A Mad, Wicked Folly (24 page)

It was over. William Fletcher had gone from my life as
abruptly as he had entered it. He would be nothing more to
me now than images on paper made with pencil and pastel, just as he should have been all along.

Edmund came home from Oxford for good at the
beginning of June. I walked in the park with him nearly
every day, went to parties with him, smiled and laughed
in all the right places. I went with Mamma to choose linens
and china for the new house; I worked with Sophie on my
trousseau. I had tea with India and her friends and tried to
join in their conversation.

But Will was entwined with my emotions and my
artwork so much that I could not unpick him from them.
Thursdays were a misery. I kept up the scheme of my
church charity so as to get out of the house and be on my
own. I tried to resume drawing in the Royal Academy
courtyard, but the first time I went there I nearly burst
into tears, remembering Will’s face, his smile, the lips that
had kissed me, the hands that had touched me. Even
A
Mermaid
held memories of him. When I went to visit her,
I found her gaze, which once seemed so welcoming, to be
almost accusatory.

I worked on the pastel drawing of Lancelot each morning. I had only less than a month left before I would present
it to the examiners on the first of July, but without Will,
the work was uninspired. The more I tried to get inspiration back, the muddier and more muted the colors looked.
Worse, the expression on Will’s face in the drawing tore at
me. More then once I longed to hide the portrait far away
in the back of my closet because I could not bear to look at
it. If I hadn’t needed to finish it for the exam, I might have
given up on it altogether. I once took out the undraped
drawing of Will, hoping to find inspiration again, but memories of the day he kissed me came flooding back, so I did
not look at it again.

I saw Will once on Oxford Street while I was with
Sophie and my mother, choosing flowers for my wedding.
My mother had stopped with Sophie to look at a hat display
in Selfridge’s window, and that was when I spotted Will.
He was walking his beat but he was on the other side of the
road and did not see me. He was speaking to a gentleman,
pointing out directions. After the gentleman had gone,
I thought I saw Will looking toward me. I turned around
quickly and pretended to be interested in a wide-brimmed
hat trimmed with daisies. It took everything I had not to
dash across the street after him.

EMEMBER TO HOLD
your train over your
left arm,” Mamma said. “Say nothing to the
king unless he addresses you. Curtsy to him
and the queen and then to any of the royals around him, then back away, curtsying as you go. For
heaven’s sake, Victoria, do not turn your back on the king.
Remember that most of all.” My mother looked dismayed,
as if she were picturing me greeting the king by waving
my entire arm back and forth like a semaphore flag, shouting, “Cheerio!” and then lifting my skirts to my knees
and skipping from the room like the Dame in a Christmas
pantomime.

We were on the way to Buckingham Palace in the
motorcar Father had hired, finally bowing to my mother’s
insistence that we embrace the new style of transportation, at least for one night.

I looked out the window. The traffic to the ball queued
all the way down the Mall from Buckingham Palace. There
were several police constables about, directing traffic. For
a fleeting moment I thought I saw Will, but when the man
turned around, I saw it was someone else.

“And do try to look happy.” Mamma tapped her closed
fan on my knee. “This is the most important day of a wellbred young woman’s life, outside of her wedding day.”

Yes, the most important day, because now we were
marriage material. Now we were truly alive. Of course, if
a girl did not find a husband after two seasons, she was
considered a failure, and doomed to remain on the shelf,
forever a spinster.

I shifted in my seat. “Yes, Mamma.” I pulled at my bodice. I was dressed in her white full court coming-out dress
that Sophie had refashioned to bring it up to date. A long
train was attached to my shoulders with lace loops. The
dress had cap sleeves; my shoulders and neck were bare as
was custom. Despite the summer heat, I wore white opera
gloves that fitted well past my elbows. Sophie had fixed
two white ostrich tail feathers in my hair, which marked
me as an unmarried woman.

My mother was also dressed in white, but her dress had
a high collar and was trimmed with colored flowers. And
as a married woman, my mother wore a trio of feathers,
arranged in the symbol of the Prince of Wales’s plume and
styled to the left side of her head. We both wore long veils
and carried bouquets of roses.

