Chapter 4
I t was, as all inaugural balls of the Season must be, a dizzying spectacle of gowns vying for notice, mothers angling for introductions, and young gentlemen doing their utmost to appear either eligible or artfully indifferent.
The ballroom, aglow beneath a hundred wax candles, had already filled to stifling capacity as the ton assembled to admire, speculate, and, above all, pass judgement on who had wintered well and who had decidedly not.
Spring fashions were on full display, newly minted debutantes floating past in pastels and lace gloves, blissfully unaware that by evening’s end the scandal sheets would have already crowned their favourites and selected a few promising victims. Miss Ellington, for example, had arrived in a gown of such blazing orange it could be seen from across the ballroom without the aid of opera glasses.
Paired with a towering green Easter bonnet, the overall effect was that of a giant carrot.
The Fairchild twins, meanwhile, had already managed to confuse one hapless suitor into proposing to the wrong sister, a mishap their mother declared “entirely understandable,” though her pallor suggested she thought otherwise .
However, amidst the usual absurdities of the Season’s first grand ball, there was one particular shock upon which every eye fell – that shock being, naturally, Miss Henrietta Tolliver, or more precisely, her scandalously indecent gown.
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Theo was having an insufferably tedious evening, marked by dull conversation and even duller company – that is, until he saw Hetty Tolliver’s breasts.
“Dear God,” he muttered, midway through raising a glass of champagne. He did not so much lower the glass as forget its purpose entirely. It was not that he had never noticed Hetty’s finer attributes – merely that he had never been confronted with quite so generous an exhibition of them.
Scandalised whispers were already moving like wildfire through the ballroom.
Matrons stiffened as one, snapping their fans open.
Young gentlemen, suddenly galvanised into action, repositioned themselves with such speed one might think a race had been declared, and one poor debutante, green with envy and lace, swerved directly into a potted fern, so absorbed was she in the spectacle of Miss Tolliver’s décolletage.
Somewhere, in the part of Theo’s mind that was still capable of rational thought – those not presently overwhelmed by the image of Hetty’s bodice defying structural convention – he realised that he ought to be pleased.
This, after all, was exactly what she had intended: her grand debut in public rebellion, her entrance into infamy, her first and finest step in becoming wholly unmarriageable.
And yet – merciful heavens – had she afforded him the smallest hint of her intentions, he might have braced himself.
As it was, the surprise so entirely unmanned him that, upon finally taking a draught of champagne, he forgot to swallow and was obliged to cough into his cravat.
“Is the champagne not to your taste this evening, Langley?” asked Lord Fenwick.
“Yes. No. That is – quite. Dreadful. Positively overrun with bubbles.”
Lord Fenwick bestowed upon him a look of courteous bewilderment.
Theo inclined his head. “The French, Fenwick, cannot be trusted to practise moderation in their effervescence.”
Across the ballroom, Theo caught Lady Tolliver’s face just as she turned and truly beheld her daughter’s current state of undress.
Her eyes flew wide in horror, and her fan snapped shut with the force of a pistol.
Before Theo could so much as draw breath, she was advancing with the velocity of a frigate under full sail, arms extended as though to seize Hetty bodily, drag her into the nearest retiring room, and bury her beneath an avalanche of shawls.
Theo, intent on effecting a dignified retreat from Lord Fenwick, stepped away so abruptly he nearly collided with a footman bearing a tray of jellied quails, regaining his balance only in time to see Lady Tolliver reach her prey.
She fastened both hands upon the edge of Hetty’s fichu and made a valiant – if spectacularly public – attempt to haul it into place.
“Good God,” muttered a gentleman by the pillar. “I believe she intends to conduct her daughter’s entire toilette in the middle of the set. ”
Hetty stood her ground. “Mama, if you must assault me, might we do so in a less public forum?”
Lady Tolliver gasped. “Assault you? I am preserving your virtue!”
By this time, a cluster of matrons near the lemonade table had abandoned all pretence of sipping, while a pack of debutantes elbowed and jostled to the front for a better view.
On the floor, the musicians, attempting gallantly to maintain the set, struck a chord so discordant that half the dancers faltered mid-step, colliding with their partners and sending a gentleman’s quizzing glass skittering across the floor.
