Palace of Spies (3 page)

This memory finally brought the tears. They trickled down my cheeks and into my ears and nose, because I hadn’t turned my head. I sneezed, and sneezed again, and it was all too ridiculous.

This realization dried up my self-pity and my tears. I found I was able to sit up, at which point I realized Flossie’s dress was soaked.

“I’m sorry.” I brushed out her old-fashioned flounces and smoothed down her hair. “I’m being silly. Really, crying over . . . nothing.” The betrothal to Mr. Sebastian Sandford had already happened. I had to find some way to make peace with it.

“Olivia says he’s handsome,” I informed Flossie. “It might be he’s nice as well. If he’s been to Cambridge, he must like to read.” Maybe he liked plays. We could go to the theater together. And the New Gardens. I’d always wanted to see a fireworks display at the gardens. My uncle expressly forbade it, but a young man from Cambridge, who had traveled, wouldn’t be anything like so fastidious. “Anyway, once I’m married, I won’t have to worry what Uncle Pierpont thinks.”

Now, that was a fine thought. As a married woman, I not only wouldn’t be under my uncle’s management anymore, but he could no longer scold me or order me about. That would be my husband’s privilege. I could tell Uncle Pierpont he was nothing but a pinch-faced miser, and there would not be one thing he could do about it.

“Perhaps Olivia’s right,” I said to Flossie. “Perhaps this is for the best.”

Flossie did not seem to have any opinion on the matter. I hugged her close and willed myself to believe it would be all right. There was, after all, nothing else I could do.

CHAPTER THREE

It should be more widely publicized that the nimble-fingered creators of ladies’ attire are raised entirely by she-wolves. This infant experience leads them to conclude that the proper home for anything female is in a cage. It is the only conceivable explanation for the device known as the mantua.

For those among you who have been spared direct experience of the mantua, I shall describe this evil spawn of the dressmaker’s art. It is principally, as I have said, a cage. The condemned prisoner stands shivering in her linen shift and gartered stockings, her breathing already constrained by the stays of her most confining corset. Wardens, in the form of ladies’ maids, compel her to step into a round framework of willow struts, plainly modeled on the dimensions of the great bell at Bow. These struts are then laced firmly to her hips. The average weight of the cage is somewhere between one and two tons, and thus prevents her from moving quickly, or, indeed, breathing effectively.

The entire edifice, with the prisoner in it, is then concealed beneath layers of ruffled petticoats and damask satin of some shade deemed pleasing to the Masters of Fashion. It is further disguised with ribbons and furbelows and suchlike feminine decorations in one or more contrasting colors. The whole is then secured firmly with a broad, highly decorated stomacher in order to remove any lingering ability on the part of the prisoner to slouch, or breathe. If she is to attend court or a formal ball, a train may be added, which is a gaudy tail more unwieldy than that possessed by any prize peacock. The weight of this cloth and trimmings adds a further one ton to the cargo the Dainty English Beauty is compelled to carry.

Our prisoner is then handed a fan and exhorted to smile and act naturally.

The true indignity of this torturous device is not, however, found in its construction, but rather in the fact that the mantua-makers did not once consult the makers of doorways or sedan chairs when determining the proportions of their wearable prisons. If the prisoner’s family have so impoverished themselves by their purchase of a proper mode of confinement for her that they cannot afford their own coach, she must be stuffed into the nearest chair and sit with her cage folded up around her body like the brilliant wings of some gigantic and demonic bird.

At which point, she is exhorted not to squirm, lest she accidentally crease her ribbons.

It is a great wonder that more ladies of quality do not commit murder upon the unhappy population of dressmakers. And ladies’ maids. And chaperones.

I have, for the sake of brevity, neglected to this point to mention that the lady’s face is painted over with white and red as thoroughly as that of any New World savage, then powdered with more white and stuck all over with black patches to cover any marks left by inconsiderate Nature. And
then
. . . But no. I shall stop here. If I am required to discuss at any length the process of being strapped into the powdered and sculpted horrors of the wig, I shall faint quite away.