Sophie had had to lace me into the dreaded S-bend corset in order to fit into the wretched gown. I could feel the
boning press into my ribs. The evening was sweltering hot,
and it didn’t help that we were at a standstill.

“Don’t fidget.”
“I’m not fidgeting!”
“Victoria, do try to look interested in what the other

girls have to say.”
“And speak to them of what? Hatpins and the weather?
As if those are of any interest.”
“Well, this is what society is like. This is how you will
spend your evenings.”
“Not if I can help it.” I tugged at the dress once more. I
felt Mamma’s gaze on me.
“Just how do you think your life will be?”
“Doing what I want,.” I turned from the window and
looked at her. “I’ll be married and free to pursue what I
want at my leisure.”
“In the hour or two each day you have to yourself.” She
held up her hand and began to tick down an activity on
each finger. “You’ll have your at-homes and your visits to
other ladies’ at-homes; you will have to host dinners for
Edmund, and there will be many of those, seeing as he’s
a new businessman. Luncheons out each day with the
wives of Edmund’s friends and others in your social circle.
Meetings with your cook and housekeeper to arrange the
day’s menu.”
I watched, horrified, as she moved on to her other hand.
“But . . .” In the past several weeks it had taken all my will
to submit the work I needed to the RCA. My time would be
taken up all the more with these new social obligations.
But why was I surprised? Had I not seen my own mother
immersed in these activities from sunup to sundown?
Was this the reason why she had abandoned her own
artwork when I was a little girl? I imagined her drawing
me as I tossed corn to the little bird. What was the final distraction that called her away from her drawing book that
day? What had she felt when she laid her pencil down for
the last time? Frustration? Anger? Or was it relief?
I studied Mamma carefully to see if there were any
signs of the artist left. She never once looked out of the
motorcar’s window searching for a subject that caught her
attention or inspired her, fingers curling around an imaginary pencil. Instead she sat still, posture perfect, head
held high—a book could sit neatly on top with no danger
of falling. Eyes were straight ahead toward Buckingham
Palace, hands folded in her lap.
My mother no longer saw the things only artists noticed,
things other people would walk straight past, like the light
dappling the trunk of a tree; a cat turning its whiskers to
the sun, eyes closed in contentment; or the quiet contemplation of a person’s face as he sat reading. Instead she saw
flaws. Things that were wrong with the house, with her
embroidery or flower arranging. Things that were wrong
with me.
And then I understood. These were the things a frustrated artist would see.
Suddenly my hands felt strange—restrained as if I
wore a pair of manacles instead of silk opera gloves.

THE MOTORCAR ARRIVED
at the palace and drove into
the Quadrangle. Footmen resplendent in scarlet velvet livery handed us from the car and escorted us to the Grand
Entrance. Another footman led us up into the Green Drawing Room, where a buffet of canapés and drinks had been
laid out on gold plate. An orchestra from one of the Guards
regiments was playing music. Servants milled about offering crystal glasses of punch from trays. My mother went
off to deliver our presentation cards to the Lord Steward.

There was even more art than I’d realized. The green
tabinet-covered walls of the Green Drawing Room were
hung with huge paintings from the Renaissance era.
Through the door I saw the work of Rembrandt, Vermeer,
and Rubens hanging in the Picture Gallery.

A crush of girls my age waited along with me, standing in groups, giggling and chatting. Like me they were
adorned in white gowns and shoulder trains, tall plumes in
their hair. I recognized many from my dance class and several from my French finishing school, but none approached
me, apart from a few whispers and pointed looks in my
direction. I bit back the urge to poke my tongue out at
them. Mercifully, Mildred Halfpenny was not there as she
was a year beneath me and would have her presentation
next year.

Excitement crackled in the air. This was the event that
the girls had imagined all their lives. To meet the king and
announce they were ready for marriage and society! What
could be better?

I stood by myself, dressed in my finery, holding a cup
of punch, a false smile on my face, and wondered if this
life was truly what these girls wanted. And if so, what satisfaction did they glean from it? I wondered what the tall
girl with blonde ringlets and a haughty expression really
desired. Did she long to be a ballerina or maybe a writer?
What about that short, round girl with the rose-pink cheeks
eyeing the French fancies? Did she desire to be a cook or a
baker? Or the girl with her back to me looking out the window. What did she wish to be?

