The Privilege of the Sword (5 page)

My uncle the Mad Duke was watching her, vastly diverted, and not offering to help. I realized I was watching her with the same fascination. It was not right. “How was the poetry?” I asked.

“Brilliant.” “Awful,” they said at the same time.

“It depends on your perspective.”

“It depends on your brains.”

“The most discerning brain could find nothing to catch and hold on to in those babblings.”

“What—the articulation of the
soul
holds no interest for you?”

“As a matter of fact, it doesn’t.”

I wished I had not missed the poetry. I had thought a great deal about my soul in the past year.

“One wonders, then,” the duke said to her, “why you are here at all, since you don’t like poetry, and you don’t know how to dress for a party.”

“I come, of course, for the food. Here.” She held out her hand, with the squashed and sticky half a bonbon. I could actually watch him making up his mind whether or not to take it. From his sleeve the duke pulled out a clean handkerchief. He pincered the candy in its folds, and turned to a passing gentleman who, at the touch of the duke’s hand on his arm, stopped with a pleased expression.

“Furnival,” the duke said engagingly, “I was wondering if you could take care of this for me?”

He didn’t even watch to see what the man did with it.

“Have you seen Marcus?” he asked his ugly friend.

“Yes, he was stopping some people in the Violet Room from climbing the curtains.”

“What for?”

“They were not professionals.”

“Oh.”

I could see my uncle the Mad Duke eyeing the asparagus on my plate. To forestall them making any further inroads on my supper, I picked up a green spear myself, and ate it as best I could without a fork. It suddenly occurred to me that asparagus was not in season.

I ate another. I realized that my nerves were partly hunger. I couldn’t remember the last thing I’d eaten; maybe some bread on the road. I had a vision of it always being like this: a house without rules, without regular meals, one that came alive only when it was full of guests, a house whose inmates had to inhabit the party world just to get something to eat. Impossible—or so I hoped. But it was even harder to imagine the mundane, us sitting down to dinner together and discussing the events of the day: what lands needed grazing, what room airing out and what servants correcting—I was suddenly brutally homesick. As if I’d eaten something tainted, I would gladly have sicked up this whole new life to get back the old.
Stop it,
I told myself sternly. I would not cry. Not here, not now—not at all. This was the world I’d wanted: the city, the parties, the glitter and gallants, fine clothes and rare company.

It would be better in the morning.

The Mad Duke had drifted off to make someone else’s life miserable. The ugly woman was gone in his wake like a seagull following a ship to scoop up what amusement he let fall.

I filled another plate, made myself small in the folds of a curtain, ate resolutely, and then found myself so tired there was nothing to do but wend my way back up the impressive stairs. My new friend was nowhere in sight; she’d probably gotten her brother Robert to take her home. I felt the little square of cardboard in my pocket, reassuring like a talisman. By some miracle, I found the door to my own room. The noises of the party roared around me like the sea.

chapter
IV

I
N THE MORNING, THERE WAS CHOCOLATE.

Betty seemed recovered from the previous day’s excesses. She must not have been working the party. The tray barely rattled as she set it down by the bed, and a heavenly rich scent filled the room.

I got up at once to engage with the little pot of bitter chocolate, set out with an entire jug of hot cream, as much sugar as I should care to put into it and, oh, the loveliest china cup to mix it in! I wished my mother were there to share it with me. I poured slowly, watching the cream swirl in the cup. It made the confusions and indignities of last night seem a little more worth it; I felt even better when Betty said, “And your new clothes have come, too.”

The chocolate was marvelous, but I gulped it down, assuring myself, There will be more again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and again the day after that. I was eager to get to the brown paper parcels piled at the foot of the bed. I unknotted the string myself, being careful to put it by to be used again. Fine white linen, some heavier blue; a little lace, good…no silk, no velvet, but maybe I would be fitted for ballgowns later. I shook out the blue: it was a tight, short linen jacket. Not a fashion I’d seen before; maybe a riding coat? It had a skirt to match—no, it was breeches. Breeches that buttoned up on either side, with a flap in the front.

I frowned. “Betty, are you sure these are for me?”

“Oh, yes, my lady. The duke sent them.”

“But they’re men’s clothes. I can’t put these on.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She chuckled. “I’ve helped a few fellows in and out of those, to be sure. I can dress you up all right and tight.”

“But—but I can’t wear these!”

“Why not, dearie?”

“They’re not—they’ve got—”

She unrolled stockings, white neck-cloths still in need of ironing, vests and jackets with heavy buttons and shirts with loose sleeves.

“See? They’re made specially to your measure sent beforehand, my dear; they’ll fit a treat.”

I could hardly bear to touch them. It wasn’t that I’d never handled men’s things before; I’ve mended my brothers’ often enough. But these were for me. I was to dress myself in what men wear. Stockings, neck-cloths, vests and jackets, with heavy buttons and loose sleeves—they were all wrong.

I said as calmly as I could, “They’re very nice things. But I will not wear them today. Please take out my blue flowered gown, and the yellow petticoat—”

“Oh, no, my lady. You’re to put these on right away, and go to your lesson.”

“Lesson?” I said sharply, remembering things like sketching and arithmetic, the lessons I’d had at home until we had to let my governess go, but doubting that was what she meant.

“Yes, that’s right; a proper swordmaster coming all the way to Tremontaine House, just to teach you.”

I felt my bargain closing in on me, tighter than neck-cloths and hard-buttoned jackets.

“Not today—surely not today, not yet—”

But of course it was today. He had told me it was. The duke owned me now, and I had agreed to it, weeks ago.

“I shall wear them in the house,” I said firmly, “if it pleases him. For my lessons.” But that, I secretly promised myself, was all.