For the occasion of Lady Clarenda Newbank’s birthday party, my particular prison of a mantua was an ice blue damask silk with buttercup yellow bows, white petticoats, and ivory embroidery depicting birds in flight. Last year, it had belonged to Olivia. I was repeatedly assured no one would notice that, especially as it now had several rows of flounces added to accommodate the difference in our heights, and an entirely new color of ribbon for its trimming. I also had my mother’s sapphire necklace and her sandalwood fan to call my own, but didn’t hold out much hope for my pride in such details. There is nothing so much noticed or so long remembered as a girl’s gown, especially by those who are not her friends.

I tried to tell myself that the girls at the party didn’t matter one whit. Sebastian Sandford had never seen this dress before, and I did look well enough. At least, I hoped I did.

Olivia certainly did. She had been imprisoned entirely in shades of pink: dusky rose petticoats, pale pink overskirt and bodice, with deep pink ribbons and silver embroidery. She wore pink tourmalines at her throat and in her wig, and in general, looked stunning.

We arrived together at the party during the fashionable window, that is to say, an hour after the announced time on the invitation. Footmen in the livery of the Earl of Keenesford—Lady Clarenda’s father—threw open the doors for us, unleashing a flood of light and music. The butler announced us to a ballroom already well filled with young people in their brightest velvets and silks.

“Lady Trowbridge Preston Pierpont! Miss Olivia Preston Pierpont! Miss Margaret Fitzroy!”

Heads turned. I craned my neck, searching the faces of the young men who stood in clusters about the room. I had not the least idea what my betrothed looked like, but I searched for him all the same.

“Olivia!” Lady Clarenda sailed up to us. I swear, some mantua-maker had designed Lady Clarenda Newbank specifically to go with the current fashion in gowns. She was tall and willowy, with long white arms and long white hands, a slender throat, and no bosom to speak of. While the rest of us fought to breathe against our stays and struggled with swaying hoops, Lady Clarenda glided easily under her cream and gold skirts. “I’m so glad you could come!” She grasped Olivia’s hands and kissed her cheeks carefully so nobody’s face got mussed. “And Peggy! That’s a simply delightful dress. Olivia, didn’t you have something a little like it once?”

I returned her my sunniest smile. We’d had other such conversations, Lady Clarenda and I. I reminded myself I shouldn’t knock the wig off her head. My betrothed might be here, and first impressions were important.

“Olivia, dear, there was something about which I particularly wanted to ask your opinion. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Peggy?” Even as she said this, Lady Clarenda had already threaded her arm through my cousin’s to draw her deeper into the heart of the gathering. Olivia had no choice but to go along, which left me there alone, with my skirts blocking the doorway of the ballroom.

I faded sideways and backwards to stand against the nearest wall. Lady Clarenda’s mother, Lady Newbank, had decided to use the occasion of her daughter’s seventeenth birthday to debut her new ballroom. For months, rumors about the cost of this addition to the London house had been running wild through the drawing rooms, which clearly demonstrates how little there was to talk about in those drawing rooms. It was indeed beautiful, with a dark parquet floor, cool blue walls decorated with plaster garlands, and gilded trim around the painted ceiling. They must have spent a small fortune on candles, and the air was filled with the scents of hot wax and smoke. Four musicians in matching gray coats played a decorous minuet for the line of dancing couples. At the back, French doors opened to show the small night-shrouded garden beyond.

I was still alone. All the young blades and young ladies had turned away to talk to their companions.

I tried in vain to stop my gaze from darting about the room. I counted at least a half dozen youths who were strangers to me. The fashion for young men this year was brightly colored silk coats cut with excessively full skirts at the bottom and yet extraordinarily tight across the shoulders. So tight, in fact, that if any of them did reach for the sword worn at his hip (assuming it could be found among the many folds of the coat), there would be a mighty and instant tearing of seams. Broad cuffs with embroidery or lace, or both, were a requirement. Coat hems, buckled velvet breeches, and silk stockings must be similarly adorned. Wigs were mostly powdered white, with either long or short queues at the back. I did note that Toby Blenham and his crowd had decided, for no earthly reason I could make out, to streak theirs with red and green.

But no youth from Toby Blenham’s crowd or any other glanced in my direction. None moved around the dancers or got up from the little tables where youths and young ladies laughed and played at card games like ombre and piquet.

