“My friend will make restitutions for any damage,” she offered.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Greer said cheerfully. To her horror, he started digging in his pocket. Quick as a lightning flash, she set her hand on his arm and stilled his movements.
“If you will give us your card,” she said to the man, “my friend will—”
“Don’tyouhave a card?” the affronted woman asked, her nose high.
Greer didn’t take offense. “I do, but it will do you no good as my last fixed abode was in New York City. My name is Carson, and I’m staying at the Langham, if you wish to send me a bill there.”
“The Langham!” repeated the man. Then he glanced at his wife, looking more respectful as Beatrice noticed the hint of money often caused people to be. “Very well. I’ll send you an account of my purchase of a new hat, and whatever my wife needs.”
“Well, notwhateveryour wife needs,” Greer joked.
Beatrice nearly slapped a hand over his mouth. He truly was beyond the pale. “He’s joking,” she said. “He’s from—”
“America,” the wife repeated. “Yes, we heard. I’m sure I’ll need a new skirt and maybe a petticoat. Good day.” She grabbed her husband’s arm, and they marched off.
“You’ll probably end up buying them both a new wardrobe,” she said. “You really mustn’t joke with the wrong people.”
“Everyone around here seems to be the wrong people, except you. And they can try, but I’m no dupe. I’ll pay for her skirt and his hat, and that’s all.”
She sighed.
***
“ICANNOT BELIEVE MOTHERis missing all this,” Charlotte said as she stood with her two sisters in costume at Marlborough House, “including seeing us.” She twirled happily where she stood.
Since they were neighbors with the Prince and Princess of Wales, Amity and the duke had eschewed their carriage and walked to the fancy-dress ball dressed as King Louis and Marie Antoinette.
“I don’t know how you can hold your head up with that powdered monstrosity on your head,” Beatrice said to her older sister, whose rose-and-gold silk gown consisted of a rigid, eighteenth-century-style front panel encrusted with seed pearls, a low décolletage, and miles of silk looped up over her hips to show her fine matching petticoats.
“You could be at one of Queen Victoria’s famedbal poudréwe read about from when she was a young bride,” Charlotte agreed.
“It’s not so bad,” Amity said, lifting a bejeweled hand to touch the tall wig from which swags of pearls were draped. “But I can hardly breathe in this stomacher.”
Beatrice’s own wig of blond ringlets was much simpler and manageable. Seeing herself in the mirror at home as Charlotte helped her apply pink to her cheeks and perfectly painted her lips, she’d allowed herself a satisfied smile. Then Delia had set a pastoral bonnet atop the wig and offered her a basket. She’d refused it, flowers and all.
“Don’t forget to take cloaks,” their maid reminded them, although they’d decided not to wear them until after the ball. “Keep them over your arms for now,” Delia said, “but wear them home, or you’ll catch your death of cold.”
Beatrice had rolled her eyes. Her brother-in-law’s coach was heated with bricks for evening rides, and he had sent it to fetch them.
“We are not coming home tonight,” she had reminded Delia. “We’ll be at Amity’s house after the ball, so please don’t worry or wait up.”
Finally meeting up with Amity and the duke at Marlborough House, Beatrice thought it breathtaking, scarcely believing she and Charlotte were a part of this extravagant event.The Rare-Foure sisters! A shopkeeper’s daughters!
The pretense was not merely in their costumes, it was in their even being at such a place with the highest echelon of British society, not to mention some of Europe’s heads of state. They were interlopers, except for Amity who legitimately belonged.
“How do I look?” Charlotte asked for the umpteenth time. “It will be so much fun to dance dressed like this.” And she did a few steps and curtsied before them.
“I wish I could move that easily,” Amity said, remaining rigidly upright as Lord Pelham returned to their little group followed by a servant carrying glasses of champagne. “But dance I shall,” she added, looking at her beloved husband.
“My wife never misses a moment to be in my arms,” he said, his kingly costume every bit as impressive as Amity’s, right down to his full-skirted knee-length coat, knee breeches, and long waistcoat, all in pale pink silk to complement his queen’s gown.
“Matching wigs, how adorable,” Beatrice quipped, even though the duke’s was down to his shoulders and partly covered by a gigantic tricorne hat. This was the one event in which men wore hats of every shape and size and didn’t remove them, not even to dance.
“How doIlook?” Charlotte repeated.
“Like a true Turkish peasant,” Amity assured her, even though Beatrice doubted very much whether any of them looked authentic. Surely Charlotte’s scarlet bodice was too finely made, not to mention low-cut, to have been worn on a daily basis, and her sister’s short, midnight-blue skirt showed a bit too much of her brightly colored silk pantaloons. A small blue turban and scarlet slippers with toes that curled up, purchased specially for the occasion, completed her costume.
