Danse de la Folie (22 page)

But that is to dance
,
she thought. She loved dancing, loved the easy talk. She had formed the notion
of finding a wealthy gentleman when she first accepted Clarissa’s invitation to
come to London, knowing that marriage was the business of young ladies,
especially if one wished to help one’s brother. Nor were those of her sex to be
faulted for doing what they must to catch the attention of eligible gentlemen.

But the reality was so very daunting. She could not bring
herself to make up to some fellow in whom she held no genuine interest, in
hopes of one day spending his money. The idea seemed... horrid.

Kitty took her seat, lost in reverie as she considered all
that had been hidden hitherto. She loved her brothers, and must expect to live
with them always. Of course if Carlisle were to marry Lucretia, that would change
things, but surely, as a marchioness, Lucretia would have something better to
occupy her time than require Kitty to listen to her singing, or even her brag.
And Tarval Hall, say what you like about its shabbiness, was large. Kitty could
find plenty to do in her own rooms, and they might only meet at mealtimes.

Her thoughts splintered when the musicians made noises
preparatory to starting up, and Lady Sefton approached to perform the
introduction that would permit Amelia and Kitty to dance.

Kitty was so self-conscious that all her attention was
reserved for her curtsy as she regarded the fine stockings before her, below
satin knee breeches and a gala coat. Her gaze flicked upward to meet a humorous
pair of brown eyes.

Lady Sefton, having done her duty, turned her attention to
Lady Chadwick, leaving Kitty staring incomprehensibly.

Clarissa had begun to understand her friend fairly well by
now, and so she said gently, “Kitty, this is a trifle awkward, but I think you
will understand, and forbear. Perhaps you were unaware that Lord Arden is one
of your maternal relations? And here is Mr. Fleming, who is also a kind of
family connection, I believe?”

“Very distant,” Mr. Fleming said with a bow. “But I’ve run
tame at Carlisle Hall since we were boys, as we are also neighbors.”

“I hope you will forgive me for begging Lady Sefton to
introduce us,” Lord Arden said. “I cry craven, hiding behind a lady, but you
have to know it was entirely motivated by pure feelings. Well, that and a wish
to pass myself off as respectable.”

Kitty smiled at Lord Arden’s sally, causing his expression
of polite inquiry warm to an answering smile, and she wondered if gentlemen
might feel on display, too? For what would one feel like if a young lady turned
down his offer to dance—to marry?

Was
that
why
Clarissa accepted Lord Wilburfolde? To spare his feelings?

“Now that our bona fides are established, may I have the
honor, Cousin?” Lord Arden asked.

Kitty happily accepted, Mr. Fleming asked Clarissa, who
bowed acquiescence, and they joined the line forming for the Cotillion.

“Who is Amelia’s partner?” Kitty said to Clarissa.

“Henry Brocklehurst, a friend to the Seftons.”

Amelia was farther down the line, next to a young lady who
was dressed in a light muslin gown, simple in form, but stylish, edged with
Grecian motifs.

The dance claimed them, and Lord Arden said, “I am relieved
to see you smile, I have to confess, Cousin. When I took courage in hand to
approach you, I perceived a formidable countenance.”

“I?” Kitty couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I was merely
thinking.”

“May one inquire the topic?”

“‘The Marriage Mart.’ I was wondering if gentlemen think
about coming here to look over the display in a quest for wives.”

Lord Arden glanced at her in surprise, then they were
separated by the movement of the dance. He saw her catch her lower lip between
her teeth, and when they came together again for the hands across, she said, “I
beg your pardon. That was assuredly indelicate. I’ve only had the company of
brothers, you see, and I know very well that what they say
about
us, when among themselves, can be different than what they
say
to
us.”

Lord Arden, who had sisters, could not help but laugh. “And
is it not the same for ladies?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Though perhaps not
quite
the same?”

Her glance was full of fun, her smile both sweet and
mischievous. Lord Arden had come as a result of a wager, for the older
generation had fired the younger generation’s interest by their vehement
declaration:
The Carlisle family does not
acknowledge the Decourceys
.

