The Dark Days Club

  “I want you to stay away from him too,” Andrew continued. “I know what you are like when you have the bit between your teeth, but Carlston is dangerous.” He stopped their progress and looked squarely into her eyes. “I am not funning, Helen. Remember what he did to his wife.”

  “I won’t go near the man,” she promised.

  Of course, she added privately, that did not mean she couldn’t watch Lord Carlston from a safe distance away.

  Four

  Thursday, 30 April 1812

  AT HALF PAST nine the following morning, Helen stood in the middle of her dressing room, arms held up and spread out to either side over the waxed calico-and-whalebone hoop tied at her waist. The wide frame dragged at her hips for a moment as Darby tugged the heavily embroidered white silk petticoat over its expanse. It was only the first of the four layers that made up her presentation gown, but Helen already felt weighed down by the volume of cloth and outmoded hoop.

  How had her mother and aunt ever worn such cumbersome things every day? Or, indeed, endured the pain of the old-fashioned headdress required for Court?

  She dug her forefinger under one of the stiff pads of false hair that supported the heavy plume of ostrich feathers, and found a space between the layer of hairdresser’s grease and the hard web of pins. Gently, she levered a few away from her scalp, easing the tight pull on her own hair. That felt better. The movement sent a waft of oily jasmine pomade into the warm air. She coughed, setting the hoop into a small sway.

  “My lady, please,” Darby pleaded, looking up from straightening the hem.

  Helen steadied the silk-encased hoop with the flat of her hands as Darby smoothed one last fold into place. The girl was frowning with concentration, the tip of her tongue between her lips like a six-year-old at her letters. Last night Helen had told her that the Earl had no certain knowledge of Berta’s disappearance, and Darby had received that news with fortitude. Still, her sadness was obvious beneath her fierce focus upon the toilette. Particularly since she had agreed with Helen that the Earl’s only suggestion for a perpetrator—Lord Carlston—seemed to be based more upon his own dislike than any firm fact. And, of course, if Lord Carlston was involved, there would be little chance of recovering Berta. Helen tucked in her chin at the thought. Dear God, protect the girl from such a man.

  Darby rose from her knees. “Bring the satin, please.” She waved over the two housemaids who stood waiting with the white, high-waisted dress decorated with lavish panels of silver embroidery, its neckline thickly bordered with pearls.

  Darby’s soft commands deftly marshaled their efforts, and the next three layers—satin dress, translucent tulle skirt, and embroidered net skirt sprinkled with more pearls and glass spangles—were successfully thrown over the plumage and hoop. Finally Helen threaded her arms through the cutaway white velvet bodice that held the train, and Darby secured the tiny pearl buttons and large diamond buckle under her bust.

  “Finished, my lady.”

  Darby stepped back. They looked at each other and smiled.

  The maids spread the train behind Helen: a four-foot sweep of white velvet and silk worked in more pearls, glass beads, and silver-embroidered flowers.

  “It’s so beautiful, my lady,” whispered Tilly, the younger of the two. “It’s like lookin’ at a frozed-up stream, all shimmerin’ like.”

  The other girl, Beth, nodded her dark head enthusiastically.

  “Tilly, you were not asked for your opinion,” Darby said. She took Helen’s right hand and carefully worked the long white kid glove over her fingers.

  “No, it is all right.” Helen smiled at the young housemaid. Tilly’s comment was not just lip service—sincere admiration brightened her eyes. “I think it looks like a frozen stream too.”

  With both skintight gloves smoothed into place, Helen took the few steps to the mirror. She had, of course, practiced wearing the hoop, and the toilette had been rehearsed, but neither she nor the maids had seen the whole effect until now. What struck her most was the expanse of skin above the pearl-encrusted neckline. The gown was off the shoulder and cut very low, as Court required, and the thick pearl border drew attention to the pale smooth hemispheres of her breasts. She could not stop looking at those two curves, far more exposed than they had ever been before. There was something very unsettling about such an exhibition of one’s self. And yet, something rather satisfying.

