliberate?’

‘And your conclusion?’ I asked, feeling uncomfortable under his cool scrutiny.

‘You can’t expect me to make up my mind about you after one conversation, Miss Williams, however quickly
you
may judge people. But I shall look forward to pursuing my acquaintance with you,’ he concluded as he restored me to my father. ‘Thank you for a most delightful dance.’

He bowed gracefully, kissed my gloved hand lightly and left me. I tucked my hand into the folds of my petticoats, my heart beating uncomfortably fast. What did he mean by it?

My father escorted me briskly from the ballroom, hurrying down the steps to where a great crowd of sedan chairmen awaited the guests, jostling for position to get our custom. I wished I could tell the men to carry me away from Trim Street. I didn’t care where, as long as I didn’t have to return there. But the men’s fare sat snugly in my father’s pocket, and they carried me inexorably home after him. I entered the candle-lit house first and already had my foot on the bottom stair in an attempt to flee a scene, when my father called me back.

‘Sophia, stay! Amelia, you must be exhausted and will wish to retire.’

My aunt swept past me and on up the stairs. I longed to follow her. My hand on the balustrade was trembling a little, so I clasped it behind my back, awaiting my father’s orders. ‘Wait for me in my study,’ he said curtly. I walked slowly to the downstairs room he’d adopted as his own. As I went in, he gave all the servants orders to go to bed. ‘That includes Miss Sophia’s maid,’ he said. ‘She won’t be needed tonight.’