Sedition (22 page)

Alathea, holed beneath the water, joined Annie on the piano stool. Annie moved along. Usually, when they touched at the keyboard it was entirely professional, but now Alathea pressed against her, her whole length shaking. Annie felt the shaking, its strength betraying Alathea’s weakness, though Annie had no idea what had brought this weakness about. For a moment she allowed the pressure. For another moment she returned it. This was what she had longed for. Alathea was not detached at all. She needed a prop and Annie was that prop, offering everything again, though Alathea had everything already. But an inner voice whispered “Beware.” Alathea was changeable. Before Annie’s arms had opened, she might be withdrawing, detaching; then Annie would be left exposed. And there was something else. Annie could still see her father’s hand raised to strike her. Her detachment had beaten him, left him standing with the lever raised, helpless as a baby. She understood detachment’s power now and she understood more clearly than ever before that she would be a fool to give up such power. Neither she nor Alathea were fools. She moved away. “The gigue,” she said. “Variation 7. I’ll play, you dance.” She gave Alathea a small push.

Alathea got off the stool. Not knowing what else to do, she danced.

FIFTEEN

The girls were surprised to receive an invitation from Marianne to come to Stratton Street. It was Sunday—the second Sunday in November—there were no pianoforte lessons. The weather had deteriorated and the day was miserable. The Frogmorton carriage called for Georgiana, and she and Harriet arrived together. Georgiana was cheerful—like a real friend, thought Harriet with pleasure.

Alathea arrived on foot, the bottom of her skirt clodded with mud. She had debated, right to the door, whether she would go. She could tell Annie had not wanted her to. They had agreed, though, that Alathea might discover how far Monsieur had got in his seductions, and introduce the idea of turning the tables. If the girls liked the idea, they would have to get practicing. Nevertheless, Alathea wished the invitation had not come. She did not feel up to it. Worse, she no longer quite trusted herself. She might give away her weakness. She walked fast to try to drum up some energy and was at the front door more quickly than anticipated. “Goodness me, you never walked!” admonished Marianne as Alathea dragged dirt over checkered marble. Marianne was bristling. She had hardly been able to wait for today. She had something very important to say.

The previous Wednesday, after dressmakers’ fittings (all conducted separately, even Marianne’s and Everina’s, since sisters as well as mothers wished to surprise, or possibly outdo, each other on the concert night), she and Everina had been practicing Variation 8, which they were to share. Everina could not keep up with Marianne. Marianne refused to slow down. They never ended up together. Frustrated by the music and fed up with being queened over, Everina had blurted out that she didn’t care about the music: she was doing other things with Monsieur.

“What sort of other things?” Marianne immediately asked.

“Things that are usually very, well, very nice,” Everina said. She could not think of the best word. She tried again. “
Loverlike
. Special things, just for us.” She wanted Marianne to feel left out.

Marianne’s long jaw dropped. “Are you saying he treats you like a wife?”

“Oh no!” said Everina. “Not like a
wife
. Like a lover.”

Marianne closed her jaw. “That’s disgusting.”

“Not at all. It’s to help with my marriage.”

“Is that what he’s told you?”

“It’s true.”

“For goodness’ sake! Have you told Mama?”

Everina stopped crowing. “Of course not, Marianne, and you mustn’t say anything either.” She backtracked slightly. “The thing is, I’m not absolutely sure what he does. It’s certainly not disgusting. In any case, please don’t tell Mama.”

Marianne demanded details. Everina refused. Marianne insisted. She almost begged, and in the end, Everina, unable to resist, embroidered and fantasized through a panoply of euphemisms. Marianne was a perfect audience. By the time Everina had finished, Marianne was speechless and Everina for once felt superior.

At nine o’clock on Thursday morning, Marianne accosted Monsieur. Why was she being done out of these special things, these loverlike delights, these throes of ecstasy, these fields of bliss? Was she not as pretty as Everina? She certainly had better teeth. It was too bad, and unless he showed her these things straightaway she would tell their mother and father.

Monsieur expressed shock. What had Mademoiselle Everina been saying? What could she mean? He became coy. Had mademoiselle not heard of his, his er, his affliction? She looked blank. He tried to explain. She laughed. What nonsense. Monsieur regarded her. He swallowed. Well, now was a good a time as any. “Mademoiselle,” he said. “Can I be frank with you?”