  “It is a little ridiculous to pair a high-waisted dress with a hoop, don’t you think?” she murmured, although the magnificence of her costume and hair took the bite from her words. She had to admit that she felt a little splendid.

  “Helen.”

  It was her uncle’s voice from behind the door that led to the hallway. She turned swiftly from the mirror, setting the hoop rocking. Three startled pairs of eyes met her own.

  “Go,” she whispered to Darby. The girl hastened to the door and opened it a little way, dipping into a curtsy.

  “Is my niece able to receive me?” Uncle demanded.

  Darby’s eyes cut back to her. Reluctantly, Helen nodded.

  “Yes, my lord.” Darby drew the door fully open.

  Lord Pennworth’s heavyset figure was clad in a sober green morning coat, and an old-fashioned gray powdered wig emphasized the blue pouches of skin beneath his eyes. The other two maids curtsied.

  “So, child, you are in all your finery,” he said, scrutinizing her for a long moment, his voice glutinous with catarrh. “Everything overdone as the Queen demands, I see. An affront to good taste and modesty.”

  Helen felt heat rush to her face, although she should have expected such derision. It was her uncle’s often-expressed opinion that the Queen’s Court was merely a gilded marketplace of overdressed women trading in unholy gossip.

  Lord Pennworth’s views on women, and unholiness in general, were often expressed, both at home and in public. He was an admirer of the evangelical Hannah More, although unlike that moderate lady, his own particular brand of piety was made of choler and spit. His vehement campaigning against the bawdy houses had captured the attention of the caricaturists, who had rechristened him Lord Stopcock in their savage cartoons. On one of her midnight forays into his papers, Helen had found a published engraving of him by Cruikshank. She had been forced to stuff her fist in her mouth to stop from laughing at the uncanny depiction of him as a cockerel: huge barrel chest thrust out, round eyes bulging, and florid face colored in the bloated red of the coxcomb drawn atop his head.

  “Uncle, I was not expecting you.” Helen dipped into her own curtsy and made a quick search of his face as she rose: his small, dry-skinned mouth was pursed into a tight bud, the sure sign of a lecture.

  “Leave us,” he told the servants.

  After another deferential bob each, the two housemaids hurried from the room, but Darby’s agonized eyes met Helen’s for an instant before shifting to the miniature still half visible from behind the potpourri bowl. Neither of them was close enough to hide it from view.

  “You too, Darby,” Uncle ordered.

  Darby curtsied again and followed the other girls.

  Helen estimated the distance to the dressing table: a few steps and her hoop would block any view of it. That is, if she could get there before her uncle’s keen eye did. She made to move, but he was already over the threshold and occupying the center of the room.

  “Your aunt tells me that she instructed you to prepare an answer for Her Majesty should she question you about your mother.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Show me.”

  She sank into the low Court curtsy, eyes kept firmly away from the draw of the portrait. “Yes, Your Majesty, my mother was Lady Catherine.”

  Her uncle’s gray brows twitched inward. Perhaps she should have put more mildness into the tone. “I would hope that you would not look so boldly at Her Majesty.” He gestured her up with an impatien
t hand.

  “No, of course not.”

  He took a step toward the dressing table, his hands rubbing together in a dry scrape. Surely he would see the miniature.

  “Uncle, has any progress been made in finding Berta?” She smiled to temper the suddenness of the question. He was looking at her blankly, but at least it had pulled his attention away from the table. “The missing maid,” she prompted.

  He grunted. “I have done as much as my duty demands. The girl has gone, and that is that.”

  “But, Uncle, she has left her lockbox—”

  He held up his hand. “It is not your concern. Your duty is to present yourself with proper dignity today.” He settled back onto his heels, arms crossed. “I have been thinking long on this matter of comment about your mother. It is unlikely that Her Majesty will make mention. However, I feel sure that you will encounter impertinences from other women at the palace, and afterward at the various enjoyments of the Season. You must ignore them if you can. If you cannot, then you may say this.” He cleared his throat with a wet rasp of phlegm. “‘My mother drowned at sea, and it was the best outcome for all concerned.’”

