Journey to Victory, page 24
In a way, Christiane felt sorry for the woman. It was true that Mrs. Loring was a lovely blond and that she amused the general with her antics, her gambling, and her flamboyance. But if Elizabeth Loring thought she could compete successfully with women the caliber of Christiane’s mother, she was mistaken.
Christiane knew enough of court life to know that beauty and gaiety were not enough. One needed a family crest and a history of titles. A person without these at court would be cut dead in public. General Howe knew this, too, and Christiane doubted he had any intention of taking the blond back to England with him. If he did, Mrs. Loring would most likely end up in a brothel, not at court.
The American woman’s advice only demonstrated her lack of understanding of the nobility. The noblemen who had patronized her mother had brought gifts, fabulous ones, casually and as a matter-of-course. To worry about one’s purse was bourgeois and déclassé. Mrs. Loring’s tactics would brand a woman as a lightskirt, used to dealing only with the lower class. Fortunately, Christiane was saved from any further advice by Mrs. Loring’s appointment for a card game.
Christiane had quickly forgotten this interview till three days later when she had encountered Lord Hazelton on her way back to the major’s room. He had asked to escort her up and then had stopped just outside the door. “My dear girl,” he had begun hesitantly, “there doesn’t seem to be any easy way to say this so I will just ask it. Are you happy with the major?”
She had looked up, startled. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, my dear, you are a young, beautiful woman, and how does he expect you to live? Like a cloistered nun? No gaming, no parties, no new gowns. I have yet to see you at the weekly ball at Smith’s City Tavern. I wondered at your choice, and now that I see how he treats you…” He threw up his hands theatrically.
“Oh, my lord, how sweet of you to be concerned.” Her mind had raced, trying to concoct an explanation. “I am responsible for our sedateness, really. I have not felt well until recently. That blow to my head, you know.”
He had pursed his lips, looking unconvinced. “You are commendable in your loyalty, but you need have no fear of any annoyance if you wish to leave him. I am here and would shield you from any unpleasantness—”
They had been interrupted at that point by Major Eastham himself, who had unfortunately heard their voices in the hallway.
Alone in his room the conversation had begun innocently enough. “What was the Colonel saying to you?”
“Our ‘unusual’ behavior is causing comment.” She sat down in her chair. “You keep me at home like a nun, no dresses, no balls.”
“Oh?” He had arched an eyebrow.
“Yes, I heard the same from Mrs. Loring earlier this week.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I am not ‘handling’ you very well. Two weeks, and I only have a dress to show for it,” she had continued, trying to make light of it. “I need to pout and fuss and wheedle. The nerve of the woman. She even believes that General Howe intends to take her home with him.”
“I can’t see what Howe wants consorting with such a common woman.”
She now realized that should have guessed from his tone that these comments had troubled him. Unwisely she had replied, “She doesn’t bother me. But if she says this to my face, what is she saying behind my back? Our charade is wearing thin. Major, I must be leaving soon. What is the word from the widow taking care of my mare?”
“At least five more days before Nancy will be well enough.”
She had made a frustrated sound and his brow had furrowed. Then he had fallen deep in thought, so she had left him alone, hoping he would forget their discussion. Finally she heard him say, as if to himself alone, “I will show them.”
“What?”
He had fixed his eyes on her. “They don’t think that I know how to treat my mistress? Well, they are mistaken and I intend to prove the point.”
She had argued in vain that she did not want him to go to any further expense, that he had done enough, that gossip was of no consequence to her. But no argument had prevailed. His honor had been called into question. With that pronouncement, he had dispatched Alfred to bring back a clothier to commission a ball gown for her to wear to this week’s ball at Smith’s Tavern.
She heard their final clash of words again. “Major, you should be thinking of a way out of this situation, not entrenching us in it more deeply.”
“Madame, you will leave as soon as you are able. On that we have already agreed. Until then, however, you are under my protection and I might add, direction. You will do as I say.”
With her hands on her hips, she had stood in front of him and they had indulged in a short staring competition. Finally she had thrown up her hands in exasperation. “This is ridiculous. Very well. You are in charge, but I refuse to consider the dress mine. It will remain with you when I leave.”
So here she was, standing with a couturier and seamstresses fussing around her by candlelight, all because the major wanted to dress her and show her off. Very well, she would indulge him. He had been more than generous with her. But she had made up her mind two days ago that on the morning after tonight’s ball, she would slip away. If Nancy were not strong enough to carry her, they would walk together to Valley Forge. It might take two days, but she would dress warmly and the major had fattened her enough that two lean days would do her no harm. Tomorrow morning this episode in her life would be over. It would be a unique memory that she would never be able to share with anyone.
She looked down at Monsieur Paul Andre Lagneaux, the clothier Alfred had returned with. He was new in Philadelphia and had been the only one available to design and produce a dress on such short notice. At first she had taken for granted that he had left France because of a lack of talent, but now she was impressed by his obvious expertise. No doubt he had offended someone influential.
