A Mad, Wicked Folly (9 page)

I finally felt content. I had made a good decision to
marry Edmund Carrick-Humphrey. It solved so many
problems in one fell swoop. I would have my own life, my
own money, and a husband who would not try to tell me
what to do.

Bailey came into my room, her arms full of garments,
which she placed upon the bed. She set to work putting up
my hair. My hair was quite heavy and long, and it took ages
for her to haul it all into place. Her deft hands combed,
tugged, and pinned my hair. Finally her hands fell away
from the finished coiffure and she stepped back and folded
her hands, a pleased expression on her face.

I leaned closer to the mirror and turned my head to the
side. She had rolled my hair into sections and pinned them
along my head. The back of my hair was coiled into a bun
and pinned high on my head. It was very feminine, very
romantic, but it looked like it was more suited to a Greek
statue.

The weight of my hair dragged at my scalp, and I put my
hand up to loosen it a bit. Bailey sucked in her breath and
took a step forward, her hands outstretched. Mindful of
how long it had taken her to create the hairstyle, I dropped
my hands into my lap.

A pin poked at my scalp, and while Bailey turned to the
material on the bed, I quickly pulled the offending thing
away and flicked it behind my dressing table.

But the hair ordeal was a gift compared to what
unfolded next. Bailey stood waiting, holding a long-boned
coutil laced corset.

I did not own such a garment. As a matter of propriety I had worn an unboned bodice since I was twelve. I
should have begun wearing a boned corset at fourteen, but
my first visit to my mother’s corsetiere had been a disaster.
The moment the garment was tightened about my waist, a
feeling of confinement washed over me. I shamed myself
and started crying right then and there in the shop. My
mother had been so mortified that she had had to find herself another corsetiere. She had not repeated the exercise
since and left me to remain in my bodice. Until now.

“Your mother wishes you to wear this.” She held the
corset out and waited for me to stand.
I remained sitting. “I’m not wearing that. I’m telling
you now. I’m not overly fond of corsets.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but your mother says. And you won’t
get into this dress of hers without it. You won’t fit.”
“How will I sit with the corset going so low down my
legs? It’s impossible.”
“The same way your mother does. You’ve seen her sat
down, haven’t you? Now come on, Miss Darling.” The look
on her face belied the calmness of her voice. I knew that if
her position had allowed her to, she would have screeched
at me.
I sighed and stood up. What did it matter how I dressed?
If this was what I had to do for marriage, then so be it. By
September I could dress like an organ grinder’s monkey if
I wanted.
I held out my arms and Bailey slid the heavily boned
corset over my combinations and around my waist and
hips, latching the clasps in front, just under my bust. She
began to lace the back, taking a strong tug with each new
loop. The tie hissed as she pulled it through the holes. I
grasped the pole of my four-poster bed to keep from being
jerked off my feet as she worked her way down.
“Dash it, Bailey, it’s awful tight!”
I could hear the maid breathing in my ear. She was
standing too close. I could smell the carbolic soap she
washed with. I took a step forward to gain some space, but
she followed. The walls in the room seemed to march a little inward with every tug.
“Breathe from the top of your chest, Miss Darling,”
Bailey instructed. “Not from the bottom. The boning’s
what’s worrying you. And at supper, eat only small bites
and very little, otherwise you will feel sick.”
I did as she said but I couldn’t imagine how I would
get through an entire evening in the corset. No wonder my
mother took to her bed several times a day.
“I don’t know how anyone can get on like this.” I tugged
at the coutil fabric. My hips and waist were compressed
so tightly that I felt as though I were in a straitjacket in a
lunatic asylum.
“You don’t need to get on. That’s what servants are for.”
Bailey pulled a cotton camisole over my head and buttoned the front. Then she held out a pair of lace knickers
for me to step into and tied the tapes at my waist. She laid
a silk petticoat on the floor in a circle and held my arm as I
stepped into the middle. She pulled that up and tied it.
My mother had chosen for me one of her own gowns
of pale pink silk over a darker pink taffeta. It had a square
neckline and a narrow skirt with a small train. I raised my
arms while Bailey lifted the garment over my head and did
the long line of buttons up the back with a buttonhook.
I looked in the mirror. The corset had cinched my waist
away to nothing and shaped my figure into an S curve,
pushing my breasts forward and my bottom toward the
back. A familiar image peered back at me.
I resembled my mother.