Of course anyone with spirit must take that as a challenge,
and besides, the rumor that had flown about that one of the mysterious Decourceys
was actually in town had been accompanied by the assurance that she was a
diamond just as her mother had been. And so, in a spirit of fun he’d accepted
Fleming’s wager and begged Lady Sefton for the introduction.

By the end of the dance they had come to such a high degree
of friendly understanding that he went away to extol her charms as he collected
his winnings.

The ladies having sat down again, Kitty caught the high,
restless laughter of the very young lady in the daring gown, and asked, “Who is
that, pray?”

Mrs. Latchmore sniffed. “That would be Lady Caroline
Ponsonby, part of the Devonshire House ménage. The duchess brought that horrid
style back from Paris, but no unmarried girl ought to wear such a thing here.”

“Except that one is,” Amelia pointed out, quite reasonably,
Kitty thought.

Mrs. Latchmore observed in an angry undertone that if Miss
Pert had any more to offer on such a topic, she could speak it in Brook Street,
and they would depart at once.

Providentially, the shy young Sir Oliver Standish approached
Amelia just then. And as the baronet had not only recently inherited his title
but a vast fortune, Mrs. Latchmore’s manner altered remarkably.

A stir went through the company, heads turning sharply
enough for feathers in headdresses to twitch and bob. Kitty leaned out to see
what attracted the eye. In the center of a party of gentlemen was the
now-recognizable figure of Mr. Brummel, not very tall, his hair rather more
sandy than brown, but his evening dress was faultless. Equally faultless, and a
hand taller, was Mr. Philip Devereaux. Kitty looked away so that she would not
be caught staring twice.

Clarissa caught her cousin’s eye and they nodded at one
another across the room. A familiar high titter drew Kitty’s attention to the
pair of young ladies entering the ballroom arm in arm, followed by a third.
Lucretia Bouldeston stood next to a tall, thin young woman whose gown of cream
figured muslin was even more lavishly trimmed than Lucretia’s. Clarissa
recognized Miss Fordham. Lucasta trailed them, her chin elevated as her gaze darted
this way and that.

The three young ladies expertly crossed in front of the
gentlemen just entered, forcing them to give way. Clarissa observed how Miss
Fordham, who had the habit of speaking with the assurance of one who is very
well aware of her large dowry, addressed the gentlemen in such a way as to
cause five bows.

Lucretia then laid her fan on Mr. Devereaux’ arm. Kitty and
Clarissa could not hear her words, only the high titter that accompanied them,
but they saw the gentleman bow again most politely.

A string of newly arrived ladies passed between the little
group and Clarissa, who had made a private wager within herself that Lucretia
had been hinting for an invitation to dance, a hint to which she was almost
certain her cousin would be blind. A peculiar sense of having been there before
assailed her, and she recovered the exact circumstances of her first observation
of Lucretia Bouldeston, in this very room four or five years ago.

Miss Bouldeston had laid her fan on the arm of Cousin Philip
in exactly the same manner as she threw out a broad hint about whether it was
possible for such a tall gentleman to accommodate his steps to one who Nature
had sadly given delicate form. Was that before or after this secret engagement
with Kitty’s brother?

A shift in the colorful gowns and fine blue coats, and there
was Cousin Philip himself, bowing politely to Mrs. Latchmore, Kitty, and Amelia
as he held out his hand to Clarissa. “Would you like to take a turn before it’s
impossible to move?” he asked her, smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, and rose.

They had just joined the forming dance when Lucretia confronted
Kitty. “Well, my sweetest Catherine,” Lucretia said. “Good evening, Miss Amelia!
Catherine, do you find pleasure in your first visit to Almack’s?”

“Good evening, Lucretia. I do.”

“Catherine, may I make you known to my dear friend, Miss
Fordham? Lady Catherine Decourcey. You look positively ravishing, Catherine,”
Lucretia went on as she helped herself to Clarissa’s chair, and Miss Fordham
took Amelia’s as the latter jumped up in response to a partner approaching to
dance. “You must be permitting Miss Harlowe to guide you in your choice in
gowns,” Lucretia said to Kitty. “A wise decision, as you look delightfully.”

“Miss Harlowe has excellent taste,” Kitty said warmly.