“Frank as you please.”

He picked his words. “You wish me to…”

She had the grace to blush slightly. “I only want what Everina had—is having.”

“You wish that from me?”

“Look, Monsieur Belladroit. I know what’s to be done when I marry. Mama has told me about the making of babies. But Everina says what you do is different. She says it’s not about making a child. She says it’s French.”

“The French are your enemies.”

“Not in everything,” said Marianne. “We drink French wine. Harriet has some French shoes. And you’re not our enemy or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Mademoiselle—”

“I know I’m to marry an Englishman. I just want to feel this French feeling first and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have what Everina’s having. After all, I am the elder.” She stood, a lumpy shadow among the lumpy furnishings, hands on lumpy hips. “I’m waiting, Monsieur.”

Monsieur sighed. Never again would he agree to seduce a gaggle of girls. Marianne had nothing, not even Everina’s earthy humor. He did not want to take her now, with weeks still to go, in case, like Everina, she demanded repeat performances. He had planned to do her on the Thursday before the concert, once only. But here she was, immovable. Nothing for it. He got up, faced her to the wall to avoid her breath, planted each of her palms against the green flock, and raised her skirt. “Brace yourself,” he said. He undid himself. His fingers performed a perfunctory exploration. There? Or there? There. Serve her right. A maneuver. A jerk. Another. Over.

It was not as her mother had described, it was not as Everina had described, and it was certainly not as she had expected. She gave a shriek and turned around, her jaw clenched. “That was horrible.”

“I’m sorry. That’s how it is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Maybe marriage will not suit you, mademoiselle, for I am sure your husband, particularly if he is a wise man, will do exactly the same as I.”

She began to cry. Everina must be deranged to enjoy such a thing. She could not resume her lesson as she could not sit down. She hobbled down the stairs. Once home again, she brooded. On Friday, she wrote to summon Harriet, Georgiana, and Alathea, and here they were.

Ordering a maid to clean the marble and fearful for the carpet, Marianne nevertheless hurried Alathea up the stairs and into the sitting room. The room had been turned into a wedding store. Two trousseaus of dresses, chemises, undergarments, nightgowns, jackets, gloves, hats, shawls, feathers, shoes, and stockings were laid out. On a table under the window, silk-threaded needles were ready to embroider whatever initials might be required—an abundance of scarlet, in case of coronets. Two empty chests had already been marked “Small Wedding Presents.”

Everina, in maroon, had plumped herself on top of a traveling hatbox near the fire. Alathea, brushing the last of the mud from her plain black skirt, settled on a chair strung about with stockings. Marianne eyed Alathea’s skirt anxiously and removed the new stockings. She rang the bell. Georgiana, sitting next to Harriet, surprised herself by observing, only half joking, that the laundry aspect improved the room.

As they waited for tea and fancies, Harriet remarked on the trousseaus, surmising that Marianne wanted to talk about what they would wear for the concert. The girls respected their mothers’ secrecy, but their dresses, still in the early stages of construction, were a source of anxiety. What their mothers thought suitable and what the girls thought attractive might not coincide and the dressmaker would always side with the mother.

“I’m set on gold, though Mama says no,” Harriet confided. “Mama thinks gold is too old but I think it suits me.”

“I don’t know,” said Everina, envious of the bridal nightwear their mother had ordered for Marianne and determined hers would be a match. “Gold can be fetching.” It would not hurt Everina if Harriet looked older than her years.

Marianne did not join in; nor, when the tray arrived, did she serve the tea. Instead, she motioned the servants away, stood before the fireplace, and prepared to scandalize. “I’ve asked you here to discuss Monsieur Belladroit’s behavior,” she said.

“What?” said Harriet.

Everina giggled. Marianne glowered. “It’s not funny.”

“Tea?” Alathea rose and busied herself. She would take charge of spirit stove and kettle. It would settle her.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” said Marianne sharply.

“Cake?” Alathea said, pressing a plate on her.

“Can’t you sit down?” Marianne barked.

“In a moment.” Alathea made the tea and handed it around. She then handed around the cake, offering more to Marianne, who refused with a violent shake of her head. Finally, Alathea set her own cup and plate on a table.