AT FIRST I
did not recognize Edmund Carrick-Humphrey.
For a fleeting moment I thought my mother was introducing me to his older brother or a cousin. I barely heard her
say his name because I was looking around the room for
the boy I remembered.

“Victoria, where are your manners?” my mother hissed
in my ear. “Do shake hands!”
Startled, I put my hand out, and he bent over it.
My father came into the sitting room, and my mother
went to join him in greeting Edmund’s parents.
All I could think was that university life had done
much to change Edmund Carrick-Humphrey. His looks
had altered from dull, nothing boy into strikingly handsome man. He had grown taller and filled out—no more
gangly limbs. His dark hair was Macassar-oiled back from
his brow. He wore his tailcoat very well, carrying himself
as if he were King Edward. He studied me, eyeing me as if
I were a racehorse he had planned to place a wager upon.
For a moment, I wondered if Edmund would make a good
art model, but my artistic sensibilities didn’t rise—still
stuck on drawing PC Fletcher, apparently.
“Well, I suppose you’ll do,” he said.
“Pardon?” I said, startled.
“I’m only jesting,” he said. “Our parents have made a
good match between us. We’re a good-looking couple.” He
turned me so that I stood next to him, reflected in the large
mirror over the fireplace. “We will be the envy of all.”
His arrogance was appalling, but he was so confident
in the way he spoke that I laughed. He reminded me a little
bit of Étienne.
He tilted his head toward mine, watching our reflections in the mirror. “My father has dreadful taste, so I was
doubtful when he said he knew the perfect girl for me.
But then I remembered who you were. I don’t think you
remember me. I was all spots and big feet then. Certainly
nothing you would look at twice.”
“I remember you as being . . . very polite.” I turned
away from the mirror and sat down on the settee. Edmund
sat next to me. The scent of his cologne wafted over. It was
spicy and masculine, a mix of sandalwood and leather.
“That is very kind of you. I suppose
polite
is one way of
putting it.
Terribly shy and deadly dull
is how I would put it.”
The door creaked open and a girl came in. She was
maybe sixteen. She was dressed in a blue lace gown with
a square neckline. A large velvet ribbon held her hair at
the back of her neck, but some strands had escaped and
were hanging round her face. The messy hairstyle made
her look charming in a slightly mad way.
She perched on a chair across from us. “So you’re the
wicked girl I’ve heard so much about.”
Edmund looked at her in exasperation. “May I introduce
my dear sister, India Carrick-Humphrey. Indy, say hello to
Miss Darling, and keep those claws of yours sheathed.”
“Taking your clothes off in front of a group of men.” She
studied me for a moment. “How peculiar.”
“It was in an art class,” I said.
“Must have been awfully drafty!” She wandered over
to the fireplace and began to inspect the bric-a-brac on the
mantel.
“Indy, do shut up,” Edmund said, crossing over to the
side table. His hand paused over the bottles. “What would
you like?”
“Gin sling, please,” India piped. She picked up my
mother’s Staffordshire horse and trotted him along the
mantelpiece.
“There doesn’t appear to be any sugar here,” Edmund
said, scanning the contents of the table. “Gin and lemon
will have to do.” He handed India a glass. “Very watered
down, or dear old Dad will have my head. And you?” he
asked me.
“Drinks
before
dinner?”
“Not drinks. Cocktails. It’s the new American thing,
haven’t you heard? All the smart hotels are serving them.”
“Sounds beguiling, but not just now, thank you.” There
were too many unknowns to this dinner—corset, new
gown and hairstyle, unfamiliar fiancé and his family—to
add another thing to the mix, as fascinating as a cocktail
seemed.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. You need to experience the joy that is the cocktail.” He looked over the table
again. “Hm, what mayhem shall we create . . . ?”
“Do her a flash-of-lightning, Edmund,” India said.
“Mixers are thin on the ground here, Indy. We need
gingerette and red-currant syrup for that.”
“A bosom caresser, then!” India said, collapsing in gales
of laughter.
“Steady on! That requires an egg.”
“I don’t think our drinks tray is very well-equipped,” I
said. “My father doesn’t go in for such modern concoctions.
I’m afraid he’s a bit old-fashioned in many ways.”
Edmund lifted a decanter and sniffed the contents.
“Why muck up this quality brandy with such fripperies,
anyhow.” He poured two glasses and held one out to me.
“Might as well start out as we mean to go on, hey?”
I hesitated for a moment and then took the glass. One
drink wouldn’t hurt. The woodsy, smoky scent of the liquor
