Chapter Seven #2
“Sibyl, what is wrong?” her mother had asked.
Sibyl had lowered the paper, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Papa’s ship home. Mama… It sank.” Her voice was tight.
Her mother had snatched the paper from her and in minutes had servants sent out to enquire. Unshed tears had shone in her eyes, but her expression had been firm, resolute. Mrs. Clifton didn’t dare believe it. None of them could.
Sibyl had abandoned her toast and marmalade and stumbled from the room. The dining room was deathly quiet. But within the hour, the news came back, confirmed. The ship had sank, with no survivors. Her father was dead. Died at sea. A hollowness filled her.
She remembered then, the sounds of grief. The quiet, muted talk of the servants as they’d wondered what to do now that their master had gone. What to do. Should they put out the day’s spread as normal, or hang the windows with black crepe?
The smells of food at the dining table, left untouched. The lack of a clatter of utensils against plates.
Her mother’s sharp sobs as she’d fled to her room. The slam of her mother’s bedroom door as she’d sought to hide the sounds of her crying. Her little sister’s wails, wrenching her heart.
It had been enough to do her in. She couldn’t talk, she couldn’t think.
Sibyl had dashed from the sounds of crying like she could outrun it, and into her father’s study and slammed shut the door.
She leaned against the thick wooden door and slid to the floor.
First her chin trembled, her hands fluttered, and she felt it, the first warm tear that coursed down her cheek.
Sibyl didn’t know how long she had sat there, staring at nothing. Her face was wet. But there in her father’s study, it had been blessedly quiet. She’d lit a lamp, reached for her nearest book of fairy tales, a well read and dogeared copy, and began to read.
Sibyl blinked at the memory. In the days that passed, her mother had taken control of the family’s finances and moved them to a smaller household in Kent.
Fewer servants, fewer needs, fewer costs as they slowly began to start life without Mr. Clifton.
For Sibyl, her father’s loss left a gaping hole in her heart that she never expected to heal.
She supposed that was where her love of fairy tales had come from.
The stories of adventure, of heroes and damsels, these tales had given her a sense of familiarity, of solace.
She knew in reading their stories how they would end.
There was danger but also a sense of security, of safety in reading these old stories again and again.
There were no surprises. But maybe that was what she had been missing.
Sibyl hadn’t looked at a newspaper in ages.
Perhaps it was time. Sibyl entered the dining room and joined her mother and younger sister for breakfast and sent a servant out for the morning paper.
The gesture made her mother pause, but then she watched and munched her toast as Sibyl took a breath and looked at the first few headlines.
She had missed reading the news. She’d felt not necessarily superior to other women her age, but more informed. Why read about the latest fashions in dresses, hats, and gloves, where there were real stories to read?
Turning the pages, she read a few of the major headlines and flipped to some of the local London stories. There an article caught her eye.
Acclaimed Artist to Reveal Mysterious Muse
She read on.
Phillippe Mercuse, the renowned French artist who has charmed so many of the London art world, is due to reveal the identity of his newest muse in a private exhibition at the Royal Exhibition, before it opens to the public.
It is not known to this editor who the young lady is, although rumors abound.
Will it be a private portrait series of another duchess, perhaps a lady whose reputation needs saving, or an unknown beauty?
The latest gossips tell us that the muse is like a princess out of a fairy tale, and one young woman said that meeting the muse was like looking into a mirror.
Either way, rumors wonder if it is perhaps the artist’s lover, or an actress or singer, or a lady closer to home.
It’s even rumored that Miss Kate Harvey is touted amongst the possibilities.
But then the famous singer Miss Clara Belle, although she has largely forsaken the stage since becoming the Countess d’Arbley, is back in London, so perhaps we will learn why.
Most importantly, can anyone supply this editor with a ticket to what is sure to be a stunning exhibition?
Sibyl smiled at that, but unease and queasiness swirled in her stomach.
At luncheon, Mrs. Clifton received two letters. She turned them over in her hands. One bore the telltale beautiful script of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the other was a mystery.
“I’ve never heard of this Mrs. Greene, but we’ve received an invitation to a ball at her home this evening.” Sibyl’s mother read the other letter. “My word. The woman does have good connections.”