“If you’re quite finished acting as maidservant,” Marianne said with angry irony, “I’ll tell you that Monsieur Belladroit…” She wanted to gesticulate but her hands were full of cup, saucer, and plate.

“What of him?” asked Harriet.

Marianne dumped her crockery on the floor. She could not think of eating. “Monsieur Belladroit has been giving Everina more than pianoforte lessons.”

Everina half choked. She, too, had thought Marianne wanted to talk about dresses. That’s what Marianne had told her. Georgiana, whose decision to eat cake had been hard enough, froze, mouth open. Crumbling cake between index finger and thumb, Alathea watched.

Harriet felt Georgiana’s shock. Georgiana was aware, of course, that Monsieur had propositioned Harriet, but Everina? Harriet was quite shocked herself. When Harriet turned Monsieur down, it was for Georgiana’s sake. She did not realize all the girls were in his sights. He plummeted in her estimation.

Marianne moved away from the fire. “I see you all know what I mean.”

Harriet made a vague gesture. “More than pianoforte lessons?” It was hard to think of anything proper to say.

“Don’t pretend, Harriet.” Marianne glared around. “And it’s not only Everina, is it? I mean”—she breathed and flushed slightly, remembering Wednesday—“he’s been at…”

Everina was still choking. Alathea got up and patted her on the back. “He’s been at all of us. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“You too?” Marianne asked.

Alathea hardly moved her head. As with her father, it could have meant yes or no. She felt more herself as she took command. Monsieur had clearly had Marianne and Everina. Had he actually had Georgiana? Alathea calculated from the stunned expression on Georgiana’s face that the answer was yes. Harriet? Harriet didn’t move her legs. Her mouth didn’t quirk. No. Harriet was so far untouched. Surprising. Alathea’s estimation of Harriet went up.

Everina recovered herself. “I don’t believe Monsieur’s had anybody but me. He loves me. He said so.”

At the word “love” Georgiana wilted. Harriet squeezed her hand. “Love? What are you talking about?” Marianne filled the room with her noisy complaint. “What Monsieur did wasn’t anything to do with love. It wasn’t even nice, and not remotely what you said, Everina. Nothing like fireworks, and you never told me you had to face the wall. If that’s really what the French like, Harriet’s mama’s right to hate them.”

“You traitor!” Everina was on her feet. “What I told you was private. How dare you! And … and”—she was choking again—“all I can say is that if he had you, you must have bribed or blackmailed him. He would never have betrayed me otherwise.”

“Betrayed? You think he’s in love with you? You must be stupider than I thought.” Marianne planted her feet wide.

Everina squared up to her. “Did he say ‘I love you’ to you? Did he use those words?”

“What does it matter what he said.
I’m
saying he’s had us all.”

“Do stop shouting,” begged Harriet.

Everina ignored her. She glared at Marianne. “Even if he has had us all, you said what he did to you was horrible, which means he doesn’t love you. I enjoy myself every time, so that means he does love me.” Entirely persuaded by her own argument, she sat back on the hatbox. “And if he doesn’t love you, Marianne, you’ve cheapened yourself.”

“Cheapened myself?” Marianne could hardly get the words out. “How cheap does this affair make you?”

“Please,” begged Harriet again, but was interrupted by Georgiana, propelled by shock into unexpected life.

“Every time?” she said, her voice high. “You enjoy yourself every time, Everina? You mean you’ve done it often?”

Both Marianne and Everina turned toward her. “Every time I have a lesson,” said Everina with some triumph. Marianne snorted.

Georgiana clung to Harriet’s hand. “Every lesson! Monsieur and Everina do it every lesson!”

“Really every lesson, Everina?” Harriet said, patting Georgiana’s arm and, with a distinct shake of her head, encouraging Everina to revise her tally downward.

Everina refused. “Yes, every lesson.”

“When did it start?”

“Oh, I don’t remember exactly. Weeks ago.”

Georgiana raised her head. “After the holiday?”

“Yes, after the holiday. September time, so you can see that Monsieur does love me, can’t you, Georgiana?”

Harriet kept a firm hold of Georgiana’s hand. “I think Marianne may be right that love doesn’t have much to do with it,” she said.

“Obviously not with Marianne,” agreed Everina. “I mean, he can’t love a person if he makes them face the wall. I never do that. He’s never even suggested it.”