To Have and To Hold

Madam Pearl De Vere wanted me to look eye-catching on the night of the ball and provided a new gown for the occasion. Its hand-embroidered satin and plunging neckline flattered my slim waist and hips, without drawing excessive attention to my cleavage. I had no reason to advertise my wares.

   “Tighter, Eliza!” I said, as she strained behind me. “Pull with all your might!”

   “That’s as tight as tight can be, Miss Teresa.” 

By the time Eliza had secured all the laces and buttons, and powdered my tresses, it was time to leave, but not before Pearl inspected me.

   “One last touch, Tessie,” she said, wafting a perfume atomiser near my face. 

   I flinched as the acrid droplets stung my eyelids.

   “Hmmm…” she said, admiring her handiwork. “Maybe a bit more cleavage?”

   “Excuse me, miss,” said Eliza, cantilevering my bust. “This should do it.”

   “Perfect! We don’t want admirers thinking you’re a Mennonite.”

   “You’ll turn every head in the ballroom, miss.”

   “Remember, you’re still on the game, my dear.”

   “Miss Teresa,” said Mister De Vere in his falsetto whisper, “don’t you wish to see what you look like?”

   “No,” I said, eager to take my leave and be with Gabriel. In a matter of days, he’d be out of my life, and the thought of taking another lover was repugnant.

   “Pearl, what will happen when Gabriel leaves London?”

   “I’ll have to find you another gentleman.”

   “And if I don't want one?”

   “Then, my dear,” she said, hardening her voice, “there’s always the street.”

   My trembling lips said more than I could utter as my head drooped.

   “We need willing girls here, Tessie. Now, chin up, smile, and be enchanting.”

   A carriage was waiting outside. Mister Bartholomew, dressed in a crimson frock-coat, opened the door and offered his hand. I told myself not to think about Gabriel's departure, but to concentrate on the moment. If I wanted a reminder of the fate of girls who were not under the roof of a good madam, then I only had to glance out of the carriage window. The Floral Street ladies were awake for business, blossoming like exotic urban florets amidst acres of fetid metropolitan compost. 

   Gabriel greeted me with a bow outside The Haversham Ball. Mister Bartholomew followed in my wake as we drifted up the sandstone steps and through the crowds gathered in the entranceway.

   “Do you need a bodyguard, Tessie?” he asked, lifting my hand to his lips. 

“I promise not to kidnap you.”

   “I don't think I'd mind if you did, sir.”

   “What is he protecting you from?”

   “Myself.”

Gabriel looked so handsome with his clothes on. He wore a navy-blue velvet coat with silver embroidery on the front, a light grey waistcoat, and a white stock tie at his neck. I knew we made a striking couple by the glances that came our way. Pearl’s choice of gown was demure in comparison to others, and far more tasteful. There were ladies who wore their wigs high with powdery white faces, but when they smiled, deep crevices appeared, and brownish teeth and gums. I imagined their scalps covered with flaky, scaled flesh and open sores. They might have elevated themselves in society but were rotten to the core.

   Gabriel bowed to the many acquaintances who greeted him, but never paused for introductions. He took me to a raised semi-circular nook that overlooked the dancefloor. However, relaxing next to him, I noticed our seats were designed to view the guests opposite more than the couples dancing. Each private enclosure offered its own elaborate performance; trendsetting gentlemen perched and preening themselves like prize-poodles and ladies, painted like parakeets, fluffed up their plumage with ungainly affectations. Gabriel clasped my hand with a playful squeeze.

   “You look anxious,” he whispered, caressing my neck with his lips.

   “I’ve never been to a ball,” I told him.

   “You outshine all the ladies here,” he said, nodding at the envious crowd eyeing us from their eyries. “No doubt they’ll have their hairdressers mimic your style.”

   I laughed and cooled a warm flush with my fan’s gentle breeze. Gabriel extended his arm along the back of my chair and nestled up next to me. When the music started playing, the ballroom stayed ablaze with candlelight as if it was an invitation for the audience to continue chatting. The poor musicians were left to play their hearts out to overcome the noise of West End gossip.

   It took a medley of cheerful polkas before I realised, to my alarm, that we were being scrutinised by the ladies and gentlemen in the opposite nooks. One curious lady was peering at us over a shimmering fan and her companion viewed me with raised opera glasses as if I were a distant stage performer or fairground curiosity. 

   At that moment, our nook’s rear door burst open and in stumbled a slavering drunkard. His shirt was stained with yellowish drool and his face was pitted by pox scars. He doffed his tricorn as he stared at me and said, “My Gabriel, you’ve chosen well for once.”

   “Charles, allow me to---”

   “So, this is your betrothed, old boy?”

   Gabriel's face tightened, and he clenched his jaw as Charles helped himself to a glass of wine.

   “Rather gorgeous, although I don’t suppose she understands a word I’m saying.”

   “Charles! For pity’s sake---”

   “You said she was of aristocratic descent and we’d be lucky to meet her.”   

   “I never said any such---”

   “Too high up to mix with common city folk, I think you said.” He laughed at his own joke and, having finished one glass of wine, helped himself to another. “‘Ave you solved zee leetle problem with your forthcoming nuptials?” he said, enunciating each word with an affected French accent.

   Nuptials? My spine stiffened as I caught my breath.