What were you thinking?
I snapped open my fan and used it. Despite the open doors, the room was already far too warm.
Did you imagine he’d sweep across the room and take your hand? Perhaps he just should have ridden up to your chair disguised as a highwayman and abducted you
.

A flash of fresh movement caught my eye, and I turned toward it, my heart fluttering like my fan. But it was not my betrothed. Lady Clarenda Newbank had left Olivia behind and was now headed straight for me like a white, gold, and exceedingly peeved galleon. Olivia trailed the charging peeress, a look of uncharacteristic panic on her face.

“Peggy Fitzroy, you sly thing!” Lady Clarenda tapped me on the shoulder with her fan in that friendly way of hers. There’d only be a slight bruise later. “Is it true what I hear?
You
, betrothed to Sebastian Sandford?”

I hid my face behind my own fan to cover the fact that I couldn’t muster the appropriate blush. “It hasn’t been announced yet.” I glowered at Olivia. She waved her fan helplessly back, which I took to mean that Lady Clarenda had already heard.

“You
must
be delighted!” Lady Clarenda said, loud enough to turn all the heads that had up until this moment been ignoring me. “And so
surprised!
”

I dipped my eyes and wished with all my heart that Lady Clarenda would shut her great, painted mouth.

Of course, she did not. “You must, indeed, wonder what Mr. Sandford thought when he heard what
sort
of prize he was getting.” She smiled, showing all her perfect teeth. “But I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure everyone understands you’re only an orphan and not a—” She laid her dainty hand against her lips. “Oh, dear. I’ve spoken quite out of turn, haven’t I?”

My hand was lowering my fan. I couldn’t stop it. The blood rose to my cheeks, but not from any emotion remotely related to maiden’s delicate blush.

“
Lud
, Clarenda, have you seen Lucy DeLancy’s new hair?” Olivia tried valiantly. “Has she told you—”

Lady Clarenda didn’t so much as glance at her. “How thoughtless of me to go repeating baseless rumor!” she went on, just in case someone in that room wasn’t yet paying attention. “After all, the whole world knows you were born well before your father deserted your mother.”

“The whole world knows it, as you say,” I hissed back. “Just as they know your little walk with Lord Gunderson at the Mayday fete was perfectly innocent. Tell me, did you ever find the fan you lost? I heard he looked for it in all sorts of unlikely places.”

Olivia was signaling “Don’t.” Olivia was signaling “Stop.” But a terrible recklessness took hold as I watched Clarenda Newbank turn paper white and all her primped and powdered friends gaped wide-eyed at her. “Of course, I’m sure that has nothing to do with why
you’ve
had no offers yet. Neither could it be because of the walk you took with Jamie Finnmore at the Winstons’ garden party last summer. Was it your handkerchief you’d lost that time? Oh, no, I recall now, it was a ring. The kerchief was when you went walking with Sir Adam—”

Crack!
The blow fell hard against my cheek and snapped my head back.

“You little brat!” Lady Clarenda lowered the fan she’d used against me. “How dare you?”

Oddly, I didn’t feel anything. Even more oddly, I smiled. “Because everybody already knows what I am, Lady Clarenda. Now they know the same about you.”

I wrenched myself and all my skirts around, and marched out the French doors. A sharp, stinging sensation spread across my cheek. At the same time, my hands began to shake. I’d just insulted
Lady
Clarenda Newbank at her own birthday party. If we’d been boys and drawn swords on each other, it could not have been more ruinous. I tottered down the terrace’s curving steps to the garden. I was never going to live this down. Never. Barbados? I would need to go to the Antipodes to escape this night.

“Here! With me!” A hand grabbed mine. A young man’s hand. He took off at a run and dragged me, stumbling, after him.

Was I being rescued or abducted? I actually didn’t much care, so long as he stopped soon and let me
breathe
. My stays were cutting off my air, and the shadows swam past my eyes. “Please . . .” I panted.

The youth responded by dragging me around the corner of a brick and glass outbuilding. I hadn’t enough breath left in me to do more than squeak as he started into the narrow space between its wall and the towering hedge. So I did the only other thing I could think of. I brought my fan down hard on his knuckles.