Just then the couturier and his two seamstresses buzzed excitedly in French on all sides of her. A final tug here, a pull there. All three stepped back to view their masterpiece. “Mangnifique!” the Frenchman breathed. He motioned proudly for Christiane to go nearer the full-length mirror to her left. When she looked, she was indeed dazzled by her own reflection. She had never worn a dress so lovely, so grand, so superb. The finest compliment she could give it was that both her mother and her grandmother would have been impressed.
The basic simplicity of the design was its strength. It was made of three shades and three fabrics: a creamy satin, a fawn-colored taffeta, and a warm brown velvet. The skirt was of the dark velvet, stitched in layers of lace-edged flounces down the front and bordered at the hem with a ruff of the pale satin. The overskirts on each side of her waist were of the taffeta. They were grandiose in proportion. She made a mental note to turn sideways at all single doorways.
Her white shoulders appeared well above a mock shawl neckline which revealed much and covered little. The striking point of interest of the cream-colored satin bodice was its effect of a loosely-laced dress. Most frocks laced up the back. Hers laced up the front daringly, almost immodestly. Her brow puckered over this. She knew that the major had asked for this effect especially. Not only did he want to impress, he wanted to stun. His mistress would outshine the Sultana tonight. His Christiane would be the most beautiful, the most outrageous. She experienced a slight tremor at this thought, but refused to allow it to show.
“Monsieur Lagneaux,” she praised, “you are a master. It is the most lovely dress I have ever seen.”
He beamed and bowed his head as if in humility.
Just then the major entered. Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he came over to Christiane. “Well, madame, how do you like your gown?”
She did not respond to his sarcastic tone. “It is very lovely, my lord. Monsieur Lagneaux is truly an artist.”
“Monsieur,” his lordship said to the Frenchman, “she is quite right. All of Philadelphia will be at your doorstep tomorrow.”
“Merci, Lord Eastham.”
“Now for your fee.”
The little man beamed as gold coins were poured into his hands. The two seamstresses smiled and exclaimed their gratitude when they also received some of the largesse. Quietly and expertly then, they gathered up the accoutrements of their craft and bowed themselves out.
Christiane stood motionless, waiting for his next bit of sarcasm. It seemed to her that he was caught between his desire to carry out his plan and his natural tendency to sneer at it. What a man. So full of contradictions.
Instead of speaking, he came to her purposefully. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he turned her so she faced directly into the mirror. His fingers were cool on her bare skin. A shiver tingled through her. Standing behind her, he casually drew from his pocket a necklace, which he placed around her neck. “The finishing touch,” he said solemnly.
She gasped, not only from the feeling of its iciness, but also from its beauty. The necklace was five strands of perfect, glowing pearls. The highest two strands hugged her neck regally; the other three dipped in faultless symmetry down to her décolletage.
“They are exquisite,” she breathed.
“I’m glad you approve.” The irony crept back into his voice.
“You’re sure the clasp and ties are adequate. I wouldn’t want it to come apart.”
He held up his hand. “Have no fear. All is secure.”
She turned to look at him. He was in his dress uniform: red coat with white epaulets, knee pants, white stockings. His sword gleamed at his side and his brass buttons shone. For the occasion he had had his hair curled and powdered. She had refused to have hers powdered. It was the only objection she had made. She disliked the affectation of the practice. Instead, her chestnut hair had been styled ala Pompadour. Three curls hung coyly down her neck in graduated lengths. “Major, you look very nice.”
“And you, Madame Belmond, look exactly as I planned. Now remember, I want you to break hearts tonight. I want men to fall at your feet in hopeless desire. I want every man there to envy me unbelievably. Do you think you can do it?”
“Major, it will be the greatest performance of my life,” she answered truthfully. The penniless rebel going to the blue-blooded ball! No one but she would plumb the true irony of this night. He handed her a pair of embroidered, fawn-colored, elbow-high gloves and wrapped her in a red fox cape. She shivered in delight at the feeling of the fur on her bare back.
“Then let us be off.” He led her out the door and down the front steps. Usually he would have led her to the back stairs, but evidently tonight he wanted everyone in the house, everyone in Philadelphia to see them. A special carriage waited outside for them. Alfred stood outside to bid them a good evening.
“Alfred, do not wait up for us,” the major remarked over his shoulder as he assisted Christiane in the delicate operation of safely entering the swaying carriage. Finally the maneuver was accomplished. Her gown took up one entire seat, so he sat opposite her, studying her obviously.
She felt his intensity. It made her uncomfortable, so she turned her gaze out the window. His question nagged her. Could she manage this? The farewell party for Mrs. Washington last spring had been her debut as a woman in society, and it had been extremely informal compared with the affair she would attend tonight. But she had been groomed to appear at the French court, the pinnacle of society. Tonight’s festivities would be lackluster when compared to even the most commonplace ball at Versailles. Could she be her mother for one night?
She knew that most of the senior officers would be watching her to see how the next generation of Pelletier measured up. For the first time in her life she felt something like the tug of family pride. Her resolve was firm. For once in her life and only this once, she would behave in a way that would have made her grandmother proud of her.
