Chapter 2
The Golden Gown
The party Lady Isabella threw at the end of that month was indeed a great one. Olivia, who was now well adapted to her work, and who had made her way through two thirds of her book, had to be assigned extra duties to keep up with the rigorous demands the festivities placed on the household. After working determinedly hard in the afternoon, however, she earned herself a break, which she spent seated with Thomas, watching from a respectable distance as the esteemed guests of the Duke’s daughter arrived.
“And that’s the Marquis and Marchioness of Trothgal. I hear they’re quite the pair … And there’s the Viscount Middleton … he was so drunk at the last party that four of his cousins had to carry him out, one for each limb … and there’s … ”
“The Earl of Balton,” Olivia said with a sigh. How she knew, she could not have said. She could not possibly have smelled him from where she sat, and she, of course, had never seen him before. It was an air, perhaps. The way Lady Isabella spoke of him. The way the servants described him’ as well, as if he were one of the blessed angels described in her book.
He was tall, nearly as tall as the white stallion upon which he rode. His navy blue riding coat, bedecked with golden buttons and embroidery, was radiant in the evening light, like a promise of the midnight to come. His hair was the rarest of blondes, the colour of wheat and sun, and his posture and grace upon dismounting his horse so respectable one could imagine he had been fashioned from marble, rather than mere flesh.
Olivia sighed again, then turned away. What was the point in admiring?
Thomas put an arm around her shoulders.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “I hear that Lady Isabella wants him, and that even she can’t have him.”
Slightly cheered, Olivia continued to watch the parade of gentlemen and ladies proceed into the house, where a marvellous gala was waiting.
●●●
Lady Isabella, meanwhile, was in a state of outrage.
“How many times have I told you to lay them out before the eve of the party? You harlot, Camille,” she said, kicking at her lovely golden dress that now lay, quite wrinkled, across her bed. Camille was busy trying to attack the thing with an iron; she had already burnt herself twice on the coals.
“Enough!” shouted Isabella at last, sending another kick, which ripped the poor material. “I will simply wear the red one. Fetch a servant to tend to this. I expect absolute perfection when it’s finished. Meanwhile, if I sense any disappointment from Lord Balton at my appearance, it will be absolutely your fault.”
Overflowing with apologies, Camille rushed off to find an unoccupied servant. Through the window, Isabella saw her accost such a one, sitting by the fountain with that silly gardener. The servant leapt up like a startled deer and bolted to the house.
Isabella smiled.
“You!” she shouted to another of her maids, tending to the fire so her skin would be rich and warm. “Help me with this corset. I have too little patience to wait and contend with Camille’s incompetence right now.”
And so, with smug remarks and insults geared at her Lady’s maid, Isabella readied herself for her party.
●●●
After the remarkably unpleasant Camille had thrust a mountain of a dress in Olivia’s hands, the tired and overworked housemaid trudged into the mansion and up the stairs, weary of continuous toil. After finding a private room and laying the dress across a table, she saw Lady Isabella’s source of concern: a small tear, just by the hem. By the scuff marks surrounding it, Olivia could surmise it had been caused by the carelessness of a shoe.
She did not have to think long to guess whose shoe had caused the damage.
She rolled her eyes, and began to work.
As she worked, she daydreamed. She thought of the book she had stolen, filled with angels forced to worship those above them simply because they had been born with greater splendour.
She thought of Lady Isabella, tearing this incredible dress in a fit of what must have been impatience. She would be at the ball by now. Dancing and drinking Negus, flirting incessantly, and entirely preoccupied with fishing compliments from the unwitting gentlemanly guests.
Then she had an idea.
Though she would unquestionably be working late into the night, during the ball itself, there was little for her to do. She was like a mouse whose job it was to clean up bread crumbs but never be seen. For all intents and purposes, her duty now was to “disappear” until the guests had left.
And what a wonderful way to disappear.