was strong. I took a drink like it was lemonade, which
turned out to be a big mistake. The brandy seared its way
down my throat, leaving a burning trail behind. I gasped.
My eyes watered. “It’s like drinking fire.”
Edmund and India laughed.
“For God’s sake, woman, don’t throw it back like that,”
Edmund said. “You’re only meant to sip it!”
“You should see the look on your face!” India chimed in
with a tinkling laugh. “Hilarious!”
I tried to hand the glass to Edmund, but he pushed it
back. “Don’t give up. Have another. This time go easy.”
I took a little sip. It was still fiery, but not as much.
Edmund studied me. “Nice, isn’t it? Brandy is nectar of
the gods.”
At that moment, I couldn’t have agreed more.
I smiled, and touched my glass to his.
Our parents never joined us in the drawing room,
most likely thrashing out the details of the engagement. So
while we waited for dinner to be served, Edmund regaled
his sister and me with stories of university and all the high
jinks the boys there got up to, pausing every so often to top
up our glasses. It all seemed quite hilarious and I found
myself in fits of giggles several times.
“Good lord, Edmund. She’s tiddly,” I heard India hiss at
Edmund after some time. “Papa will blame you, you know
that?”
“As if I give a toss what he thinks.”
Half an hour later the gong sounded for dinner and we
stood up. My mother’s potted palms waved back and forth
as if a tropical breeze had blown through. And the floor felt
as though it had tilted to one side. I hadn’t realized I had
drunk so much. India was right. I was tiddly. I staggered,
and Edmund caught my hand. He laughed. “Steady there,
Victoria.” I gripped his arm as we walked to the dining
room.
I giggled and slapped his arm. “You are so funny.”
“Shhhh!” India said to me. “Keep your voice down.
You’ll get us all in trouble.”
“No, you shhhhh, China.” I jabbed my finger at her.
“I’m India!” she said.
“Well, they’re both in Asia!” Edmund pointed out
helpfully.
I burst into laughter.
Mamma had placed Edmund and me together at dinner. We sat down, and Edmund grinned at me as if we
shared a wicked secret.
Our footman began to serve dinner. I concentrated
very hard on appearing normal, but it was most tiring. At
one point I gave up altogether, set my elbow on the table,
and rested my chin on my hand for a moment.
Edmund leaned over. “Try to eat something, Victoria. It
will help sop up some of the brandy,” he whispered.
As dinner wore on, my brandied haze abated a little
bit. The dinner conversation was as dull as usual, with topics restricted to the weather and the latest plays in Drury
Lane. My father, thrilled with having a Knight Bachelor in
our own home, nodded and smiled at everything Sir Henry
said, at one point even agreeing with his good opinion of
the king, of whom I knew my father heartily disapproved,
saying his lifestyle, especially the flaunting of his mistresses, was louche and not befitting his royal station. The
road to a royal warrant was paved with much arse-kissing.
I laughed out loud at the thought.
My father shot a look at me.
“Quite the bon vivant, quite so.” Sir Henry continued his appraisal of the king, his long walrus mustache
quivering.
Sir Henry may have behaved as though he was royalty
himself, but he was nothing more than a parvenu. He had
climbed his way up the industrial ladder, like my father
had, sold his steam-powered flour mills for scads of money,
double-barreled his name, and acted as though he was to
the manor born. The recent knighting from King Edward
for inventing self-rising flour no more made Sir Henry a
gentleman than tying a ribbon round a hen’s neck made
her a lady. Besides, he was just a Knight Bachelor, so the
title would die with him rather than passing on to one of
his sons.
“It’s good we have a monarch with a zest for life,” Sir
Henry went on. “I never approved of Queen Victoria shutting herself away on the Isle of Wight. No, I did not.”
My father had shaped his mouth into what looked like
a smile. I frowned. My father was behaving like he had no
spine. My father always flew at anyone who cast aspersions on our late queen.
My mother smiled wanly and played with her diamond-teardrop earring.
I felt Edmund’s hand drop upon my knee under the
table. I darted a look at him. He stared ahead, an innocent
expression upon his face. I bit back a giggle.
“Did your Frederick attend university?” Sir Henry
asked, and then went on, not bothering to wait for my
father to answer. “Oxford has been the making of my
youngest son here.” He gestured to Edmund with his fork.
Edmund turned toward his father. A slow flush began
to spread up his neck.
“Before university he was nothing but a milksop,”
Sir Henry continued. “Wouldn’t say boo to a goose!” He
paused to shovel potted shrimp into his mouth. “Tied