The ride to Smith’s City Tavern was brief, but she still became chilled by the time they arrived. A liveried footman opened the carriage door. The major alighted then helped her down from the carriage and up the few steps to the inn entrance.
She rehearsed herself silently. Grace, elegance, and sophistication—that was what she wished to portray this night. The ball had already begun over an hour before. At the door they were announced, “Major John Eastham and Madame Christiane Belmond,” and were received by a few of the officers who took turns sponsoring these weekly balls to stave off their boredom in this provincial capital.
Christiane was struck by the brightly lit room. Smith’s was certainly an inn par excellence to boast such a large room for dancing. The oak floor gleamed in the candlelight. In all her troubles, she had almost forgotten that they were nearing Christmas. Boughs of holly festooned the paneled walls and beribboned evergreen wreaths graced the doors. The scent of bayberry candles filled the room. At one end there was a long dinner buffet and at the other end were the musicians. In between were the celebrants.
Most of the men were officers in dress uniform and white wigs, but here and there wealthy civilians were dressed in satin knee breeches and long waistcoats of all shades. The ladies were dressed in evening gowns. The young maidens primarily in light pastel shades and the matrons were in muted grays, blues, and browns. One glance told Christiane that, barring the Sultana, she wore the most striking dress present. Heads turned to look at her and then turned again. She had barely been relieved of her cape by a servant girl when Lord Hazelton swept her away from the major for her first dance.
“Christiane, my dear,” he praised, “your beauty dazzles the eyes. If only your dear mother could see you.”
“Thank you, my lord, what a sweet compliment. I am so happy to start with a quadrille. It is my favorite.”
“Oh now, my dear, don’t start practicing your idle conversation with me. Save it for the fortunate men who will count you a partner tonight. I am delighted to see the major has finally awakened to your purpose.”
“My purpose?”
“To enjoy life and to be enjoyed, of course. That was your mother’s and it is yours. The pearls are truly lovely. Soon you will have a collection of jewels to match your mother’s.” Then as they concentrated on the intricacies of the dance, she tried to ignore his comments. She had never felt that giving and receiving pleasure were her only reasons for living. But tonight only, this one night, she would behave like her mother.
At the end of the dance Lord Hazelton was immediately beset by three other gentlemen who wished to meet his lovely partner. The introductions made, she was off and dancing. Gavotte, schottische, minuet, the dancers whirled around the floor to the stringed quartet’s music. Christiane chatted, laughed, teased, insinuated, and flirted outrageously with every man who came to claim her. And not one, but many greeted her at the end of each dance.
The major watched his “creation” as she went from man to man. The dark velvet of her gown and her natural chestnut tresses stood out in the milieu. The other ladies, with their powdered hair and light-colored satins, paled when compared with Madame Belmond. When the Frenchwoman swung by on another lord’s arm, the major observed the matrons pout angrily. These prosperous mothers of Philadelphia wanted to marry off their daughters to gentlemen and wanted no such competition. He watched their heads draw together and their tongues wag at this stranger’s unseemly behavior. Why, anyone could see she was making a scandal of herself. He smiled.
All the while she danced, Christiane wondered where the major could be. Occasionally she saw him, whirling by with another woman. Their eyes would meet and then slide apart. She hoped he was enjoying the performance he had ordered and financed, but would he never claim her for a dance?
At last she managed to break away from the dance floor. Escorted by a major and a captain, she arrived at the sumptuous buffet table. The array of viands before her boggled the palate: smooth brown pate, pink ham, venison, a variety of dark and light sausages, a rare roast beef; breads, rye, wheat and white, thin-sliced and without crusts; all manner of tarts and a rainbow of petit fours, dark Dutch chocolates; red punch and fragrant mulled wine. She was amazed again at the feast and famine of her life. Last December she had starved. This December night she would feast.
The three of them found a bench along a nearby wall. Christiane ate methodically while the men, one on each side, tried to outdo one another with light-hearted teasing and compliments. She often paused between bites to giggle.
“Madame Belmond, how are you?”
Christiane looked up. “Mrs. Loring, I’m well, thank you, how are you?” She was gratified to see the envy in the older woman’s eyes. Christiane’s escorts stood up in deference to the Sultana.
“I am as well as one can be at these weekly soirees.” Her tone attempted to portray the proper boredom of a highborn lady.
“Oh, really?” Christiane answered impishly, “I’m having a delightful evening.” She glanced suggestively at her two “bookend” officers.
“I am just happy you took my advice and that the major has finally ceased keeping you prisoner.”
Christiane giggled. “It wasn’t against my will,” she answered brazenly. “He can be quite amusing.”
“Well, there is no accounting for taste,” the general’s mistress commented sharply, revealing her envy over the pearls and the new gown. Christiane ignored the comment but was secretly pleased. The woman went on, “Would you care to play a hand or two of cards? The general is expecting me in one of the gaming rooms.”
“I came to dance.” Christiane tapped her toes on the shining floor and treated the men nearby to a brief glimpse of her silk stockings and slender ankles.
“Try to amuse yourself then, my dear,” Mrs. Loring said patronizingly.
