More Refined than a Hog
My brother’s reflection appears in the mirror as my valet finishes tying my cravat. The evening sunlight casts a ruddy glow over his face. Hugh’s already dressed for the ball, and he grimaces as he saunters into my dressing room. “You’re actually wearing that?”
I’m not sure what part of my outfit he’s talking about, so I ignore him. Hugh plops into a stuffed chair behind me and watches for a moment.
“Your cravat is crooked.” He wrinkles his nose. “But there’s really no point in fixing it.”
My valet purses his lips and replies stiffly, “Of course I shall fix His Highness’ cravat, Your Highness.”
“It’s fine, Rodering,” I say before he can start fiddling with it again. I glance in the mirror and don’t see what my younger brother is criticizing.
“It’s only the Commoners Ball, anyhow.” Hugh stretches. “They won’t care.”
“That’s not what—” I sigh. “Does it need to be redone, Rodering?”
My valet glances from me to my brother, face expressionless .
“Never mind.” I stand. The cravat is fine, but he can’t say so without contradicting Hugh. I survey my reflection and I’m satisfied, so I turn to Hugh. He’s dressed in the height of style, despite his grumblings. “A purple waistcoat? Isn’t that a trifle … ostentatious?”
“At least I don’t look as though I’ve stepped straight out of a casket.” He shakes his head. “Really, Luke, where did you get that coat? Were you stealing someone’s graveclothes?”
“Did you need something, or are you only here to criticize my outfit?” I run a comb through my hair.
Hugh lifts a lazy shoulder. “Criticizing you is an unexpected bonus.” He stops and corrects himself. “Well, I really should have expected to, but I wasn’t. Aren’t you bored already?”
“Of what?”
“This ball. I wish Father would just give the commoners ducks or something.”
“Ducks?”
“You know.” He waves. “Some fowl for a nice meal. That they can have in their own homes.”
“You love balls,” I say. My valet offers me a pair of gloves. “Thank you, Rodering. You may go.”
Hugh makes a face as Rodering shimmies out of the room. “I don’t love this ball. There’s no—no class! Half the girls can’t even dance! And the fashion!” He shudders in his seat.
“It’s for the good—”
“Oh, don’t start with the talk of duty and public relations. Just let me be miserable.”
“I’m sure you shall find at least one pretty girl to flirt with,” I say with neither sympathy nor humor.
He props his chin on one hand, drumming the fingers of his other against the arm of the chair. “You don’t even care about my broken heart.”
“Broke it again, did you? Did Miss—Hamish, was it?—decide to go with someone more … reliable?”
“I haven’t thought about her for weeks!” he says. His tone is offended. “I meant Lydia Hitchingford.”
My eyebrows raise. “Lydia Hitchingford? How did she break your heart?” As far as I knew, the young lady in question mooned over Hugh with as much vigor as anyone.
“Her father betrothed her to Lord Antrony—you know, the one with the neck like a goose—and she’s acting happy about it!”
“How cruel of her to enjoy her betrothal.” I tug my gloves on. “Come, it’s time to greet the guests.”
Hugh follows me out of the room, dragging his feet on the carpet. “You’d have more sympathy if you’d ever been in love.”
I don’t answer in words.
He flushes. “Oh, you didn’t love Grace.”
“No reason for you to go around kissing her.” I lengthen my stride as we make our way down the hall to the grand staircase. Ruby light from the setting sun filters through the western-facing windows, and Hugh pauses to look down.
“Here they are already.” He sighs. “So unfashionably early.”
“Right on time, actually.”
“Worst way to make an entrance.” He leans against the pane, and I join him to glance at the carriages starting to roll down the drive. Some of the commoners invited have their own, while others hire a cab. Either way, none have recognizable livery, so I step back and continue to the staircase. Our father and mother will greet each guest personally before the dancing and dinner begin. Hugh and I are supposed to be there as well, although if past years are any indication, Hugh will probably wander off and only reappear when it’s time to dance.