With the same half smile that had bloomed on her face when she stole Paradise Lost, that same feeling of being driven forward and yet held at bay by an elusive magic, Olivia locked the door, kicked off her plain housemaid’s garb and slipped into Lady Isabella’s golden dress. She was pleased to discover they were almost the same size, and, despite her bulky servant’s underclothes, the gown fit as nicely as a silken glove.
Why should she have to live her life bending to every need of people who were ungrateful for it? What quality did they have that she did not, besides, it appeared, arrogance and disdain? Nor did she have any hope of raising herself beyond this state. She thought of the life Thomas, as a husband, could offer her. Comfortable, yes, and calm, but still, in servitude. She had no route to free herself. She was, inevitably, trapped.
Except, of course, the freedom that theft could give her.
She admired herself in the mirror. Normally, she was not a vain woman, but on this night, she felt the desire to flair her hips in the reflection, purse her lips, flash a smile. Her hair, however, was hopelessly ill-suited for this sort of outfit.
She saw a sunflower in a nearby vase and swiftly stole it. By weaving it into the tresses of her hair, she made herself look positively radiant.
“Well, Mr. Earl of Balton,” she said under her breath, “here I come.”
●●●
Her first sight of the ball, as a faux honoured guest, was so resplendent she had to fight to keep the look of wonder off her face.
You must look natural, calm, even bored, Olivia told herself, arranging her expression accordingly, and descending the stairs.
Her first task, she knew, was to locate the Lady Isabella and be sure to steer clear of her. The gentlewoman probably had so many luxurious gowns that she would not recognize her own amid the splendour of the ball, but Olivia did not want to take any chances. She knew if she was caught she would be immediately fired – indeed, if her Ladyship willed it, she could probably have her executed. But how many times would a woman like her have the opportunity to live a fairy tale?
This is my one chance, she thought, holding her hands to her bosom. She took a deep breath.
Yet, despite her determination, Olivia felt nervous by the time she had reached the dance floor. The dancers were playing out a lively country jig, much to the amusement of the onlookers. Across the hall, which was large enough that Olivia could not have thrown an apple and hit the far wall, she spied Lady Isabella dancing enthusiastically. Her partner, who, Olivia noticed, was not the Earl of Balton, looked very smug while a crowd of spectators praised her grace and timing with a series of pleasurable sighs.
Olivia, for the moment, was safe.
Just then, however, an elderly matron approached.
“My Lady!” she said in a wavering, ancient voice. Her dewy eyes blinked at her from behind thick cataracts. “Forgive my impertinence. I am the Lady Mariam Horschester. We met when you were only a child. The Duke of Brexington asked that I be your chaperone this evening, in light of your poor mother’s recent death.”
Olivia’s thoughts whirled. Her mother had died years ago, and why would the Duke of Brexington, the Lady Isabella’s uncle, care at all about her chaperoning? Especially when she was not even invited?
A strange, tantalizing, thrilling thought stirred in her mind.
“A pleasure to meet you, my Lady,” she replied, careful to enunciate as cl
early as possible, as a gentlewoman, not a servant, would do. “But please tell me: how did you know me from this crowd? Surely my beauty is not that conspicuous?”
Olivia thought this the sort of thing her Ladyship would say.
“It is, darling, yes, but that is not the secret. His Grace had contacted her Lady’s maid days ago, and determined your golden dressing. And let me say, my lady, your radiance is like a sunflower among weeds this night,” she said, nodding to Olivia’s hair.
Olivia blushed at the compliment. She felt giddy, and yet emboldened to continue.
“As my chaperone,” she asked, doing her best to imitate the Lady’s condescending air of which she had heard so much, “is it not your duty to find me a suitable dance partner? How about … him?” She pointed. There, not too far away, was the Earl of Balton.