The conversation flowed along, Lucretia wreathing with
compliments a great many questions about the Harlowes, until here was Clarissa
again, with Mr. Devereaux.

Lucretia flicked out her fan and applied it prettily,
saying, “Miss Harlowe, I relinquish your seat. You look refreshed for the
exercise, and one does get tired of forever sitting, I was just saying to Miss
Fordham and dearest Catherine. To move about just now would be the most welcome
thing in the world, would it not, Mr. Devereaux?”

He bowed, then said to Kitty, “If you are tired of sitting,
perhaps I may claim that promised dance?”

Kitty was so surprised she scarcely remembered to speak the
proper thanks as they walked out to join the nearest line. Because of the
crowd, the lines must of necessity form closer together. Though no one likes a
crowd, at least this way partners could converse while waiting to move.

“Does Almack’s meet your expectations, Lady Catherine?”

“The rooms are not precisely
distinqué,
as my father used to say, but we are here to dance, and
not to admire the wainscoting. Or perhaps everyone is here to admire one
another,” she amended.

A movement of the dance revealed the beautiful Mrs.
Bouversie, who was living out of wedlock with Lord Robert Spencer.

When Philip Devereaux saw the direction of her glance, he
was aware of sharp disappointment. But so far, Lady Catherine had not uttered
the same threadbare comments or allusions that he had been hearing all his
life. And so he said, “Are you acquainted?”

“With whom?” she asked, looking surprised. He was surprised
by the sense of relief that he had misjudged. She went on, “I beg pardon for
being inattentive. I was just thinking...”

“Will you share your thoughts?” he asked. Now would be the
time to conform to the expected—for which no one should be faulted. Human
nature was predictable. That was a part of order. It was no one’s fault but his
own that he found himself so easily bored.

She said, “I wonder if it is in our natures to be always
thinking something other than what one is doing? For example, my brothers and I
were used to play a game when we were small, called Guess.”

This was nothing he had expected, after all. “Guess?”

“Perhaps we will sound ill-behaved,” she said as they paced
in a sedate circle, then performed their turn. “I am from the country, so I am
still learning what people in London society talk about and what they do not.”
A quick glance, full of mischief, but also question.

“Go on. You played a game called ‘Guess.’”

“We played it when the homily in church was especially long
and dull, or when my grandmother expected us to sit in the parlor in our best
clothes, in expectation of some friend of hers who dared to darken our unhallowed
door. Though that was less exciting, because we had only the family portraits
on which to exercise our imaginations, which, you know, do not change themselves,
whereas at church, there were many people to choose from. But however, shall I
demonstrate, rather than explain the rules?”

The line had clumped up again. “Please do,” he said, grateful
to discover himself mildly entertained.

He was not entertaining to her, but she knew he never had to
be. No one, gentleman or lady, who was much sought needed to be. He listened,
he tried to be agreeable. That was all she hoped for.

“At first we used to guess at their lives, but we found it
more fun to make up new lives entirely for them. For example, see that
gentleman with the old-fashioned tie-wig, and the hair powder?” Mr. Devereaux
glanced at the gentleman in question, and recognized the retired Col.
Parkinson, who was pontificating lengthily to his partner, no doubt on his
favorite subject, the superiority of army over navy.

“He is contemplating challenging
him
.” Kitty’s laughing glance pegged the shy young Sir Oliver, two
couples down the line. “To a duel over the fine eyes of that lady.” Her glance
picked out the Duchess of Gordon, whose arrogance had made her infamous. She,
too, wore the new French fashion, having recently returned from Paris—rumor
having it she had attempted unsuccessfully to secure Eugène de Beauharnais for
one of her daughters.

He laughed aloud at the unexpectedness of the contrast. “Are
you acquainted with the lady?” he asked.

Kitty’s eyes flashed up in surprise. “I am not. It would be
horrid if I were. I mean to say, I shouldn’t make up things if I knew her at
all, or even knew
of
her. That was
the fun of it, we had no notion of the true lives of the persons in question.
Sometimes I play the game inside my own head when I have to sit very quietly
somewhere, or I plan my... Perhaps it was very ill-bred,” she finished
contritely.