So I let her pull the shirt over my head—clean, crisp linen that would have made the loveliest chemise!—and then the breeches—the buttons pulling closed flaps that were all that stood between me and the world, and nothing to hide my legs from anyone’s eyes but the short hang of the jacket and the coarse stockings that revealed in outline everything they covered. The jacket buttoned tightly; it was well tailored, flattening my breasts and clinging around my arms. Men’s clothing gripped me in places I did not want, showed me in ways I could not like, claimed me with strange bindings and unbindings.

I stood trembling, like a young horse being broken to saddle, as Betty’s fingers did the final buttons up. I would not look in the mirror. I couldn’t bear to see myself transformed into something neither boy nor girl. Was this what my uncle wanted? I hoped he would be satisfied, then!

Betty drew out a blue velvet ribbon, smiling conspiratorially as if it were a sugar cake. It was for my hair, to tie it back in a queue. I let her do it: wearing my hair unbound was not going to change me back.

“Now you’re all ready for your lesson. I’ll show you the practice-room, and by the time you’re done, I’ll have all these nice things tidied up and put away.”

I had left my last night’s party gown spread out upon the chair. Before she could collect it, I snatched from its pocket the pasteboard card my friend had given me, and stowed it well away in my jacket, a little piece of comfort nestling there.

When I moved, no swing of petticoats surrounded me. I had lost the protection of full skirts, the support of boned bodice. There was nothing for my hands to hide in. I felt the air on my legs as I moved. Cloth covered my skin, but still I was naked, exposed. Anyone could look at me, and see almost all of me!

A plum-colored cape peeked out of the brown paper; in desperation, I seized it and wrapped it around myself. At least it covered my knees.

“No, no, my lady, you won’t need to be going out of doors, His Grace has had a whole room made over, just for your practice.”

But I clutched the cape tight around myself. And so we ventured through the halls of Tremontaine House, Betty uncertain, as always, of where we were going, and I doing all I could to keep from looking in mirrors. It wasn’t easy. Frames were all over the gilded corridors, startling on walls and sudden turns; sometimes the frames contained still, painted pictures, and sometimes glass reflecting a window, a staircase or my own pale face. But even when I didn’t look, I knew. I was dressed as a man. I was wearing men’s clothes. They were like men’s eyes looking at me; like men’s eyes touching me. The cape came to just below my knees; if I’d let go of it, it would have swirled very nicely; it was well cut and full. But I held it tightly, like a blanket wrapped against the cold.

Betty kept up a frantic babble which I barely took in: she was grateful to the duke, unworthy of the position, knew a thing or two about ladies and never would mess with their husbands now, no, not if you forced her at swordspoint—

“Here.” At last she stopped. “It’s the double-doors with the wet rabbits on them.” Well, it was a reasonable description of the artfully painted woodland storm scene. Before she could fling them open, I knocked.

“Yes!” a man shouted. “Hurry up!”

He was standing in the middle of the huge, sunlit room. A thickset, muscled man, half-clothed, wearing only breeches and an open-collared shirt. He had a full black beard and bristling mustaches, like nothing I’d ever seen.

“How? How?” he demanded. “You are cold, you wear your bed-blanket?”

My fingers unclenched from the folds of the cloak. I let it fall to the floor. The man nodded curtly at me, and then at a rack of real swords.

“Pick one up. And I will show you how you do it wrong.”

His voice was so strange; I could barely recognize the words, the way they trilled and sang high and low in unexpected ways. “Come! Come! Venturus does not like to keep him waiting. Venturus have many many students are beg him for instruction. He must tell them, ‘No, no, I am not for you, I must be for the Mad Duke whose little boy does not even know to pick up the sword!’”

“I’m not a boy,” I said.

He shot me a look. “No? You are a rabbit? You have furry paws? Then pick me a sword!”

I grabbed the closest one.

He stood to one side, hands on his hips. “Good.” He nodded. “Oh, very good.” I began to feel a little less cold. “Very good—
if you are chopping up chicken!
” he thundered. “How you think you are defend yourself when you are need to change lines, eh?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. And I was too afraid to tell him that this was not the way you hold a knife to chop up chickens.

“Lines, change lines—shift the tip by you shift the wrist!”

I tried to, but the sword’s weight pulled against me until I turned the hilt in my hand; then I could move my fingers to direct the point better. He wouldn’t like that. I stared at the tip, refusing to look at him.

“Yes,” Venturus said. “Now you are see. You see—but you do not see!” With a sword in his hand, he suddenly struck my own blade so hard that my hand stung. My sword went flying.

“Ha!” he shouted triumphantly. I didn’t see that disarming a beginner was such a triumph. “Don’t grip so tight like you mama’s tit. Hold gentle, gentle—like you are hold a baby child, or a dog that bite.”

I tried not to laugh at the picture. When I held the sword more loosely, it flexed in my hand. “Ye-e-es,” he hissed contentedly. “Now you see.”

I smiled and, feeling not quite foolish, struck a swordsman’s pose.

Venturus screamed as if he had been lashed. “
Wha-a-at
you think you do with you legs? You arms? Do I give you permission to do that thing? I would not. I could not! No student of Venturus ever look like
this
.” His imitation of my pose looked like a rag doll strung with wires.

In a small voice I said, “I’m sorry.” I hate being made fun of.

“You know you sorry! Stupid duke-boy! Now you practice: practice holding, only holding. You like you kill someone now—maybe you kill Venturus, yes—but first, you hold! Ha!”

The weird foreigner flung a cloak around his shoulders.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I go see other students, students know how to listen to Venturus. You study to hold. Maybe tomorrow, I show how not to stand. Ha!”

And with a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.

I held the sword. Even after the door closed, I was not at all sure Master Venturus would not suddenly reappear through it, his mustaches bristling.