CHAPTER TWENTY
May
THE PROBLEM WITH FANCY-DRESS PARTIES, May thought in frustration, was that it grew quite difficult to recognize the other guests. And if you were on the hunt for a husband, you really needed to know who was who.
She glanced around the ballroom at Culford Park, where Roman centurions waltzed with medieval damsels, and men in doublets strolled with women in the wide panniers and beribboned wigs of the ancien régime.
In spite of the costumes, May had successfully identified several dukes and at least one earl, though unfortunately most of them were already married.
Well, she would settle for a divorcé at this point; she would settle for a marquess if push came to shove.
She needed to get out of her father’s house, and fast.
Earlier this afternoon, she’d been starting to curl her hair with heated tongs—a difficult process that involved sitting by the fireplace, trying not to sweat, while constantly studying one’s reflection in the mirror—when she heard the crunch of wheels on their gravel driveway.
A glance out the window revealed that it was the Endicotts’ carriage.
May hurriedly dropped the tongs and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, but she wasn’t fast enough. Inexplicably, her father had risen from his lethargy to answer the door.
If only he’d stayed put. It wasn’t as if they were in the habit of greeting unexpected guests; the only people who ever showed up at White Lodge were creditors, or the occasional woman dropping off Needlework Guild shirts for May.
When May reached the entry hall, she found her father staring bemusedly at one of the Endicotts’ footmen, who was holding a massive box in both hands.
“Your Serene Highness,” the footman called over Francis’s shoulder, recognizing May from all the afternoons she’d spent with Agnes. “I was instructed to bring this to you.”
May winced, silently cursing as she tiptoed forward to accept the box. It was clear from its size and shape that it contained a gown.
Ignoring the footman, Francis turned to his daughter, his voice dangerously cold. “May. Have you been shopping?”
“Oh no…” May felt herself becoming smaller, as if she were one of those tropical turtles retreating into its shell—as if by taking up as little space as possible, she might encourage her father to forget her.
“It’s an old dress,” she lied, “but the fringe on the hem needed to be repaired. Thank you for delivering it,” she added pointedly, in the direction of the footman.
To her relief he bowed and retreated, hearing the dismissal in her words.
Within moments he was snapping the reins over the Endicotts’ matched bay horses, which started off at a crisp trot.
Francis watched the carriage depart, his eyes narrowed as he took in its expensive details. “Whose carriage is that? It hardly looks like it belongs to a tradesman.”
“It belongs to a friend.” Before her father could ask which friend, May went on: “She’s the one who stepped on my dress and tore the hem, so she sent it out for repairs at her expense.”
Francis nodded, pleased by this explanation. “I’m glad to hear that you stood up for yourself, made her clean up her own mess. If only your mother could do the same.”
May’s arms ached from holding the box, but she didn’t dare set it down. “I’m sorry?”
“You haven’t heard? Your mother’s cousin has once again denied my petition to be styled as a Royal Highness.”
It was one of Francis’s absolute favorite things to do, calling Queen Victoria your mother’s cousin. Emphasizing and underscoring his tenuous royal connection.
“I’m sorry,” May murmured, though he wasn’t listening.
“It’s an outrage, frankly. A grave insult. After everything I’ve been through!”
Everything he had been through? In other words, his complete inability to live within a budget and spend according to his means, which had landed them in such debt that May had spent years in exile?
Of course the queen had refused his request to become a Royal Highness. Francis had asked the same thing half a dozen times before, as if sheer persistence might wear Victoria down. May didn’t share his optimism.
She took a tentative step toward the staircase, causing Francis to glance at her again. He must have finally noticed that her hair was half-curled, because he asked, “Are you going somewhere?”
“We’ve been invited to the Cadogans’ fancy-dress party.” The invitation had been extended to the whole family, though May wasn’t sure whether her parents planned on attending.
“Fancy dress.” He sneered. “It’s ridiculous, grown people dressing up as if they’re children playing at make-believe.”
That sounded like a resounding no.
Still clutching the enormous box to her chest, May started up the stairs, but her father’s next words stopped her in her tracks. “You know, when the doctor came out of the birthing chamber and told me your mother had delivered a girl, I was delighted.”
The burst of sentimentality was so unexpected that May nearly stumbled. “You were?”
