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Authors: Vanessa Gray
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that I long to view. There, the regent has given full reign to the picturesque, with great sensibility, I am told. There are bowers and grottoes, and of all things, one might expect at any time a wicked nobleman to appear!”
“You read too much,” said Mr. Totten, roused to comment by his wife’s fantasies. “Hard on your complexion.”
“I cannot imagine why you should say so,” retorted his Amelia. “You told me only this evening,” she added complacently, “that I was looking in high gig.”
“Want to keep it that way,” said her husband, unruffled. “Forget the wild tales—the Minerva Press has done more damage than can be calculated.”
His wife joined battle, and Clare was glad when the coach turned into Pall Mall, the new gas lights making it, she declared, as bright as day.
When they arrived at the entrance, and were assisted to descend by a myriad of footmen and other satellites, Clare was on tiptoe with excitement. Ushered into the entrance foyer, and beyond into the famed Octagon Room, she realized that the extravagant praise lavished upon the regent’s residence was only the truth. Not a spot but what had some kind of finery on it, not a cabinet but what was inlaid with fine parquetry, its shelves filled with such a multitude of snuffboxes, tankards, bibelots of all kinds, so, that she thought she could never tire of looking at them.
But Sir Alexander and Lady Thane urged her forward to make room for the press of arriving guests.
Dinner was served in the great conservatory, lit by five hundred flambeaux. She gasped with delight at the sight. The table stretched the entire length of the room—a distance of at least two hundred feet, said Sir Alex, who was possessed of an endless supply of information. Before the prince regent’s place at the table she saw a large basin of water from which flowed a stream of real water, of lights, perfumes, wavering candle' flames, the music of sand, moss, and rocks—in miniature, with elfin bridges spanning the stream.
Incredibly, there were gold and silver fish swimming in the water, and Clare eyed those nearest her uneasily, fearing they might leap their watery bounds and splash into her soup.
The evening moved on for Clare in a vague impression of lights, perfumes, wavering candle flames, the music of stringed orchestras, and a steadily rising sensation of heat.
The prince regent himself made her welcome, and while this was not the first time she had seen him, yet at close quarters he was more than stupefying. Taller than the average, and displaying abundant proof of the prosperity of his life, the broad chest of his field marshal’s uniform provided room for the many decorations that he chose to wear. He smiled down at Clare, restrained a swift impulse to pinch her cheek, and allowed Lady Thane to carry her away.
Sir Alexander set himself to amuse Clare, and pointed out the various celebrities he thought might interest her. Beau Brummell, the son of a clerk, who now was regarded with awe by the regent himself. John Nash, the new architect, who probably would add to Carlton House a new Gothic garden, which would be completely hidden from the Haymarket.
Thomas Moore, an obscure poet who had the regent’s ear, at least for a short time.
“There is to be dancing later,” said Sir Alexander.
Clare’s heart sank, for Sir Alexander, heavy with virtue, was equally heavy on his feet. The tragedy, she felt, was that he did not seem to be aware of his lack of grace.
In the Chinese Room a small orchestra played, and Clare, always susceptible to music, moved toward the sound. It was a shocking squeeze, and before she realized it she had been separated from Sir Alexander. She was able to make her way toward the column at the door, which would protect her somewhat.
At least she could breathe. She began to worry about her gown. Truly it seemed such a waste to dress with such care, and then be in a crowd so dense that your gown could not be seen! But at
“You read too much,” said Mr. Totten, roused to comment by his wife’s fantasies. “Hard on your complexion.”
“I cannot imagine why you should say so,” retorted his Amelia. “You told me only this evening,” she added complacently, “that I was looking in high gig.”
“Want to keep it that way,” said her husband, unruffled. “Forget the wild tales—the Minerva Press has done more damage than can be calculated.”
His wife joined battle, and Clare was glad when the coach turned into Pall Mall, the new gas lights making it, she declared, as bright as day.
When they arrived at the entrance, and were assisted to descend by a myriad of footmen and other satellites, Clare was on tiptoe with excitement. Ushered into the entrance foyer, and beyond into the famed Octagon Room, she realized that the extravagant praise lavished upon the regent’s residence was only the truth. Not a spot but what had some kind of finery on it, not a cabinet but what was inlaid with fine parquetry, its shelves filled with such a multitude of snuffboxes, tankards, bibelots of all kinds, so, that she thought she could never tire of looking at them.
But Sir Alexander and Lady Thane urged her forward to make room for the press of arriving guests.
Dinner was served in the great conservatory, lit by five hundred flambeaux. She gasped with delight at the sight. The table stretched the entire length of the room—a distance of at least two hundred feet, said Sir Alex, who was possessed of an endless supply of information. Before the prince regent’s place at the table she saw a large basin of water from which flowed a stream of real water, of lights, perfumes, wavering candle' flames, the music of sand, moss, and rocks—in miniature, with elfin bridges spanning the stream.
Incredibly, there were gold and silver fish swimming in the water, and Clare eyed those nearest her uneasily, fearing they might leap their watery bounds and splash into her soup.
The evening moved on for Clare in a vague impression of lights, perfumes, wavering candle flames, the music of stringed orchestras, and a steadily rising sensation of heat.
The prince regent himself made her welcome, and while this was not the first time she had seen him, yet at close quarters he was more than stupefying. Taller than the average, and displaying abundant proof of the prosperity of his life, the broad chest of his field marshal’s uniform provided room for the many decorations that he chose to wear. He smiled down at Clare, restrained a swift impulse to pinch her cheek, and allowed Lady Thane to carry her away.
Sir Alexander set himself to amuse Clare, and pointed out the various celebrities he thought might interest her. Beau Brummell, the son of a clerk, who now was regarded with awe by the regent himself. John Nash, the new architect, who probably would add to Carlton House a new Gothic garden, which would be completely hidden from the Haymarket.
Thomas Moore, an obscure poet who had the regent’s ear, at least for a short time.
“There is to be dancing later,” said Sir Alexander.
Clare’s heart sank, for Sir Alexander, heavy with virtue, was equally heavy on his feet. The tragedy, she felt, was that he did not seem to be aware of his lack of grace.
In the Chinese Room a small orchestra played, and Clare, always susceptible to music, moved toward the sound. It was a shocking squeeze, and before she realized it she had been separated from Sir Alexander. She was able to make her way toward the column at the door, which would protect her somewhat.
At least she could breathe. She began to worry about her gown. Truly it seemed such a waste to dress with such care, and then be in a crowd so dense that your gown could not be seen! But at
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