And then I realized that the long neck and the set of
those shoulders were familiar; I had drawn that figure
many times before. At that moment of recognition, the girl
turned and saw me looking.

There she was! Just as I had hoped. My best friend, Lily
Northbrook.
Her eyes widened.
I set my punch cup down on a nearby table, and, picking up my skirts, threaded my way through the crowd of
girls and footmen to her side. We grabbed each other’s
hands, laughing, giddy with happiness.
“Vicky Darling, how do you do?” Lily laced her fingers
through mine.
“Much better now I see your familiar face here.” I
glanced around. “Everyone here acts as though I have a
catching disease.”
She smiled wryly. “How have you been? I have worried
about you so. I saw Bertram before I left France, and he
said he’d had a letter from you. I’m so sorry I haven’t written. My father made such a fuss.”
“Yes, I know.” I was quiet. I didn’t know what else to say.
The sound of heels approaching quickly on the marble
floor interrupted our conversation. Those heels belonged
to the very angry Lady Northbrook, Lily’s mother and my
mother’s erstwhile friend. Her red face stood out against
the backdrop of her white dress and veil. She did not share
the sweet English rose features that Lily had. Instead I
rather thought she resembled the rose’s thorny stems:
her nose was sharp and angular, her face pinched with
disapproval.
My mother came up just then; her face blanched at the
sight of Lady Northbrook. She drew in her breath.
“Mrs. Darling, we had an agreement regarding our
daughters, did we not?” Lady Northbrook’s smile was
polite, but there was an undercurrent of tension to the
words. “And I will thank you to remember that. I know
your social circle has turned the tide with some people but
not with me.”
“I understand, Lady de Lessups,” my mother murmured, looking mortified.
“Things have changed greatly since Queen Victoria’s
day.” Lady de Lessups addressed my mother, but her gaze
flicked to me. “
She
only received young ladies who wore
the white flower of a blameless life. King Edward does not
possess such high standards.” Lady de Lessups held out her
hand, fingers flickering at Lily. “Come away then, Lily.”
Before her mother had a chance to pull her away, Lily
leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
It was clear that my mother was upset and humiliated by Lady de Lessup’s’ tirade. She looked as though she
might burst into tears. Several people nearby had heard
the exchange and there was much whispering from behind
fans.
I pictured telling Lady de Lessups exactly what I
thought about her. How dare she speak to my mother so?
But I know that would have only embarrassed my mother
further. So instead I fetched her a cup of punch and stood
in front of her, shielding her from the pointing fingers
while she drank it.
Thankfully, Mrs. Plimpton came in with her daughter
Georgette. I don’t think I was ever so grateful to see two
people in my life. My mother’s tension dispersed as soon as
she was back in the safety of her own social circle.
A footman came in and announced that the king was
ready. We all followed him to the Throne Room, a huge
room decorated in scarlet with an ornate gold-and-white
rococo ceiling. I saw the king awaiting us dressed in a red
jacket with gold epaulets, standing underneath the Cloth
of State; Queen Alexandra sat next to him; his lords-inwaiting stood to the side.
I couldn’t help but think the king looked rather bored.
I couldn’t blame him. Greeting girl after girl for hours on
end was surely enough to drive even the most stoic monarch round the bend.
I watched several debutantes go in front of me. When
their names were called, their sponsors moved to stand at
the back of the room. When it was my turn, Mamma let go
of my arm and stood as far away from Lady Northbrook as
she could.
One of the lords-in-waiting let down my train, spreading it behind me. I stood alone for a moment, underneath
the massive crystal chandelier, as the Lord Chamberlain
announced my name. I took a deep breath and approached
the king.
Miss Winthrop had taught us to curtsy deeply so that
we were nearly sitting upon the floor. I smiled demurely
at the king, as I had been told to do, brought my left foot
around behind my right, bent my knees, and sank to the
floor while holding my bouquet over my right knee.
But when Miss Winthrop had taught us, we had all
been wearing dance skirts, not long, narrow gowns with
a train, a veil, and a tight corset and holding a bouquet of
flowers. So when I tried to rise, I found I could not. I had
trodden on the back of my dress with the heel of my foot
when I brought it round my other leg. I had effectively
pinned myself to the ground. The skirt was far too narrow