  Helen’s body locked. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  He repeated the words, each one pressing more and more breath from her body. Best outcome?

  “One should always stay with the truth in these circumstances,” he added. “Say it, child. And don’t be mealymouthed. If you show your weakness, they will descend upon you like a pack of harpies.”

  Helen licked her lips. She could not form the words. No, she would not form the words. The realization straightened her shoulders.

  “Quickly, now. Let me hear you say it.”

  “Please, Uncle, I cannot say that.”

  He did not move. Helen searched his face again: his mouth had bunched into tight displeasure. She felt three hard heartbeats measure the ominous passage of time. Finally he drew in a deep breath through pinched nostrils. “This is your ignorance and youth speaking, and no doubt the excitement of the day. Now, repeat the words.”

  Helen swallowed, her parched throat shriveling her voice. “Forgive me, Uncle, but I cannot think my mother’s death was the best outcome.”

  For a moment he stared at her, skin turning scarlet and a vein in his forehead pulsing into a thick blue ridge. “Is that so?” He thrust his face so close, she could smell the beef on his breath and see the yellowed rims of his eyelids. “Would you rather your mother had been tried and beheaded? The great Lady Catherine, head hacked from her body, the mob ripping at her hair for souvenir?” He drew back. “You are not a dull wit, girl. Even you must see it was the best outcome for the family.”

  Helen fixed her eyes on the carpet, trying to block the foul image of her mother’s headless body slumped over the block, blood pouring over pale spine and sinew—the execution reserved for a treasonous Peer.

  He blew out a disgusted breath. “And, I must say, that is fine thanks to your aunt for all her care. She loves you as a daughter, and now you say her tender devotion to you was a bad outcome?”

  “No. I did not mean that at all, Uncle.”

  “You do not know what you mean. You speak without thinking, like all of your sex.” He took an angry step away. “I cannot stop you from attending this Drawing Room, but, by God, if you cannot do as you are told in public, I will stop you from appearing at any other ball or rout.” He rounded on her again. “And I will stop the preparations for your ball. I won’t have any more disgrace—large or small—associated with this family.”

  She knew he meant every word: it was in the narrowing of his jaundiced eyes. Aunt Leonore would not be able to smooth this breach as she had smoothed so many before. No, if Helen wanted any freedom, any life beyond the house, she would have to comply. However much it galled.

  “I am sorry, Uncle,” she said, forcing a placid tone. “Please forgive me.”

  He sighed with heavy forbearance. “I must remember that, for all your finery and height, you are still a child. You must allow me to lead you in these matters until you are in the care of a husband. Now, rehearse the words and remember to say them with the dignity of your position.”

  Haltingly, Helen said, “‘My mother drowned at sea. It was the best outcome for all concerned.’” The words burned the back of her throat.

  “It will need more practice.” He paused. “I see that you think this is harsh. But it is for your own good. Your aunt and I do not want you to suffer for your mother’s misdeeds. You must show the world that you are steady and modest at every opportunity.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Your aunt expects you downstairs in a few minutes.” He gave one last glance over her ensemble. “You are too tall and bare-boned for beauty, Helen, but you do have some presence. If you do not slouch, and are mindful of what I have said, I am sure you will be a credit to the family.”

  He strode out, his progress down the hall marked by the phlegmy clearing of his throat. Helen looked up at the ceiling, fighting back the tears that stung her eyes. She would not cry.

  “My lady, are you all right?” Darby stood at the bedroom doorway. She had obviously circled around to listen, but Helen did not care.

  “We must keep going, Darby, or we will be late.” Helen picked up a silver hairbrush to focus on something—anything—other than the words she had been forced to utter.

