The Last Pleasure Garden (21 page)

‘You both look like a pair of mermaids,' says Mr. Perfitt, as the two women finally settle, the backs of their dresses, tied with tulle ribbons, artfully arranged to one side.

‘It is the fashion, Papa,' exclaims Rose. ‘Don't tease.'

‘I expect your father means we are fascinating creatures, Rose,' says Mrs. Perfitt, with a rather cutting glance at her husband.

‘Goes without saying. You both look most becoming, I assure you.'

Mrs. Perfitt's look softens. Her husband, meanwhile, gives the word and the hired barouche goes at a leisurely pace along the length of the Fulham Road. It is nightfall by the time they reach Hans Place – an oval of rather grand houses in Brompton – around which a procession of carriages is already queuing for the narrow drive that leads to the Prince's Club. In the gas-light, Mrs. Perfitt peers at the vehicles ahead. Many of them have heraldic crests emblazoned upon their doors and, at the end of the drive, there is a grand landau with twin powdered footmen at the rear. Mr. Perfitt cannot help but observe his wife's gaze and whispers in her ear.

‘Sorry, Caroline. I could only run to the coachman. And he doesn't come cheap.'

‘Charles, really!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt.

At last the barouche enters the courtyard of the Prince's Club and allows the Perfitts to alight. The club itself is of the sporting kind: a home to cricket
matches and rackets tournaments. Its members are a famously select body, picked from the best families in Brompton and Belgravia. On occasion, however, it allows its buildings and grounds to be appropriated to the purposes of a charity ball, and its exclusivity is temporarily diminished. Such lapses are, of course, quite laudable. Whether the guests to such occasions, having paid for their tickets, then think much about charity is another matter.

Certainly Rose Perfitt appears more impressed by her surroundings than any such abstract notion, and gives little thought to the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity, in whose honour the ball is staged. For the hall in which they eventually gather has been laid out in breathtaking style. Indeed, the building itself, known as the Pavilion, a rather grand converted mansion, is quite impressive at the best of times, when no great effort has been made. Inside, however, rows of palms now conceal the wainscoting and regular furniture has been replaced by rout seats. Doors have been unhinged and mysteriously transformed into hangings of gossamer-thin muslin; a crystal fountain gushes in front of the main stairs, sparkling in the light of a dozen candelabras, which themselves supplement the colourful Chinese lanterns that hang from the ceiling. In short, it is a spectacle to gladden the heart of the most hard-hearted suppressor of mendicants.

It is unlucky, then, that the first person to greet the Perfitts, as Mrs. Perfitt strains to see her bosom friend Alice Watson, does not seem at all enthusiastic. It is Mrs. Bertha Featherstone, who emerges effortlessly from the crowd, dressed in black, as is her custom. Her only concession to gaiety are a small pair of jet earrings, that only serve to add to the drabness of her costume.

‘Ma'am,' she exclaims, accosting Caroline Perfitt, ‘how good to see you and your delightful family here.'

Mrs. Perfitt stops short, torn between appropriate politeness and a desire for superior company. ‘Mrs. Featherstone. You are here for the ball?'

The question has an unfortunate hint of incredulity about it, but fortunately one that appears lost on its addressee.

‘The Reverend is a governor of the Society, ma'am. We are rather obliged. I confess, I was not quite certain if I could bring myself to come, after our recent misfortune. But the Reverend insisted I rouse myself.'

‘I am so glad,' says Mrs. Perfitt, though seemingly a little distracted. ‘Oh, Rose – there is Beatrice Watson just gone by and she has no idea we are here. Do go and find out where her dear mother is – I must see her dress.'

Rose needs no prompting to speak to her friend. Before anyone else may speak, Mrs. Perfitt begins again. ‘Charles – on reflection, I had best go with her. But what was it you said you must ask Mrs. Featherstone? I am sure there was something.'

Charles Perfitt struggles with a reply, as his wife and daughter disappear into the throng.

‘I just wondered, ma'am,' he manages at last, turning to the clergyman's wife, ‘how is your husband keeping?'

The Reverend Featherstone, in fact, stands alone upon the balcony that runs around the hall of the Pavilion, observing the gathering crowd, listening to the gentle babble of excited chatter amongst the ladies, leavened by the occasional guffaw that bursts forth from a
rotund, military-looking man by the stairs. If his eyes fix anywhere, however, it is upon a certain mother and daughter, as they find their way round the hall; his eyes fix upon them, and do not let them go.