to his mother’s apron strings, he was. Nothing like his
brother, Jonty.”
Edmund glared, his jaw tight, but his father did not
seem to notice. Edmund’s fingers played with his knife, as
if he would dearly love to plunge it into his father. His hand
squeezed my knee hard. I tried to pull away, but he only
increased his grip.
His mother, a tiny birdlike woman, chimed in. “Actually,
my son was quite ill when he was a child and he—”
Sir Henry made a noise and held up his hand. “Don’t
interrupt.”
Lady Carrick-Humphrey bit her lip and stared at her
plate, her knife and fork frozen in place.
India looked from her mother to Edmund with an anxious expression.
“Had no hopes for him, no sir,” Sir Henry went on.
“But now, thank the Lord, he’s changed into a man. Better
late than never. You must make sure he learns the lesson
of hard work when he joins your firm, Mr. Darling. Don’t
want him falling back into bad habits.”
“Of course,” Papa replied. “It is every father’s wish for
his child to find his place in the world.”
Sir Henry glowered at Edmund. “He’s been indulged
for too long.”
There was pain on Edmund’s face. But quick as a flash,
it was replaced by bravado. It was as if he had practiced
that look a thousand times in his bureau mirror. I knew
that feeling. I knew what it was like to be the misfit in the
family. I reached under the table and slowly set my hand
on his. He turned his hand up and gathered my fingers into
his cold palm.
“Edmund’s in the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race in
April,” India blurted out. “Did you know that, Victoria?”
“I didn’t.” I was grateful that India had changed the
subject. “How impressive, Mr. Carrick-Humphrey.” The
annual boat race was a famous event and had been going
on a very long time, since 1829. On the day, thousands of
spectators crowded the banks of the Thames from Putney
to Mortlake to watch the heavyweight eights from Oxford
and Cambridge race each other in their tiny, fragile boats,
vying for the fastest current and often clashing their oars
together in their fight for the lead. Anyone rowing in the
race had his name put down in the history books.
“I’ll be rowing in the stroke position,” Edmund said.
“You must come and watch. India will be there. I’ll send a
motorcar round.”
India’s announcement of Edmund’s success seemed to
have stopped Sir Henry’s bashing of his son. But peace did
not reign for long. Over dessert, the conversation took a
turn toward the suffragettes at Parliament, especially the
events of the previous day.
“I cannot believe these women. What could they be
thinking?” Mother said, setting her wineglass onto the
table with an indignant tap. “The
Daily Bugle
said one
woman chained herself to a railing. What a disgraceful
way to behave.”
I stared at Mamma. If only she knew.
“I heard the police gave them a damn good thrashing,”
Sir Henry said. “Serves them right.”
I thought about the way PC Fletcher had treated the suffragettes. Even though he was tasked to move them along,
he allowed them their dignity. Sir Henry and Mamma were
scornfully dismissing them out of hand. “They have a right
to their opinion, surely,” I said, feeling the need to defend
them in absentia, as PC Fletcher had done in person.
“It’s unladylike and shocking behavior,” Sir Henry
replied firmly. “Our government is using good judgment.
The vote should not be given to women when they turn to
violence and prove themselves to be unworthy of it. This
type of behavior is exactly what I predicted would happen
when women joined such organizations. It quite undoes
them. No sensible person would ever agree to women’s suffrage. Never.”
“Voting would add to our responsibilities,” Lady
Carrick-Humphrey put in. “That would be such a cruel
thing to ask of women.”
Sir Henry beamed. “Well said, my dear!”
“I don’t know what they are fighting for anyway,” Lady
Carrick-Humphrey went on. “I don’t want to be forced to
vote. Politics sounds so dreary.”
“You wouldn’t be forced to vote, Lady CarrickHumphrey,” I said. “I think you’d be able to choose. And Sir
Henry, what do you know of what it’s like to be a woman?”
I had the bit between my teeth and there was no stopping
me. I leaned forward in my chair and tapped the table
emphatically. I decided to bestow a little of Lucy’s speech
on them. “Doesn’t the government make women pay taxes?
How would you like it if you didn’t have a say in how that
money was spent? That’s how the Revolutionary War in
America began, after all.”
Ha! That told him.
I sat back feeling pleased with myself
and glanced around. It was deathly quiet. Everyone was
staring at me. India looked confused. Mamma’s mouth
had dropped open. Edmund, finally breaking the silence,
laughed as if what I said was the funniest thing he’d ever
heard.