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Authors: TASHA ALEXANDER
Tags: Fiction - Historical
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them with an enormous fan. “I can’t think when I’ve seen any garment so spectacular.”
“The dreadful thing weighed a ton, but it was worth it,” she said. “I only wish I could wear it again.”
“Speaking of costumes puts me in mind of the other topic I hoped to discuss with you. During the ball, an auburn-haired gentleman dressed as an ancient Greek approached me and addressed me with half a line of Homer. At the time I had assumed this was because of my own choice of costume, but when I answered him back, he balked, and scolded me fiercely for not being at all what I had claimed to be. It was exceedingly odd, and I can’t help but think he expected, because of my costume, that I was Mary Darby. He had on a mask—one of those theatrical ones, representing tragedy. Have you any idea who he was?”
“Greek…” She looked up at the ceiling, closed one eye, and chewed on her bottom lip. “There were so many guests, I’m afraid I cannot recall what each of them wore. His, I am sorry to say, did not make an impression on me. He sounds a horrible man! Have you tried the photographer?”
“I was hoping you could tell me how best to reach him.” The duchess had organized for a photographer to set up a makeshift studio in the garden so that he might capture the guests in their spectacular costumes.
She crossed to a table, pulled out a sheet of paper, and scribbled on it. “The Lafayette Studio. Here are the details. I do not believe everyone sat for a picture, but many did. I do hope your mysterious Greek was one of them, as I believe Mr. Lafayette was quite thorough about recording the details of each sitter.”
I took the paper from her. “I am most grateful, Lady Cavendish.”
“It is good to see you, Lady Emily. Your mother is well, I hope?”
“Always,” I said. “It grieved her to miss your party, but my father insisted on traveling abroad this summer. He felt the Jubilee rather more festivity than he could tolerate with equanimity.”
She smiled. “How like the earl. He is a dear man. Do send my best to them both.”
* * *
Leaving the duchess, I made my way to Green Park, where Colin was already waiting, leaning against a tree, reading the Times . He folded the paper the moment he saw me, pulled me close, and gave me a kiss.
“Do you think anyone is still scandalized by seeing a husband kiss his wife in public?” he asked, taking my arm in his as we started to walk. “Or has society become so corrupt that nothing shocks it?”
“Fear not,” I said, “you are as scandalous as ever. Just look at that lady, there, rushing away from us. She has all but covered her daughter’s eyes.”
“If you do not slow down you are going to remove my arm from its socket. I can tell you are on fire with purpose and eager to get wherever it is you think necessary,” he said. “I shall endeavor to follow your lead, though perhaps at a somewhat more reasonable pace.”
I told him our destination, and then took him out of the park and back along Piccadilly, turning into Bond Street. Lafayette Studio had a stellar reputation, partly because its proprietor produced excellent work and partly because he was a favorite not only of the Prince and Princess of Wales, but of Queen Victoria herself. Mr. Lafayette had studios in Glasgow and Manchester, and now one on Bond Street, an expansion he felt necessary due to the number of commissions he received timed to coincide with the Queen’s Jubilee. The studio was on the top floor, up three flights of steps, a climb that would have been exhausting for anyone coming to be photographed in heavy court dress, and a disaster on a hot day. One would be drenched with sweat; hardly an ideal look when having one’s image immortalized.
“A moment, please!” a voice called as we pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. “Close the door behind you at once, and please do be quick about it.”
We followed his directions and then sat in two of the
“The dreadful thing weighed a ton, but it was worth it,” she said. “I only wish I could wear it again.”
“Speaking of costumes puts me in mind of the other topic I hoped to discuss with you. During the ball, an auburn-haired gentleman dressed as an ancient Greek approached me and addressed me with half a line of Homer. At the time I had assumed this was because of my own choice of costume, but when I answered him back, he balked, and scolded me fiercely for not being at all what I had claimed to be. It was exceedingly odd, and I can’t help but think he expected, because of my costume, that I was Mary Darby. He had on a mask—one of those theatrical ones, representing tragedy. Have you any idea who he was?”
“Greek…” She looked up at the ceiling, closed one eye, and chewed on her bottom lip. “There were so many guests, I’m afraid I cannot recall what each of them wore. His, I am sorry to say, did not make an impression on me. He sounds a horrible man! Have you tried the photographer?”
“I was hoping you could tell me how best to reach him.” The duchess had organized for a photographer to set up a makeshift studio in the garden so that he might capture the guests in their spectacular costumes.
She crossed to a table, pulled out a sheet of paper, and scribbled on it. “The Lafayette Studio. Here are the details. I do not believe everyone sat for a picture, but many did. I do hope your mysterious Greek was one of them, as I believe Mr. Lafayette was quite thorough about recording the details of each sitter.”
I took the paper from her. “I am most grateful, Lady Cavendish.”
“It is good to see you, Lady Emily. Your mother is well, I hope?”
“Always,” I said. “It grieved her to miss your party, but my father insisted on traveling abroad this summer. He felt the Jubilee rather more festivity than he could tolerate with equanimity.”
She smiled. “How like the earl. He is a dear man. Do send my best to them both.”
* * *
Leaving the duchess, I made my way to Green Park, where Colin was already waiting, leaning against a tree, reading the Times . He folded the paper the moment he saw me, pulled me close, and gave me a kiss.
“Do you think anyone is still scandalized by seeing a husband kiss his wife in public?” he asked, taking my arm in his as we started to walk. “Or has society become so corrupt that nothing shocks it?”
“Fear not,” I said, “you are as scandalous as ever. Just look at that lady, there, rushing away from us. She has all but covered her daughter’s eyes.”
“If you do not slow down you are going to remove my arm from its socket. I can tell you are on fire with purpose and eager to get wherever it is you think necessary,” he said. “I shall endeavor to follow your lead, though perhaps at a somewhat more reasonable pace.”
I told him our destination, and then took him out of the park and back along Piccadilly, turning into Bond Street. Lafayette Studio had a stellar reputation, partly because its proprietor produced excellent work and partly because he was a favorite not only of the Prince and Princess of Wales, but of Queen Victoria herself. Mr. Lafayette had studios in Glasgow and Manchester, and now one on Bond Street, an expansion he felt necessary due to the number of commissions he received timed to coincide with the Queen’s Jubilee. The studio was on the top floor, up three flights of steps, a climb that would have been exhausting for anyone coming to be photographed in heavy court dress, and a disaster on a hot day. One would be drenched with sweat; hardly an ideal look when having one’s image immortalized.
“A moment, please!” a voice called as we pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. “Close the door behind you at once, and please do be quick about it.”
We followed his directions and then sat in two of the
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