‘Not at all. There is steel in the crinoline; the fashion has no doubt made a direct contribution to the current affluence in Sheffield. And as I now hold shares in the industry, I can only approve.’ The Colonel turned to Lavinia. ‘You, my dear, are carrying the future of British manufacturing about your hips.’
Before they could debate further the carriage pulled up behind the other vehicles parked in a line outside the mansion on Berkeley Square.
The attendants leapt off the footboards and helped their patrons down to the boardwalk that ran from the kerb to the grand entrance of the house.
The ballroom was vast, with a gallery of paintings each in an ornate frame. The white and gold doorway was topped by a heavy gilded carving. The walls were hung with shimmering patterned yellow damask and the sprung polished wooden floor had been suitably waxed for the dancing. Huge candelabra blazed with light, reflected a hundredfold in the mirrored panels of the blinds that were pulled down over the windows. Massive crystal vases filled with lilies, yellow roses and branches of white lilac had been placed around the edges of the room, and their scent mixed with the floor wax and the perfumed candles burning in the French crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling.
An archway led out to a glassed-in balcony where a long table was laden with refreshments. Lavinia, craning her neck, could just see the array of ices, wafers, cakes and bon bons stacked on silver trays. Uniformed maids, waiting to serve, stood beside the tables.
At the far end of the hall, screened by ornamental shrubbery, sat a small orchestra consisting of a piano, a cornet, a violin and a cello.
‘Come, we should claim our places,’ Lady Morgan murmured behind her fan as she led the others across the room to a gathering of unoccupied sofas.
About two dozen couples were already spinning around the parquet dance floor, while a flock of women—girls as young as sixteen, their mothers, maiden aunts, a few widows dripping with diamonds, and other manifestations of the moneyed female—perched on cushioned seats and ottomans around the walls. Furiously fanning themselves, the women exchanged snippets of information amid a cacophony of shrieks, mutterings and whispered conspiracies. They resembled a reclining tribe of primates, Lavinia concluded, particularly fascinated by the contrived theatrics of the young debutantes as they endeavoured to draw male attention.
On the other side of the room, resolutely grouped around a huge fireplace, a distant ancestor of Baron Wenlock’s staring down at them censoriously, stood the men: the dandies, the barons and lords, the captains and their aspiring lieutenants, the landed gentry and, finally, that comparatively new breed, the capitalists—city men who had made their own wealth, either from manufacturing in the north or by exploiting the riches of the Far East and India.
Lady Morgan pulled Lavinia to one side. ‘Look around you—this is a circus, an extravaganza designed entirely for the exchange of trade, whether it be stock tips or the courting of an heir or heiress. You can be sure this occasion is about one thing and one thing only: who has money and who hasn’t.’
Discreetly tapping her fan on the side of Lavinia’s hand, Lady Morgan indicated a tall, thin man in his middle fifties with a pockmarked face and a prominent, bulbous nose. In stark contrast to his ruined face his figure was expensively clad: diamond studs glistened at his cuffs, another gem sparkled at his breast, and a yellow gold silk cravat sprang from the neck of his black evening coat. He was holding court to a gaggle of elderly men, who consumed his every word with a chorus of nods, reminding Lavinia of Aidan’s wooden puppets.
‘That, my dear girl, is Hans Skippenmann. There are only two men in this room who can match his wealth. They say his grandfather was an Armenian. Skippenmann himself is of dubious nationality, although he claims to be of the Viennese aristocracy. He made his fortune in the Far East, supplying the medicinal needs of the Commonwealth.’
Confused, Lavinia lifted one eyebrow.
‘Opium, my young friend, the new gold,’ Lady Morgan replied in a theatrical whisper, glancing again at the magnate who was now in intense conversation with a younger gentleman of thirty, flamboyantly dressed in a velvet suit with a waistcoat made from Eastern silk.
‘The gentleman beside him is Lord Merrywither. He made his money in India, but keeps a very nice house in Mayfair as well as a palace in Bombay. Each is as corrupt as the other. Lord Merrywither is a confirmed bachelor, and I do mean confirmed, but Skippenmann has an unmarried daughter—his only heir.’
Lady Morgan flicked open her fan and shook it in the direction of the seated women to indicate a grandiose matron squeezed into a gown more befitting a woman half her size. Sweat dripped from her forehead, causing streaks in the thick layer of powder and rouge that covered her wrinkled visage. An elegant young man of twenty or so, immaculately dressed in the uniform of the dragoons, threw himself down beside her. ‘Lady Fairweather and her son Horatio. She plans to hook the Skippenmann girl for the young blade. Indeed, rumour has him marked for a victory. His title for her money: it is a fair trade.’
A tall young woman, her elegant face several inches too long to be beautiful, her brunette hair swept up into a bouffant topped with a spray of ostrich feathers, descended upon them. ‘Lady Morgan! And you must be Mrs Lavinia Huntington?’
‘I am indeed,’ Lavinia replied.
‘Be careful; Lady Bilbury collects friends as she collects dresses each season—both abandoned by Christmas. Your currency is that you are new and unknown, therefore mysterious,’ Lady Morgan whispered behind her fan.
‘Delighted to meet you, Lady Bilbury.’ Lavinia curtsied politely.
‘Oh, you’re Irish, très enchanté. We have land in Ballymore, but our family seat is in Shropshire—my mother is as English as the Queen. I think she must spend no more than three weeks of the year at Ballymore.’
‘Ballymore Castle?’
‘Do you know it? We were almost ruined by that confounded famine a number of years ago. Our peasants quite abandoned us, I’m afraid.’
‘Loyalty is a challenge when your children are dying of starvation, do you not think?’ Lavinia retorted.
Her smile fraying at the edges, Lady Bilbury turned to Lady Morgan. ‘Votre amie est un peu sérieuse, n’est-ce pas? (Your friend is a trifle serious, no?)’
‘Mais il y a du charme dans la passion, ne croyez-vous pas? (But there’s charm in passion, don’t you think?)’ Lady Morgan replied in perfect French.
‘C’est vrai que je suis irlandaise, mais je parle le français couramment quand même (I may be Irish, but I do speak fluent French),’ Lavinia interjected as lightly as she could.
r /> ‘Oh, there goes the Lord Chancellor. I do have an urgent matter to discuss with him, if you will excuse me.’ And off Lady Bilbury rushed, leaving a feather floating after her.
Lady Morgan gave Lavinia a stern look. ‘My dear, if you wish to make friends, you must surrender your politics. Unless you mean to go into Parliament, but, alas, until women have the vote I’m afraid you are banished to the politics of the dining table. Mrs Huntington, none of these ladies and gentlemen is the slightest bit interested in the fate of a few Irish serfs. Our world consists of different dilemmas, in their own way just as important. After all, one’s reputation is one’s life, don’t you think?’
Lady Morgan was interrupted by the Colonel and Hamish Campbell, each holding a glass of negus for the women. The Colonel handed the crystal goblet to Lavinia. ‘I see you have begun to make friends?’ He had noted Lady Bilbury’s hasty departure.