‘Oh yes, and what does that mean?’
‘Pretty – very pretty. We will have a little thing going here with the hair, no? And a few lace trims around there?’ She directed her remarks to Madame Chenier and they were soon clucking together, dragging my arms out of one set of garments and draping new clothes over me.
‘I have been looking at this little one for years, madame, and simply longing to get a hold of her,’ continued Madame Beaufort, turning to her friend. ‘She has no style; she hides her pretty person behind dirt and such clothes as you would not believe! But Madame Reid . . .’ she wrinkled her nose in disgust, ‘. . . she has no sense of what is chic, n’est-ce pas? But today we can strip away the layers of that English pudding and reveal the soufflé within!’
I snorted but they were oblivious to my derision. My fashion advisers were getting quite beside themselves. With Mr Sheridan footing the bill for my outfit they were thoroughly enjoying dressing me up like some doll.
‘Ta-dah!’ trilled Madame Beaufort, pushing me to arm’s length. ‘What do you think, madame?’
‘Beautiful, very beautiful! I’ll just pin up that hem and she will be finished.’
I looked down at myself; I was in a dress the colour of pink sugared almonds – not a good shade for a redhead. ‘May I see?’ I asked fearfully.
‘Of course, and I think . . .oui, I think you will be very surprised, ma cherie.’ Madame Beaufort clapped her hands together, holding them on her breast. ‘Now I will not be ashamed to have you as part of my ensemble.’
Madame Chenier pulled me over to the mirror. ‘Close your eyes!’ she said playfully. ‘And now – open them.’
Surprise is one word for it. Another is horror. I looked like an over-decorated cake, frills and ribbons everywhere. If any of Syd’s boys saw me like this, I’d be a laughing stock.
‘Is that really it?’ I croaked.
‘Oh?’ said Madame Beaufort, coming to stand behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders. ‘You think we’ve forgotten something? Perhaps you are right.’ She seized a large pink bow from Madame Chenier’s work basket and plonked it on top of my curls. ‘Oh, you look so sweet.’
I scowled, speechless at the horrendous apparition in the mirror.
‘Enough fun,’ continued Madame Beaufort, tossing one of my locks playfully . . .
Fun!
‘Now we dance!’
The next hour was agony. She took me through the basic steps like a sergeant major drilling a new recruit. Never again will I mock a ballerina. I’d been fooled by the fluffy skirts: underneath they must be made of sprung steel. Madame’s favourite method of correcting an erroneous posture was to rap the offending limb with a thin birch rod. As most of my limbs were more often in the wrong than the right, I felt as if I’d spent the afternoon being lashed by a tree in a gale.
Every muscle aching, I staggered out at four to find Frank waiting to escort me home. His jaw dropped when he saw me then, most ungallantly, he howled with laughter. Doubled over on the pavement, he roared until he had tears streaming down his face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked tersely – though I had a fair idea.
‘You look – you look –’
‘Lovely? Elegant? Feminine?’ I asked sourly.
‘Ridiculous.’
I heaved a sigh. ‘And don’t I know it. Stop it, Frank, you know why I’m doing this. You’re not making it any easier acting like you’ve never seen a girl dressed up before.’
‘But you!’
‘Thank you, Frank, that’s quite enough humiliation. I had a basinful yesterday; I don’t need a second helping today.’
He took command of himself, gasping for air. ‘Sorry, Cat. That was quite out of order. You look . . . you look very nice.’ The last word turned into a snort and he gave up trying to speak as he conducted me back to Mr Sheridan’s.
Madame Beaufort’s company of nine ballerinas left London early on Saturday morning, escorted by Frank in his own carriage. He had handpicked the servants so it was no surprise to me to find Joseph, my special friend among the footmen, included in the party.
I hung out of the window as we trotted out of London on the Dover road. Only days ago I had sat on the milestone and lamented being left behind; now I too was on my way. What was the world beyond the city like? I couldn’t wait to see. The familiar landmarks fell away surprisingly quickly as we crossed the Thames and travelled on into Kent. Except for one short stay in the village of Clapham, I had never spent so much time in the countryside. All that open space made me feel nervous.
Frank was watching me with an amused expression. We were alone in the carriage, as Madame Beaufort had elected to travel with her girls to seed in the story of my trial with the troupe. She hoped the tale would be in full flower by the time we reached Paris before any awkward questions were raised as to why a protégée of Mr Sheridan should take it into her head to travel at his expense. She was representing it as the pay-off for making me homeless – which in a way it was.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it, Cat?’ Frank said teasingly as we passed through a field where the hay was entwined with splashes of red and blue wild flowers like paint spilled by a overenthusiastic set decorator. Butterflies danced above, tiny winged ballerinas in multicoloured gowns.
‘It’s . . . er . . . it’s . . .’ I couldn’t find the words. I wanted to say that it was ‘empty’, ‘strange’, ‘frightening’, but I knew from my reading of poetry that I should be saying things like ‘arcadian’, ‘pastoral’ and ‘peaceful’. For me, the silence was deafening.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’