T
he hour for dancing is ten o'clock. It is clearly marked upon the programmes distributed to ladies upon their arrival in the Pavilion. Unfortunately, this knowledge does little to quell Rose Perfitt's eagerness to begin. Thus, waiting in the ball-room, she repeatedly quizzes her father for the correct time and pays little heed to conversation between her mother and Alice Watson. The one thing upon her mind is the dance and, indeed, the only thing that fully commands her attention are introductions to prospective partners. And there are several such gentlemen that fall into the Watsons' circle – friends of the Watson family; a business acquaintance of her own father; a second cousin of her mother. In each case, Rose diligently takes up her pencil, attached to her programme by a red ribbon, and writes their name against the dance of her choosing. One, it transpires, is a naval officer; she reserves the lancers for him, perhaps in some unconscious idea of a military connection; for the younger men she sets aside the galops; for the older gentlemen – those of twenty-five years or more – she selects the more sedate waltzes. It is not long before a dozen arrangements are made and Rose's card is filled until midnight. The particular men are of little
consequence to Rose herself, for she would gladly partner an automaton if it gave her the opportunity to dance upon the polished boards of a grand ballroom. Mrs. Perfitt, however, is rather a different matter. She sits with her daughter, sipping iced champagne, and looks over Rose's card with a discerning eye, one that replaces each dance with an estimate of the annual income, respectability and future prospects of the man whose name sits beside it. It grieves her that none quite meets her expectations.

At last, the band takes to the raised platform at the end of the ball-room, seating themselves beneath the purple satin canopy draped from the ceiling. They are military men in uniform, reputedly the string band of the Royal Artillery, and try Rose's patience by commencing upon ‘God Save the Queen'. But once the anthem is complete, the master of ceremonies demands that sets be formed for the first quadrille of the evening. Whilst Rose Perfitt happily accepts the arm of her companion for the dance, her mother remains seated.

‘You would not care to dance with your husband?' asks Charles Perfitt.

‘Later, if I may, Charles. I prefer to watch,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, observing her daughter as she curtsies to her partner. ‘I must say, I was not at all sure about her hair, but it has turned out just as I should like it.'

‘She looks a picture,' replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘Quite the belle of the ball.'

‘Tell me again, Charles, who is that young man?'

‘A junior broker. Nephew of old Chantry, I think.'

Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘No, he will not do at all,' she says, in a hushed voice.

‘Seems to know the steps.'

‘You know precisely what I mean,' replies Mrs. Perfitt.

‘I won't have Featherstone announce the banns next week, then, eh?' replies Mr. Perfitt.

‘Do not joke, Charles, please,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, with no humour in her voice whatsoever, smoothing the grey silk of her dress.

‘I am doing my best, Caroline, under the circumstances. I am sorry, but I cannot help thinking of other matters.'

Mrs. Perfitt frowns.

‘I'm sorry, my dear,' she says, squeezing her husband's hand.

The band of the Royal Artillery calls a temporary halt to proceedings at the stroke of midnight. After two hours in a state of almost continual motion, Rose Perfitt appears content to separate from a certain City gentleman – of whose precise name she is rather uncertain, without reference to her card – and to return to her family.

‘You look a little fatigued, Rose,' says Mrs. Perfitt, straightening a stray lock of her daughter's coiffure.

‘I am quite all right, Mama,' replies Rose, although truthfully there is at least a pink blush to her cheeks.

‘A bite to eat, I think,' suggests Mr. Perfitt, ‘build our strength if we are to meet all Rose's engagements for the evening. How many is it, my dear?'

‘Six more, Papa,' replies Rose, perusing her programme with the air of a connoisseur, the names of six more partners already in black and white.

‘Come then, this way,' exclaims Mr. Perfitt, directing his wife and daughter in the direction of the supper-room.

A ball supper, as with most things that arise from necessity, is never the most relaxing affair. The supper-room
laid on at the Prince's Club proves no exception. It is large enough to accommodate no more than fifty but, at the cessation of the dancing, it finds itself obliged to cope with almost five hundred. And, although the buffet is elegant and the company terribly polite, there is the inevitable heated overcrowding as gentlemen compete to retrieve the best of the game pie, whilst ladies tactfully strive to find suitable seats. For some, the omnipresent aroma of lobster salad becomes too overpowering, and they give up the notion of sustenance altogether; for others, the Perfitts included, seating simply cannot be found, and so they retire to a lamp-lit conservatory at the side of the building.

There they discover that a few small groups have also found refuge under its glass roof. Seated on wicker chairs, the Perfitts are swiftly joined by Mrs. Alice Watson and her daughter Beatrice. The night is still warm enough, thankfully, to enjoy the chilled champagne and what titbits of food can be salvaged. Thus, whilst the elders discuss the merits of the Royal Artillery Band, and Rose and her friend discuss the merits of their respective partners, a good hour or so is beguiled until the dancing is about to recommence.

The relevant announcement is made by a liveried footman, who appears at the door to the conservatory, looking rather weary. But before the Perfitts can return to the ball-room, they are interrupted by the tentative approach of a young man of rather handsome appearance and neat dress. Mrs. Watson effects an introduction and Rose's card soon bears one last name, destined for the penultimate waltz of the evening.

When the gentlemen in question departs, Mrs. Alice Watson leans over to Caroline Perfitt and whispers in her ear.

‘My dear, what a stroke of luck! Poor Bea is so jealous! Do you know who that young man is?'