Feral Park (58 page)

It was the night of the ball, Midsummer Eve, and the Feral Park saloon was elaborately festooned. The guests came in curricles and phaetons and broughams, and some on horseback and a few, with no means of transport, walked. The moon was bright and the clouds that had threatened to darken the nocturnal paths of approach had cleared. Anna had put herself upon the front step even before the arrival of the first guest, and had stood listening to Mr. Dalrymple and his sons Dalwin and Darwin and Dowd tuning their instruments, whilst wondering how the evening would go during those moments in which her thoughts were not being directed by worry to Nancy and Sophia and how joyless this night would be for
them.
Anna’s heart broke, as well, for their sister Eliza, who was perhaps now living in a tree.

Yet, conversely, things had improved between Anna and her father. He had come to her apartments to wish her well and had complimented her ball gown, and had looked smart in his favourite Whig “uniform,” comprised of a dark blue coat with large brass buttons, leather breeches, top boots, and a starched white cravat, which put one to mind of Beau Brummel, who had fled the country to escape his creditors only the previous year but was still thought fashionably exemplary. It was an outfit which Mr. Peppercorn had not worn for over a decade, but which fitted him perfectly (once it was let out).

All was also now well between Anna and Mrs. Taptoe, who had come down to report that she had just passed Miss Pints in the up stairs gallery and that the young woman had never looked so lovely, and even Miss Drone with a French-styled coiffure would, Anna thought, have her Dr. Bosworthy asking for every other dance, when he was not taking aside whomever he could to tell of his better rabbit trap—just invented that morning—one that did not hurt the creature, and even held it in some comfort with benefit of carrots and cabbage until it could be released safely into the woods.

Mr. Waitwaithe and Lieutenant Alford were still in those woods themselves, with horn lanterns and a scent-hound, each determined not to give up their search for Eliza—the earnest quest having been prosecuted now for several long days. Even though the constable had abandoned hope of ever finding Miss Henshawe, these two would not allow themselves to subscribe even for a moment to the belief that she was lost for ever. The evening was filled with hope of other species as well. Gemma hoped to meet a man with at least one of his limbs missing, who would accept her and love her without prejudice. Anna hoped that Perry Alford would be released by Mrs. Pickler to attend the ball, even though it was much too soon, and although Miss Godby had won her own freedom by good behaviour and a vow never to drink again (and the fact of her having to marry that same morning), Mr. Alford’s was a different case. Laudanum was much more difficult to detach than wine, or even absinthe, although Anna had a craving even still for the company of her green friend.

When the Pickler carriage arrived—the very first of the evening—and delivered Samuel Denny, Mrs. Pickler’s nephew, Anna held her breath and closed her eyes and prayed that Perry would step out as well. But he did not. What a delightful surprize
that
would have been and what a disappointment that it was not to be. But there was still some surprize to be had, and it was provided by Mr. Denny. It took a long moment for Anna to trust her eyes: Samuel Denny was wearing the outfit of Mr. Colin Alford’s design and Mr. Groves’ stitching. From toe to head the look was this: shiny, well-polished yellow-top boots, stockings bulging from something placed within to enlarge and pronounce the calves, tucked into skin-tight breeches of the old style, and then above, hung upon the shoulders, a maroon jacket with piping and epaulettes, and framing about the neck a boldly-tied cravat of green, tinged with yellow. Anna blinked once and then again, for she could not discern that there was any thing worn beneath the jacket. The reason for this was simple: there
was
nothing there—only the bare chest and exposed belly of the wearer. “Gracious God!” said Anna to herself, “poor Mr. Denny’s dress is incomplete. He has forgotten to put on his shirt!” She was about to go to her sartorially deficient guest and spare him the mortification of his oversight through a whispered suggestion that he don a blouse of her father’s to prevent his being mistaken for Ali Baba or any of his forty thieves, when from out of the house came Mr. Colin Alford, dresst and adorned exactly as Mr. Denny!

“And how do you like it?” queried Colin with a grin of mischief. Turning this way and that, he added, “Recall that I predicted an evening of swooning— and faint-hearted pea-hen swooning there shall certainly be.” Then, pointing to his calves: “Note the enhancement of the sural region of the leg. Shew me a footman with larger and more luscious calves and I will eat his wig!”