   “The only way to make these Frenchies understand is to speak slowly.” 

   “You're drunk again, Charles,” said Gabriel through clenched teeth.

   “I’ll be as drunk as I please, brother,” he said, leaning on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

   The musicians had reached a natural pause as Charles’ words peaked in the ensuing silence. He straightened up, wobbling as he did so. “Well, brother? I’m all ears.” 

   The audience had become almost silent, and I noticed that we were the object of their attention.

   “Charles, may I introduce Miss Teresa Fitzpatrick? Tessie, my half-brother, Lord Charles Clifton.”

   Lord Clifton bowed unsteadily and would have fallen had Mister Bartholomew not caught him. “Fitzpatrick? Not French then?”

   I noticed Gabriel’s eyes had narrowed and his supple fingers curled into warlike fists. Stroking his forearm, I quickly said, “Do you enjoy dancing, Lord Clifton?”

   “Can't stand it,” he said. “All that jigging-about chafes my inside leg.”

   I bit my lower lip and stifled a giggle as Gabriel rolled his eyes and sighed.

   “The only good thing is seeing who's here, but the place is full of horse-faced harlots this season.”

   I felt Gabriel tense up and restrained his hand again. 

   “Haven’t you noticed that you're the only beauty in the place?” 

   I raised my fan and spread it with a coquettish flutter.

   “But I'll wager you're not the bride-to-be.”

   The door to our nook opened as Gabriel rose to his feet. I’d never thought I’d be so pleased to see Mister De Vere.

   “Charles!” he said, taking Lord Clifton’s arm. “I’ve been looking for you.” He took his lordship's arm. “Come now.”

   “See what I've found?” Lord Clifton pulled his arm away. “Gabriel, what would the countess's family say if they knew you were entertaining this gorgeous jade? What whorehouse are you from, you delicious creature?”

   He caught me off guard. “I’m… I’m from Pearl’s Parlour, sir.”

   “Ye gods, you’re an angel. Well, brother, when you've tired of the trollop---”

This time, it was Mister Bartholomew who came to the rescue and did what Mister De Vere had failed to do. He wrapped his stocky arm round Charles’ shoulders and steered him out of sight. I assumed an air of decorum however, our evening lay in shards of broken crystal round our toes. The entire room must have heard our conversation. Now everyone present knew who I was. There was no other name for it. A harlot from the whorehouse.

   The musicians continued their battle to be heard above the din, and I braced myself with what dignity I could muster. I should have kept my heart under lock and key. Gabriel was engaged to be married, and I acknowledged the reality of our relationship. My poor heart felt as heavy and dark as leaden storm clouds. Every beat of it ached and as it slowed to a trickle, like single pebbles dropped in smooth dark pools at midnight, unnoticed and lost in the boundless gloom. Each leering face seemed to mock me as I watched the swirling dancers cavort around the creaking, sprung dancefloor. I sniffed a sharp breath to recover my composure.

   Gabriel resumed his seat, but there was no longer any intimacy. Where once there’d been a warm presence, there was daylight between us; a yawning chasm like a deep fissure in a rocky outcrop. He sat upright and stiff. I didn't want to remain here, not with every eye gazing at us.

   I stood and, aware my voice carried an anxious tone, said, “Please excuse me, sir, I’ve need of fresh air?”

   I turned before Gabriel could respond, but caught his stern face collapse like scree tumbling down a hillside. Mister Bartholomew opened the nook’s rear door, and I slipped away from the ballroom, leaving behind the harsh judgement of those pitiable stares.

   “Are you unwell, Miss Teresa?” he said.

   “No. I want to go home now.”

   Gabriel came down the stairs after me and we stood awkwardly together on the stone steps, while Mister Bartholomew hurried off to find the carriage.

   “I sincerely apologise,” said Gabriel. “Charles had no right to talk to you like that. He is an unmitigated fool.”

   “It is of no consequence,” I replied. Then, unable to keep my jealousy in check, I frowned and said, “Why did you not tell me you were betrothed?” 

   “It is my business and doesn't concern you. I’ll be gone soon enough and---”

   I didn't let him finish. “Do you love her, this countess?”

   “No gentleman marries for love.”

   “Then why marry at all?” I asked.

   “Charles has near ruined our family. I want my father's name to be restored to its rightful place.”

   “I take it the countess is wealthy?”

   “Yes, very.”

   “And you're not?”

   “Madam, I have yet to make my fortune, but the countess's dowry will enable me to rebuild my family's estate.”

   It was the first time he had spoken to me with such a cold edge to his voice.

   “I have no name of any value,” I said, “so I cannot comment, though it seems to me that your business is all about property, and if a wife is of no more value to her husband than a chest of drawers, I think I would prefer to be a whore. At least there's some honesty in it.”

   “Tessie, let's not argue. I’ll be leaving in a few days. My anger is with the situation I find myself in. It has nothing to do with you. Will you not at least see the dancing out?” 

   “No,” I said.

   Oh, how I hate tears, especially ones that are gaining the better of me, and I dispute anyone who says that they make a girl look interesting or pretty.

   “Please dry your eyes,” he said, “and return with me to the ballroom.”

   I curtsied, and without another word, went to the carriage. Mister Bartholomew helped me in and we set off, and I didn't look back. By the time we reached Pearl’s house, I just wanted the solitude of my own chamber.

The End