“I thought to myself, a girl, now that’s something. A girl could be the making of this family—provided she married well.”
The smile that had started to form on May’s face evaporated.
Francis snorted in derision. “What a fool I was. You…” He waved a hand in her general direction, indicating her dowdy outfit, the curls of hair already growing limp and straight, her plain face.
“You are not the daughter I expected, not at all,” he’d said dismissively.
Now May blinked and stared around the party, trying to shake off the memory. She was grateful for the distraction when Agnes looped an arm through hers.
“I thought you said the prince was coming?” Agnes asked, her voice low and conspiratorial.
“I believe so.” Though May had seen Agnes a few times since she’d returned from Balmoral, she hadn’t explained everything that had happened. Namely, that she had given up hope on Prince Eddy.
May liked to think of herself as clever and resourceful, but even she knew her limits. What good was it continuing on this path when Eddy was publicly attached to Alix and privately enamored of Hélène?
No, May thought wearily, she couldn’t afford to waste time on lost causes. She needed to resign herself to her dwindling prospects and look elsewhere.
Lord Weymouth was here, dressed as Emperor Augustus. He might be old enough to be her father, but May wouldn’t let a consideration like that stop her. Should she go over and make a remark about how they were both dressed as ancient Romans, or would he think it too forward?
Oblivious to May’s distress, Agnes squeezed her arm. “Well, I for one cannot wait until His Royal Highness sees you! You look stunning.”
May was wearing the gown Agnes had sent, a deep green silk with velvet brocade down the skirt.
Agnes had remarkable instincts when it came to these things—May would never have selected this shade for herself, but it was undeniably flattering.
The emerald color emphasized her skin, making her unremarkable face seem almost pretty, or at least unblemished, and it caught the darker strands of her blond hair, enriching its normally ashen color.
Thoughtfully, Agnes had instructed the dressmaker to include a woven crown with artificial leaves, adding a vaguely Roman touch.
“Thank you for the dress,” May said warmly. “Though, really, you shouldn’t have bought it.”
“Please! It’s the least I could do, after you saved me from the social suicide of coming here as Guinevere.” Agnes looked around. “I wouldn’t have noticed it, but of course you’re right. I see a thousand French and Spanish kings, but not a single Tudor.”
When Agnes had announced that she would dress as Guinevere, a horrified May had quickly explained the unspoken mandate ruling British fancy-dress parties.
One could never dress as a British king or queen, even a fictional Arthurian one, if real royalty might be present. It was a gross example of lèse-majesté.
Forced to abandon her Guinevere plan, Agnes had commissioned a Cleopatra costume instead. The billowing white fabric of her dress was shot through with gold, and a snakelike headpiece fastened back her chestnut-colored hair.
“You’re the one who looks stunning. You were born to be Cleopatra,” May said loyally, at which Agnes brightened.
It was a bit surprising that the Endicotts had been invited tonight; the Earl Cadogan and his wife always entertained on a grand scale, but May had never known them to befriend Americans before.
Good for Agnes, she thought. May might have launched her career, but Agnes seemed to be moving along quite well on her own.
May hadn’t realized how much better it would be to attend this sort of party with a friend, instead of languishing on the side with all the other unmarried women. Agnes might be unmarried, too, but she was constitutionally incapable of sitting still.
“Look, there she is!” Agnes whispered excitedly. May followed her gaze to where Alix of Hesse stood across the ballroom.
Alix had dressed in a white shepherdess dress and matching bonnet, apparently opting for simplicity.
Though she wasn’t standing with Eddy—she was talking with a pair of rather dour-looking women dressed as nymphs, or were they dryads?
—countless guests stared at her, as if they had heard the rumors, and already considered her their future queen.
The unfairness of Alix’s beauty struck May all over again. The whole premise of fancy dress was that everyone mutually agreed to look ridiculous. Yet despite the rustic nature of her costume, Alix was resplendent.
“You never told me what happened at Balmoral,” Agnes prompted. “Do you think Alix and Eddy are still courting?”
“If they are, it’s at Queen Victoria’s insistence. She seems determined to see them married.”
“Ah,” Agnes said meaningfully.
May hesitated, then stepped past the dance floor to a pocket of silence near a window. Agnes followed eagerly in her wake.