to move my feet; if I did so, I’d teeter to the ground. So I just
stayed there.
I heard feminine titters and giggles all around me.
I could imagine the silent scream of horror that echoed
through my mother’s head.
I stared at the king’s ankles, unable to work out what
to do next.
“You may rise,” the king said.
“I cannot, Your Majesty,” I whispered. “I’m stuck.”
And then the king laughed, rose from his velvet chair,
and reached for my hand.
“Might I assist you, Miss Darling?”
I untangled my legs, and with as much dignity as I could
muster, rose to my feet with the king’s help. His whiskered
face creased into a smile.
“I . . . thank you, Your Majesty.” I went to curtsy again,
but the king lifted his hand.
“I think we should desist with the curtsy, don’t you?
Otherwise you might find yourself wound round like a ball
of twine again!” The king’s attendants broke into laughter.
“Please forgive me, Your Majesty,” I said, feeling my
face blush red with shame.
“I shan’t forgive you,” he said in a gruff voice, “for
you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve quite made my evening.
Makes a change from the usual parade of utterly proper
debutantes that parade in front of me year after year. They
all look the same, but you—you I shall remember! Who is
your family?”
“My father is the proprietor and owner of Darling and
Son Sanitary Company, maker of the dreadnought privy,
Your Majesty.” I winced when the word privy left my lips.
I was about to apologize when he laughed and then spoke
again:
“Well. Mr. Darling of Darling and Son Sanitary
Company, maker of the dreadnought privy, is fortunate
to have such a charming daughter.” And then he took my
hand and kissed it.
Gasps rose from all around me. The kissing of the hand
had been done away with in the court presentation when
Queen Victoria had died. She had only bestowed her kiss
upon those girls deemed worthy of it. For King Edward to
do so was tantamount to him stamping
acceptable
on my
forehead in indelible ink.
I didn’t have to worry about backing away from the king
because he held out his arm and escorted me to the door. My
mother had an expression of astonishment on her face. Lady
Northbrook looked as though she had swallowed a cactus.
Lily’s face was bright red from the effort of trying not to
laugh. And she had that familiar expression in her eyes that
I knew so well: exasperation mixed with affection.
In the motorcar on the way home, my mother was beset
with a case of the giggles. I had never seen her laugh so
much in my life. She’d shake her head, look at me, and then
titter. She had a musical laugh, three little trills:
ha, ha, ha!
“I tell you, Victoria. I’ve never seen Lady Northbrook so
tongue-tied in my life. She’s always been such a stuck-up
thing, thinking herself better than most people. I must confess that I nearly caught my shoe in the hem of my gown
when I was presented I don’t think I would have handled
it as well as you did.” She beamed at me and then giggled
again. “Papa will be very pleased that you mentioned his
name, very pleased.”
Mamma gazed out the window for a bit, smiling. She
looked so young and happy just then. I could almost imagine her sitting next to me in a life-drawing class, leaning
over to compare our sketches.
“Mamma, why did you stop drawing?”
She turned away from the window; her smile faded.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I found a box in March after I came home from school.
I was looking for stationery to write Edmund. You weren’t
home, and I went into your room. There was a box on your
desk filled with your sketches.” Mamma’s hand had gone
up to her throat. She started pulling at the rope of pearls
there. “One was unfinished. The one of me.”
I saw her swallow.
“Mamma?”
She pressed her mouth into a tight line and looked out
the window again. I should have just shut my mouth then,
just left it there, but no, I could not leave it, as usual.
“You’re so talented. I want to be as good as you someday, do you know that?” I said.
She said nothing for a long moment. She just sat
there staring out the window. And then she finally said,
“Cumberbunch tells me your engagement gown will be finished tomorrow morning, which is all well and good, but
I think she should have had it finished sooner given that
tomorrow
is
your engagement ball. Still, I think it will be
worth the wait.”
The door that had cracked open a little between us
slammed shut. “Yes, you’re right, Mamma. It will be beautiful. I can’t wait to wear it.”
My heart ached for my mother. And now, more than
ever, I vowed not to follow in her footsteps. When I saw
Edmund at our engagement ball tomorrow, I would tell him
about art school. I would tell him that I would not be a society wife.