At the top of the sweeping stairs, I pause to call one last rebuke. Hugh still has his nose pressed to the window in a grimace.
“Perhaps if you make up your mind to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do your duty, you’ll enjoy yourself more.”
“It’s always duty with you, and you get precious little joy out of it that I can see,” he grumbles. He straightens and looks at me. “I think I will enjoy myself, though. ”
I don’t like the look in his eyes. “Whatever you’re thinking—”
“You said I should enjoy myself,” he interrupts. “And I enjoy falling in love. So!” He turns back to the window, this time with eagerness. “I’ll find one of these common girls and fall in love with her.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I take a step toward him. I don’t know why; there’s no reasoning with Hugh.
“I can, actually. It’s quite easy to fall in love. You should be happy.” He looks at me, reproachful. “I’ll stop complaining.”
I press my lips together and bite back the words I want to say. I can’t contain Hugh, as hard as I try. With a shake of my head, I turn back to the stairway, leaving Hugh to watch his prey from the window. I don’t suppose he’ll do much real harm. Even the commoners know Hugh’s fickle reputation, and none of the girls who attend should take him seriously. All the same, I should keep an eye on him.
HESTER
It feels good to be stretching my legs in the autumn air. I like living in the capital, but I’m not used to such a sedentary job. I enjoy my walk to the palace, taking in the sights of the city I call home now. The genteel shabbiness of my neighborhood gives way to increasingly impressive architecture, and my steps slow more than once so I can admire a particularly imposing building or a marble statue . I’ll have to wander back this way on my next day off to admire everything better.
I find the palace without incident, following the broughams and hansom cabs that roll past me. Maybe some year I’ll be one of these invited guests, rich enough to hire a carriage to take me to the ball. Chemmy would certainly go with me then. I smile at the thought.
I’ve been so preoccupied with my stroll that I haven’t been thinking about the ball at all, and I’m unworried about my scheme until the moment I climb the final hill and see the palace gates. They’re nearly as tall as the mill back in my village of Lower Splott, and I used to think that a grand place indeed! If I stop to think about it, I’d feel intimidated—so I don’t stop.
The gates stand open for guests to enter. I lift my chin and walk through. A long, winding avenue, bordered by ferns and chrysanthemums, stretches before me, and bright gas lamps push back the growing dusk. I don’t hurry, admiring what I can see of the grounds.
A final curve brings the palace itself into view, and I stop in the middle of the drive to gape at the great stone building. I try to count the glimmering windows, but there are too many. My whole village could easily fit inside, chickens and hogs included, although they’d be more out of place than I am.
Or would we be equally out-of-place? Am I really more refined than a hog?
The rattle of a carriage behind me breaks my reverie and prompts me to scamper the remainder of the way down the drive. Wide stone steps—or is this marble?—lead up to a massive doorway. A manservant dressed in a crisp green suit stands at attention on one side. He eyes me as I climb the last stair.
“The servant’s entrance is around back, miss.”
“Oh, I’m not a servant.” I favor him with my brightest smile. “I’m here for the Commoners Ball.”
The servant barely restrains a laugh, looking me up and down. “You’re hardly dressed for it, miss.”
“I’m dressed as a commoner.” I slip off my cloak and spin, showing him my outfit. “Don’t you like it?” I smooth my skirt and wait for him to open the door for me.
“When they call it the Commoners Ball, miss, they don’t mean commoners ,” the servant grunts. “Do you have an invitation?”
“That seems disingenuous.” I ignore his question. “To call it something without really meaning it.”
The carriage I’d heard pulls to a stop in front of the stairs, and I turn to watch a family alight: a balding man in a checkered waistcoat, a woman in a very bright yellow gown, and two younger women—daughters, I guess—with feathers in their hair.
Feathers! Now those I could have gotten easily enough. I’ll tell Chemmy later that she could have skipped the pansies and saved her farthing; I only needed to snatch some plumes from the dinner goose!