  Her hands were shaking too hard to hold the brush. She let it drop from her gloved grip onto the table, her eyes finding her mother’s portrait. Lady Catherine’s living actions might have been shameful, but to say that her death was the best outcome went against all decency. All civilized feeling. Helen pressed her hands together. She would not say it again. Ever. And, moreover, she would honor the loving mother whom she had known for eight years; the mother who had taught her to ride, who had lobbed new apples at her to catch in the orchard, and who had patiently led her through the steps of a cotillion.

  She picked up the miniature, her hand finally steady. Yes, her mother would come to her presentation after all.

  “Darby, where is my fan? The Vernis Martin.”

  She felt lightheaded. Could she really smuggle her mother’s image into the Palace? Attached to the very fan that her uncle had given her as a presentation gift?

  “Here, my lady.” Darby passed her the long mother-of-pearl inlaid case.

  Could she? Uncle’s bloated face loomed in her mind again, his meaty breath hot against her face as he spat those terrible words: best outcome.

  Yes, she could.

  Juggling both box and miniature, she lifted the hinged lid and dug out the fan. One flick and it was open. The ivory sticks were painted with a pastoral scene of sheep and their shepherd asleep under an oak tree, and varnished with the distinctive Martin green-bronze lacquer. The decoration ended a few inches from the head of the fan, where the sticks were gathered into the diamond-set rivet. She ran a gloved finger along the cream arc of unpainted ivory. There was hardly any space between the sticks, but she could force some thread between two. She cupped the miniature in her palm—it really was quite heavy. She would need something more than just thread.

  “Darby, find me some riband,” she ordered.

  “What color?” Darby ducked to rummage through the workbox beside the chaise longue.

  “It does not matter.” She held her finger and thumb a few inches apart. “But at least this much.”

  Darby pulled out a piece of blue riband. “Will this do, my lady?”

  Helen took the offered length with a decisive nod. She opened her hand to show the miniature.

  “Help me tie this to my fan.”

  Five

  KEEPING THE MINIATURE hidden was proving harder than Helen had imagined. The bump and bustle of so many people making their way along the Palace corridor made it almost impossible to move without using both hands to steer her hoop through the
melee. It was no easy task to keep hold of gown, train, presentation card, fan and attached miniature all at once.

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t bunch your dress so tight,” her aunt said, noticing her death grip on the spangled net. “Here, let me carry something for you.”

  Before Aunt could reach for her fan and the hidden miniature, Helen handed over her presentation card. Thankfully, their arrival in the crowded State Room diverted any further offer of help.

  “It is going to be a tedious wait,” Aunt said. “The visiting dignitaries will be received first. Still, we should start making our way toward the presentation chamber now. I don’t want to push our way through the entire guest list when your name is called.”

  Although it was just past noon and the day was bright, a huge crystal chandelier blazed overhead, the mass of candles adding to the oppressive heat in the room. At the far end, Palace officials milled in the doorway of the Grand Council Chamber, readying themselves for the proceedings. Helen ran a quick eye over the paintings that lined the walls: portraits of Kings, Queens, and one particularly handsome pastoral. By Ricci, if she was not mistaken. A pity she would not have the chance to view it properly.

  “I think I see a clear space near the door,” Aunt Leonore said loudly in her ear while graciously acknowledging the apology of a gentleman who had set her lilac gown swaying. “Keep close to me, my dear.”

  Helen nodded, her hold on the miniature finally secure enough for her to start searching for Millicent. The multitude of shifting gowns and undulating feathers—a dizzying array of pastel pinks, soft purples, white, cream, stately blues, and sudden yellows—made it almost impossible to focus on any one person. Particularly one diminutive blonde amongst so many other diminutive blondes dressed in the paler shades of presentation. Delia’s name suddenly rose up through the chatter, a snide laugh following it. Helen turned to glare at the perpetrator, but whoever it was had already moved past.