A footman, darting to retrieve it, succeeded only in upsetting a tray of blancmange, which depositing itself in in the lap of Lady Penworth who screamed as though stabbed.
Truly, Theo had never witnessed a more glorious spectacle.
He did not mean to laugh, but how could he not?
He had seen duels nearly fought over insults as trifling as mispronounced titles, betrothals declared in voices thick with champagne, and once, most memorably, a viscount’s wig catch fire on a candelabrum.
But never – never – had he seen a mother attempt, before the assembled company of Mayfair, to forcibly wrangle her daughter’s bosom back into place.
He watched in delight as Lady Tolliver, clearly perceiving three hundred eyes bulging in their sockets, clutched Hetty’s arms and hauled her towards the nearest secluded space.
Unwilling to deprive himself of what promised to be the crowning entertainment of the evening, Theo sauntered after them, the very picture of nonchalance, pausing only when he reached an alcove that seemed a most excellent place from which to eavesdrop .
“Henrietta Anne Tolliver, what in Heaven’s name do you call this abomination?”
“Why, Mama, I believe it is called a gown.”
“A gown?” he heard Lady Tolliver gasp. “A gown implies coverage! Modesty. Stays! This is – this is – French!”
Theo pressed his hand to his mouth to smother the snort that escaped him. The acoustics of the alcove, he noted with approval, were excellent.
Hetty’s reply floated out with crisp amusement. “Well then, it is no wonder it caused such a sensation.”
“Your bosom is positively – oh, dear Lord above, avert thine eyes!”
Theo risked a glance around the alcove, and to his delight, discovered that Lady Tolliver herself was staring directly at the offending décolletage as though mesmerised.
“Would you prefer I borrow one of Papa’s coats?” said Hetty, still impossibly composed. “It would be most unfashionable, of course, but it might put your mind at ease.”
“Henrietta Tolliver, do not test me!”
Theo, who had witnessed his fair share of maternal displeasure, recognised that Lady Tolliver was now one heaving sigh away from full apoplexy – and he had never been more delighted to be present for it.
It was not that he disliked the woman – quite the opposite.
He had spent the better part of his youth running wild through the Tolliver country estate, muddying floors, chasing pigs into parlours, and conspiring with Hetty in all manner of glorious mischief.
Nothing had united them more as children than vexing the Viscountess Tolliver: hiding frogs in the tea caddy and upending ink bottles on freshly pressed linens.
They had once – and he would never forget it – brushed every drawing-room chair with paste, causing a rather unfortunate scene in which several Society matrons found themselves quite literally stuck to their seats, shrieking like pheasants in a snare.
Through all the scoldings and stern lectures, and the occasional threat to send them to a monastery and a convent respectively, Theo had always known one thing for certain: that Hetty was his truest friend.
And now, watching Lady Tolliver wage war against her daughter’s scandalous neckline, he marvelled that, despite the years, some things remained delightfully the same.
“I knew it,” Lady Tolliver gasped. “I knew there was some infernal reason you insisted upon taking a separate carriage this evening!”
“Yes, well,” Hetty said mildly, “I thought it kinder to spare you the distress, Mama. Evidently, I erred in judgement.”
“Erred in – !” Lady Tolliver looked around wildly, as though she might spy the Archbishop himself amongst the onlookers. “Henrietta Anne Tolliver, you have entered your second Season looking like a … like – ”
“Like what, Mama?”
“Like an actress !” Lady Tolliver cried, before lowering her voice to a sharp whisper.
“I have never known such public mortification! Do you realise the bishop’s nephew is in attendance?
And the vicar’s wife! I shall be consigned to the very back of the pews, Henrietta, beside that widow with the dreadful breath.
Well... I suppose this is it. We are ruined – utterly and irredeemably.
” Turning away, she pressed a hand to her bosom.
“Do not speak to me. I feel an attack of the nerves coming on, and I should very much like to suffer in dignified silence, as befits a mama whose daughter has brought shame upon the family name.” She spun back, eyes flashing.
“Half of London has now seen your décolletage and will assume you are the sort of girl who dances with Italians. Italians, Henrietta.”
Theo’s shoulders began to shake, and he was obliged to press a finger to the bridge of his nose to stem the entirely unseemly moisture gathering in his eyes. It was, without question, the most diverting quarter hour he had passed all year.