One of the daughters spares me a curious glance, but the rest of the party takes no notice of me as they sweep up the stairs. I move out of the way as they present their invitation, and the servant pulls the door open for them with a bow. I determinedly follow the last daughter. The servant reaches out to stop me from stepping through the doorway, but I whisk out of his reach and into the palace.
He catches up to me immediately. The family I’ve followed hands their various shawls and overcoats to another servant before gliding down a long hallway, but I stop right inside the doorway to gawk.
“How beautiful! It’s so tall! And are those actual gaslights —indoors?” I nod my appreciation. “Isn’t it overwhelming to work in such a place?”
“I’m used to it, miss.” The servant takes my arm to pull me back outside. “If you have no invitation hidden in that costume, I’m afraid I’ll—”
“Ah, Miss Smith!” A booming voice interrupts him, and a tall figure hurries down the shining hall to me, arms outstretched. The servant drops my arm as swiftly as he grabbed it. I wait dumbly as the man approaches and grabs my ungloved hands in his. He brings one to his lips.
“I’m delighted you’ve arrived! I only apologize that I was not at the door to greet you immediately!” The man straightens, and I notice a purple waistcoat, impish smile, twinkling blue eyes, and impossibly golden hair. I can’t help but grin back when he winks and turns to the servant. “My personal guest,” he explains, tucking my hand securely in his arm. “You can take her cloak. ”
The servant opens his mouth—maybe to argue, but he must think better of it—and merely gives me a suspicious look. He takes the cloak with nothing more than a muttered “His Highness’ guest! I wonder you didn’t mention it before, miss!”
I give him a benign smile and a thank you as the man—wait, did the servant say His Highness? —leads me back down the hall he had approached from. “Good thing I saw you,” he says, a self-satisfied note in his voice. “That footman would have thrown you out in another moment.”
“You didn’t have to lie for me, sir.” I try to extricate myself from his arm, but he smiles and tugs me closer. “I do thank you, but I don’t need to bother you further.”
“I never lie. I said you are my guest, and my guest you shall be!” His eyes are dancing and his grin is contagious. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I mind!” I say. “I have no idea who you are!”
He stops. “You don’t know who I am?”
“How would I? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Well, and there we’re equal, at least! You may call me Hugh”—he pauses and releases me enough to give a little bow—“and you are?”
“ Miss Smith .” I repeat his earlier greeting with a cheeky grin. This earns me a laugh from Hugh before he pulls me to the ballroom entry.
I am stunned.
No, more than that. Flabbergasted? I’m flabbergasted. We’re at the top of a short, sweeping staircase that descends into a massive room. The room itself is beautiful—more of that marble, and an entire wall of windows, and gilding and paintings and tapestries and flowers and pillars and flaring gaslights everywhere else—but it’s the guests who make me take a step back. Why, there must be hundreds of people in here! Men in suit coats with long tails, and women in bright dresses with enough fabric to make at least three bedsheets, and servants scuttling around like so many green beetles, and a gaggle of musicians making an absolutely glorious ruckus .
Now, as a rule, I am not a self-conscious person. There’s too much else to think about to waste time being self-conscious. But this big room—these beautiful people—well, I am a little self-conscious after all, it seems.
I tug on Hugh’s arm until he steps out of the doorway with me. “I can’t go in there!” I hiss.
He blinks at me. “Why ever not?”
I peer around the doorframe again. “I really only came for the food, so if you could just direct me—”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t come to a ball and skip the ball part! You’re my personal guest, remember.” He pauses to drop an over-the-top wink. “Come, I’ll have us introduced.”
I have no choice. Hugh leads me back into the room with its dazzling lights and swirling couples. He pauses to murmur something to a servant standing at the top of the stairs, who proceeds to clear his throat, shoot me a questioning glance, and bleat a short note on a golden trumpet.
“Prince Fitzhugh Charles Chesingwick and his personal guest”—his staid voice falters for a moment—“Miss Smith .”
The crowd, as one, turns to stare.
Chemmy was right. This was a terrible idea.