She passed the matchmaker’s letter to Sibyl.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had sent a note about a forthcoming invite they were likely to receive, to attend a ball at the Greenes’ home in Park Street, not far from Hyde Park and Grosvenor Square. The note said:
Mrs. Greene is a close personal friend of mine and has a great love of art, music, and books. Perhaps you will find a champion in her, or at the very least, a woman of good taste.
The invitation only included mention of two of them, so Mrs. Clifton penned a positive reply and then began to plan her outfit for the evening.
“Why would a random woman you’ve never met before invite you and Sibyl to a ball?” Lucy asked.
“I wouldn’t normally say yes, but this invite comes with a note from Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Mrs. Clifton said, looking down at the note.
“This is all part of her scheme, no doubt, to introduce us to more people in society. I can only guess that by attending Mrs. Greene’s ball, Mrs. Dove-Lyon means to throw Sibyl into the paths of eligible men.
And you know that if Mrs. Dove-Lyon approves, then they are men of quality. I am delighted. Utterly delighted.”
Sibyl smiled. Over time, she had learned that her mother enjoyed a good party but preferred her social gatherings small.
In rooms so big and grand that would have a crush of people, there was no chance of getting a bit of peace and quiet.
It was bound to be a loud, noisy affair, with much time spent looking around for people of their acquaintance and benignly smiling at those who were not.
Lucy stayed home while Sibyl and her mother dressed for the occasion. As it was a ball, that meant silks, satin, feathers, pearls, and fine dancing shoes.
Sibyl wore a cream-colored satin dress with gold-and-pink embroidery adorning the hem, short sleeves, and a scoop bodice. Her maid pulled back her hair with pins and left a few ringlets free, then fastened a pearl hair pin into her bun.
Sibyl didn’t have pearls or any sort of bracelet or necklace aside from a simple gold strand and a tiny gold cross, so she wore that. Once she had white satin gloves, her teal cloak, and smart, white satin dancing shoes, she was ready to go.
Her mother wore an off-white silk gown with ruffles about the sleeves and square bodice. With a white ostrich feather in her hair set in a jewel hair clip, she looked very grand, indeed.
They set off and arrived sooner than expected but joined a queue of carriages waiting to deposit guests at the front door of Mrs. Greene’s home.
The lady’s townhouse was impressive and large from the outside, but as the neighborhood it sat in was very fine, the otherwise-stately home appeared merely average.
Eventually, they were admitted inside and stepped into a crush of people. The Clifton women deposited their cloaks with a footman and held hands so as to not get separated.
Sibyl took a breath and coughed, feeling an onslaught to her senses.
The very air was filled with the smells of sweat, wig powder, ladies’ perfume, men’s cologne, hair pomade, roses, lavender scent, wine, figs, cherries, and slight smoke and smells of wax from the tapers of candles burning merrily in chandeliers and standing candelabras and wall sconces.
The air alone was enough to overwhelm her, and then Sibyl closed her eyes.
The scents were there, and then there was the noise. Men and women everywhere, laughing, talking, chortling, guffawing, snickering, giggling, gossiping, eyes wide, mouths open… And those were just the people.
The strains of music echoed out over the din and subtly beckoned Sibyl forward.
She followed people moving through the crowd and used them as barriers to clear a path, making sure her mother followed too.
She felt like a tiny fish following in the wake of bigger ones, cutting a swath through water.
Except this was a crowded ballroom and was hopefully free of fishes and predators.
Once she’d managed to get her mother a drink and a spot against the wall where she might lean comfortably, Sibyl surveyed the room.
They stood in a large ballroom, where couples were already dancing in beautiful rows and in stately movements.
She liked watching them. Once she got used to being surrounded by people, it wasn’t so bad.
The room was very warm, and many ladies had delicate fans out and were fanning themselves vigorously, but there were also many young, attractive men on the dance floor and standing by.
Quite a few people were talking about the arrival of the Countess d’Arbley, an opera singer who had recently come back from touring on the Continent. Sibyl looked around, but there were so many people present, she had no idea who the woman was, or whether she might make an appearance.