“But Mr. Alford, I cannot permit my male guests to reveal their bare trunks in such a lewd fashion. To do so would be to countenance an egregious impropriety upon the dance floor. I should be the scandal and the disgrace of the parish, and my father as well!”

With the same mischievous smile: “Yet your father has seen the uniform I have designed and has approved of it.”

“I do not believe it.”

“I must admit that he had to be won over, but my argument was quite convincing and you shall hear it now: to-night the Three Whores Monkey Parlour will open its doors for the first time, and certain men of this parish will enter to drink beer and ogle at women wearing far less than what Mr. Denny and I have on. Where is there fairness in the fact that women in that lascivious establishment should be required to unrig themselves for the pleasure of men, but women
here
in Feral Park should not be permitted to take the same pleasure in observing their opposite numbers in—might I add again—far
less
a state of undress? I shall provide towels to pat away the perspiration upon the bodies of all of my men, so that those ladies who find it indecorous to dance with one who is perspiring upon his bare chest shall not be discomfited, but I can think of nothing else that could defeat my scheme.” Then, turning to Mrs. Pickler’s nephew: “Welcome to the Feral Park Fête Galante, my good man. As you are first to arrive, we shall have a quick drink together and toast the glorious evening that lies ahead!”

Mr. Alford promptly led Mr. Denny inside. As a woman, Anna could not dispute the logic. Her hands were tied. As she noticed other carriages rolling up the sweep, she thought to herself (and with some agitation), “It has not been for the ladies alone that the man-loving Mr. Alford had dresst his peacocks, but for himself, as well, for had he not once said that an ill-countenanced man may be largely redeemed by a well-sculpted body?” (And would not the ball be populated by anvil pounders and heaving graziers and sturdy, well-composed men of farm and field?)

Inside, Mr. Maxwell took his place to formally announce each of the guests as they stepped through the front door, their faces beaming brightly, their eyes taking in the hall with voracious glee. Names were called out as each came through and handed his or her card or whispered who they were: “MISS MARY CARTERET, KITCHEN MAID IN THE EMPLOY OF THISTLETHORN; MR. ATKINS WALTERS, DUNG CART DRIVER; MR. STEPHEN BADDLEY, SADDLER’S APPRENTICE; MR. ANTHONY HUGHES AND THE MISSES HUGHES, MR. REGGIE WHITESMITH AND
HIS
DAUGHTERS, WHO ARE ALL COMING OUT TONIGHT—BETTER NOW, SAYS HE, THAN NOT AT ALL.”

Down the main staircase came Miss Pints on the arm of Miss Drone, both looking handsome and all but regal in their presentation. Miss Pints had not even reached the bottom of the stairs when she caught sight of Mr. Denny and there was instant attraction, as if their hearts had already been assigned one to the other. Inexorably, the two moved toward each other, even in the midst of awkward ingenuousness and manifestations of abashment such as a leg wriggle on the part of Miss Pints and a hand tic on the part of Mr. Denny. It was the latter who spoke first. With a slight stutter he complimented Miss Pints on her gown—a cloud of white crepe with white spangles attending arms puffed by full Bishop’s sleeves. Tied round Miss Pints’ pencil-thin neck was a pink silk handkerchief. Ostrich feathers curled over her head and tickled the left eyelid.

Mr. Denny could not take his eyes off the most beautiful hare-lipped woman he had, no doubt, ever seen, and Miss Pints could not take her eyes from Mr. Denny’s firm and muscular he-chest, which had been tautened from years of lifting piglets and shoats. Nor could Miss Drone remove her own gaze—that is, until she noticed through one corner of her eye that Colin Alford was dresst in the same fashion, as were the other male guests who now arrived, each exhibiting a strange conflicting blend of timidity and prepossession, pavonine pride being a welcome component formerly missing from their customary makeup, since all had never been granted much to be proud of by way of aspect and countenance.