“My Lady … he is, ah, well known for choosing his own partners. You wouldn’t want to seem hurried … do not you think it would be more sensible to ask –”
“No,” Olivia declared. “Acquaint me with him.” What did she care of the Lady’s reputation? The woman did nothing but soak up the toils of her renters and splurge it on lavish parties such as this. And tonight, finally, Olivia was free.
The old woman nodded, bowed, and marched over to the Earl.
Olivia waited in all her marshalled glory. She looked people – even gentlemen! – in the eye, and did not feel afraid. She was armoured in her ladyship’s own reputation, gilded in the titled woman’s own gown. The longer she waited, the more her confidence blossomed.
Then, at last, the Earl approached.
“My Lady,” said Lady Mariam, “allow me to introduce the Earl of Balton. And Lord Balton, this is Lady Isabella.”
The Earl bowed. “It is an honour to meet you, Lady Isabella,” he said.
Olivia curtsied. “And it’s an honour to meet you, Lord Balton,” she said.
Lord Balton extended his finely gloved hand. “May I have this dance?” he asked. His voice was soft and gentle as suede, and yet with the hidden power to be strong and tough as riding leather.
“You may,” Olivia said in her finest coquettish way, and the Earl’s eyes twinkled. She told herself, at the moment, that she was his equal.
He took her by the hand and led her to the dance floor. Olivia was pleased to see the country jig had ended. Next, she heard, was a waltz.
The Earl gently placed his hand on her waist. His hand was so large and firm she felt positively miniscule. With his other hand, he took her fingers, which in comparison looked delicate as the feathers of a dove. Olivia felt some of her confidence desert her, and she began to tremble.
“Do not fear, my Lady,” he murmured. “I shall guide you.”
And he did.
Scooped up in the rhythm of his movements, Olivia felt herself drawn and twirled about as lightly as leaves in an autumn wind. He would clasp her tight, so closely she could number his long, silken eyelashes and the little green flecks that hid in the ocean blueness of his gaze. Then, just when she was so dizzy she believed she would not be able to stand, he would whirl her away, unleashing her budding longing for him like a soft spray of perfume.
“May I say something bold?” he asked after a time. His words blended perfectly with the music, the inflection of his question peaking along with the tempo of the dance.
“Have not you heard?” joked Olivia. “The Lady Isabella prefers boldness above all things.”
“Well, that is it exactly,” he said, holding her back against his chest. She inhaled, smelling that same, manly scent she had caught from his sheets. He continued: “Your ladyship has a reputation for self-assurance, what some have even called brashness. That is why I have not danced with you before. And yet, tonight, you seem meek as a dove.”
Olivia frowned. She thought she had been behaving quite forwardly. She whirled to face him.
“This is a ball,” she said. “Nights like this have their own magic. Everyone has a chance to be someone else.”
The Earl smiled. “I enjoy this new you – one who did not even take offense at my slight on your reputation.”
Olivia suddenly felt silly. “Yes, I enjoy the new me as well,” she said with a sigh. There was sadness in her words. She knew she would not be Her Ladyship for long.
In fact, as the dance ended, she saw her Ladyship – the real Lady Isabella – approaching. Olivia turned and said frantically to her partner:
“Forgive me, Lord Balton, but I’m afraid I must be going.”
“Then let me join you,” he said firmly.
Fortunately, Lady Miriam had wandered away, so Olivia was free to protest, “But, my chaperone …”
The Earl smiled. “If there’s one thing the Lady Isabella is famous for, apart from her boldness, of course, it is her corresponding disregard of chaperones.”
My goodness, she thought. How unfair is it that she could be known for such a thing, and still be desired simply because of the loftiness of her birth. Lucky, blessed, silly creature. But then a sudden thought struck Olivia. Lady Miriam knew her by her golden dress. Could the Lady Isabella have ripped it intentionally? No. Olivia was giving the empty-headed debutante far too much credit.
She curtsied. “Okay, fair Lord. You shall be my chaperone to disregard.”
He laughed. “Agreed!”
And with that, she bolted up the stairs.