The Wastrel. Margaret Moore
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to look Grecian. Over this, she wore a flowing stole of gold-colored taffeta that matched her usual exotic headdress.
Aunt Aurora blessedly shifted and Clara’s dress was momentarily out of danger.
The gown had cost far more than Clara had been willing to pay. Unfortunately, her aunt had been embarrassingly insistent. After all, she had exclaimed several times, regardless of the other customers in the dressmaker’s shop, Clara should dress as befitted her station. She was a duke’s granddaughter, even if her mother had been disowned by the old reprobate, and this was to be her introduction into London society. It was only by using her knowledge of her aunt’s mental processes that Clara had managed to avoid a garish gown of bright peacock blue or deep purple and a headdress that resembled an overgrown bouquet. Clara had convinced her aunt that she should appear demure, almost nunlike, in case word of her appearance should get back to her grandfather. Let there be nothing — nothing — about Clara’s clothes or demeanor that anyone could fault. Fortunately, Aunt Aurora had agreed, so Clara had no cause to be concerned about her garments — provided they could escape being squashed.
“Perhaps Lord Mulholland will be there, too,” Aunt Aurora said excitedly. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful—the handsomest man in England, or so they say! What a triumph it would be to do his portrait!”
“I daresay he already has several, if he is the conceited wastrel people say he is,” Clara replied. “He’s probably a vain coxcomb without a brain inside his handsome head,” she concluded, for she had indeed heard of the wealthy nobleman whose first name, Paris, seemed to have been chosen with predestination. Paris of Troy was the legendary seducer of Helen of Sparta, an act which caused the Trojan War.
No one possessed of such a combination of looks, wealth and title would pass unremarked in London. Unfortunately, Clara could easily imagine how such a man would respond to her aunt.
“I am absolutely certain the cabbie has gone out of his way,” Aunt Aurora declared again, straining to see outside. “Is that not Rotten Row? We should not be in Hyde Park! I feel sure he is going to deceive us!”
“No, Aunt,” Clara said calmly. “He is going the right route.”
She kept a bemused smile from her face, for even if the cabbie was trying to cheat them, Aunt Aurora would never confront the man. It would be Clara’s responsibility to pay the cabbie, just as she paid all the household bills for her guardians. She had done so from the time she had come to live with them after her parents’ deaths when she was thirteen. Clara realized then that Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron had minds above the daily practicalities, or so they honestly believed.
For her part, Clara was in no great hurry to get to the London mansion of Lord and Lady Pimblett, for the distance from their lodgings in Bloomsbury to this exclusive part of the city was much farther socially than it was geographically.
She wasn’t even sure why or how they had been invited to this ball. She had been lingering over one of the mummies in the British Museum when she realized that her aunt had approached an extremely well-dressed, extremely poised older woman and engaged her in conversation.
Clara had immediately suspected the worst: that her aunt was asking if the lady wished to have her portrait painted.
No matter how many times her aunt approached complete strangers with the object of obtaining a commission, Clara never got used to it. This summer, her aunt had been worse than usual, and Clara knew it was all her fault. If she had not been over the age to be “out,” her aunt would have been much less persistent. Clara sighed as she wished that she didn’t have to grow up at all, if this...this solicitation were to be part of the price.
After the woman had moved on, her aunt had revealed, with her usual unbridled enthusiasm, that they were invited to this ball.
“Just think of it!” Aunt Aurora declared, returning Clara’s thoughts to the present as she clasped together her plump hands bejeweled by rings of paste stones that she thought quite lovely. “An invitation to a social evening with Lord and Lady Pimblett! What a delight! What a pleasure! I knew it was no mistake to speak with her in the museum! Dear Lady Pimblett! What a form! What a figure!”
“What a corset,” Clara remarked with a good-natured smile. “She swooned when she tried to catch her husband up at the museum. I suppose she spends most of the day on a sofa and considers herself sickly.”
“Clara!” Aunt Aurora admonished, tapping Clara on the arm with her fan that was decorated with a hand-painted scene of half-naked nymphs and dryads that Clara was certain was going to cause some scandalized whispers at a Mayfair mansion. “She is a woman of great position, and we are deeply honored to be invited to her home. I must ask you to remember that.”
Clara flushed and nodded, for it was not often that kindhearted Aunt Aurora rebuked her. She would simply have to be calm and patient, and try not to let Aunt Aurora’s manner upset her, even though she knew exactly what was going to happen. Her aunt would wander about the ball asking anybody who glanced her way if they would care to have their portrait done.
Clara wondered for what seemed the thousandth time why she had let her aunt talk her into accompanying them to this vast house surely full of dull, uninteresting people who would snub her. Or worse, look at her as if she led some kind of vaguely dishonest life not much removed from those unfortunate women in the streets.
Aunt Aurora, however, seemed to neither fear nor notice other people’s reactions, like that of the cabbie, who had stared with his mouth open as they approached his vehicle.
Aunt Aurora frowned. “Perhaps she needs such an undergarment. She may have a weak back, and not every woman is naturally blessed with a figure like yours, Clara.”
“Nor has every woman such an amiable and forward-thinking aunt to ban the detestable undergarment from her home,” Clara acknowledged.
“Hear, hear!” Uncle Byron cried, leaning forward suddenly and grasping his wife’s hand while gazing at her adoringly. “My Amazon! My warrior queen, has ever been, so far seen....” Uncle Byron’s brow wrinkled, his green eyes became serious and he began to rub his chin as his attention returned to the ceiling. “Now what?” he murmured. “Queen, been, seen, tangerine...?”
“The muse speaks!” Aunt Aurora whispered quite unnecessarily as she put her finger on her lips, obviously unable to remain silent despite the muse’s unseen presence.
Clara turned to look out the window and hide her smile. When the muse spoke, she had best be quiet. It was the fastest way to achieve the end to one of Uncle Byron’s poetic reveries.
A row of particularly fine town houses alight with blazing windows came into view. The tall white buildings seemed to glow in the moonlight, as if even the fog could be held at bay if one was rich enough.
“I believe we have arrived,” Clara said softly, suddenly terrified.
She knew nothing of these people and little of the aristocratic world they inhabited, for her mother had been disowned before Clara was born. What did they know of hers—of watching how every tuppence was spent, of the small, stuffy flat they lived in, of the noise of the neighbors and the street? What would they make of her, a woman of no great beauty whose mother had had the effrontery and bad taste to fall in love with her dancing master, and worse manners to marry the fellow? How could her guardians have accepted this invitation? How could they be so willfully blind?
She looked at them again, her uncle thoughtfully surveying the town house, her aunt breathless with anticipation—and was ashamed of herself. Why shouldn’t they be there? Aunt Aurora was the kindest, sweetest person Clara knew. Her uncle was an intelligent, well-read man who could have been a success in almost any field, if his mother had named him anything other than Byron. She was a lady’s daughter, of higher rank than even Lord and Lady Pimblett. She would remember these things, and hold her head high.
After they disembarked, Clara reached into her reticule and brought out the exact amount necessary to pay the cabbie, leaving a similar amount for the journey home. The cabbie squinted at the coins in his palm, sniffed scornfully,