“I thought that this was to be an
ugly
ball!” effused Gemma privately to Anna, “but I have never seen so many dashing young male specimens gathered in one dance saloon. I should like to take them all home with me and give them cake!”

“Your turban is slipping backwards upon your head,” was all that Anna replied, whilst smiling indulgently. She would endure the evening, she vowed, and every thing odd that came her way, including Mrs. Taptoe’s jet mourning necklace, which had been clasped round her thick and age-wimpled neck for no discernable reason but want of taste. “I
must
bear it,” Anna reiterated in her head. “Otherwise I should be terminally wretched. I am responsible for this evening and so I should have known its potential for abnormality and peculiarity. Therefore, I will bear my burden with fortitude and sang-froid.”

Gemma made the adjustment to her turban and thanked Anna for bringing the defect to her attention. The headpiece was the topping complement to a very busy gown trimmed in a forest of satin leaves and a crowded garden of satin roses, similar to Anna’s but for the clutter. To one standing across the room, though, the two gowns appeared nearly the same. It had always been Gemma’s dream to attend a ball in a dress identical to that worn by her best friend and now sister. There were differences to be noted here, which prevented the full “topsy twin” effect: Anna’s gloves did not contain petals to match the gown, but studded pearls, instead, and Anna’s petticoat was hidden, whereas Gemma’s was exposed at the bottom and excessively trimmed to extend the look of the gown. Anna’s turban was also of a different colour: a robin’s egg blue. Anna looked at herself in the pier glass for the first time since she had completed her toilette in front of her dressing glass up stairs and smiled to see her own turban sitting so well upon her head. “Sometimes,” thought Anna, “things go exactly as you wish them. I am beginning to feel much better about the evening.”

Then the dancing began. It was Gemma who started it, welcoming everyone with full and open arms and then clapping her hands together and announcing in a broad voice: “Ladies and gentlemen! Let us have a tarantella!”

Anna had not been informed that there was to be a tarantella. Moreover, she did not know how to dance it. Indeed, she had never before even
seen
a tarantella, but she was very much in the minority, as nearly everyone who would dance that evening stepped out upon the floor and then in time with the music began to execute the practised figures taught them by Colin Alford as if they had been dancing the Mediterranean dance all of their lives. Even Mr. and Mrs. Epping flew by, all smiles and gaiety, whirling and twirling in the circular set.

“Most extraordinary!” pronounced Dr. Bosworthy, who was now standing next to Anna so there would be someone to hear his commentary. “Our Mr. Alford must be setting out to give us every dance
never
danced at an English ball! And he begins with the tarantella. Put your hand upon your turban to hold it down, Miss Peppercorn, for this room will be a veritable windstorm in short order!”

As the dancers spun in their circle, Dr. Bosworthy related an abbreviated history of the dance. When he was done, Anna took up a particular point: “I do not understand how women of that village could ever think that spinning themselves in a frenzy would cure them of spider poison.” At this moment the tempo of the music picked up and together the dancers turned to go against the clock. With astonishment Anna was given to append her comment with the question: “How did everyone know to change direction in that way?”

“Mr. Alford is a good teacher. Now watch when the music goes even faster. They will all turn once again and then go
with
the clock. The fact of the matter is that venom of the tarantula—or wolf spider as some call it—is not deadly at all. One wonders if the dance was merely a means by which the female residents of Taranto could ignore the proscriptions placed by the local priests upon dancing.”

“I should like to try it,” said Anna, seduced by the music. “Be my partner, Dr. Bosworthy.”

“I rarely dance, my dear.”

“But I know that you would
like
to. I note the twinkle in your eye.”

The twinkle did not lie, and Anna and Dr. Bosworthy joined the circle, which was now spinning madly to the music of Darwin’s violin and Dowd’s mandolin. It took a moment for Anna and her partner to learn the figure, but once they did, they performed as well as any of the others. When the song was done, there was an accounting of the casualties: three female dancers had spun themselves into temporary unconsciousness, and a baker’s assistant could not stop his momentum and pitched himself into a wall and bruised his hand, but that was the worst of it. Overall, there was a happy fatigue of a sort never before experienced at a country ball or even in the most animated assembly in Bath.