Midnight in Everwood(2)
‘Tell me, Frederick, what have you been occupying yourself with of late?’ Theodore beckoned for his glass to be refilled. A footman obliged him and he studied Frederick over the Madeira.
‘Much of the usual, I’m afraid, Father. My studies leave me very little time to devote to anything else.’
Frederick’s lies were as sweet as the sherry Marietta sipped. She regarded the smile Frederick had pasted on as he deftly handled their father’s inquiries. Only Marietta knew of the canvases stacked in Geoffrey’s room – Frederick’s closest friend and, as Marietta had learnt after being taken into her brother’s confidence, his secret beau.
Frederick’s experimentation with the new Fauvism movement translated to wilder brushwork and stronger pigmentation than she’d seen him paint with before. ‘The likes of Matisse and Derain are sending the Parisian art world into an uproar,’ Frederick had explained to Marietta some weeks earlier. ‘When Louis Vauxcelles saw their paintings in the Salon d’Automne last year, he declared them “les fauves”, wild beasts of colour and brilliance and life. Mark my words, art cannot die; art is the future and it is as tightly intertwined with my own lifeblood as ballet is with yours.’
To their parents’ knowledge, Theodore had stamped out Frederick’s passion for painting before his voice had broken, diverting his path onto law school. Frederick was now a post-graduate student, following in their father’s footsteps and eventually bound to join Theodore in presiding over the courts of Nottingham. It was Theodore’s position as a high court judge that had led to his being bestowed the courtesy title of Baron, a too-appealing prospect for the young Ida, who was a woman of means but craved the delicious satisfaction of her sisters addressing her as The Right Honourable. The match had suited the equally socially ambitious Theodore and the pair had been manoeuvring themselves upwards ever since. Having children proved to be another asset which they could use to aid them in this endeavour.
Marietta pointed her toes beneath the table, considering whether she ought to have the dressmaker adjust her dress so she might dance in it. The blush roses were the exact shade of her pointe shoes.
Theodore turned to her. ‘And how have you been spending your days?’
Her daydream melted away, leaving her with the dregs of reality. ‘I—’ Her thoughts were slow, sticky as caramel.
‘The usual agenda of shopping and luncheons.’ Frederick came to her aid, raising his eyes to the heavens.
Marietta smiled at him and he inclined his head. The extra ballet practices that had been consuming her time remained an unspoken truth.
‘That reminds me, your mother has informed me that you failed remarkably in sustaining Lord Compton’s attention over afternoon tea last week, despite her efforts in contriving a meeting between you.’
Marietta’s royal cheddar soup – already cold having been served room temperature so as not to necessitate the unseemly blowing upon it to cool it – turned thick and cloying in her throat. She sipped her sherry in an effort to settle her mood. When she spoke, it was in a more assured tone. ‘Charles Compton is an utter bore and thoroughly ill-natured.’ In fact, he had spent the entirety of their afternoon in the brand-new Ritz expounding on the chestnut thoroughbred he was having shipped from Argentina. Marietta had learnt far more than she had ever desired on the subject of polo ponies and had scarcely uttered more than a word. Though she had observed that his unfortunate macrodontia lent him a certain resemblance to his beloved thoroughbred. Grounds for marriage, it was not. By contrast, Ida had spent a pleasurable few hours drinking in the duchess’s scrutiny of their dining companions and the Palm Court décor, redolent in soft apricot, panelled mirrors reflecting the sparkling chandeliers a thousand-fold.
Theodore’s nostrils flared. ‘Might I remind you that Lord Compton is the Marquess of Northampton. The next time you choose to insult a peer of the realm, you ought to recall that I have been more than generous in allowing you to host your upcoming performance in our ballroom. It is high time you demonstrated a little gratitude. I have invited Lord Compton and several other suitors to our Christmas Ball in the hopes that they shall find your dancing an attractive quality in a prospective wife. Perhaps this will even hasten a betrothal.’
Marietta regarded her father coolly over her crystal glass.
‘Darling, it is most unbecoming to be unmarried at your age,’ Ida added. ‘When I was twenty, I had been married for three years.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps Lord Compton shall give you a second chance.’
Frederick cleared his throat before she could respond. ‘Father, what are your thoughts on this new battleship? They say the HMS Dreadnought will revolutionise our navy.’
The soup course was cleared away and the next course brought in, the footmen fading into the background, ever-present shadows. Marietta tuned out the politicking between her father and brother, grateful for Frederick’s interception of the conversation before she had spoken out of turn. Conversing with her father was a tactical art not unlike a game of chess; it necessitated clear strategy and focus.
She laid her silver fork down, the aroma of thick pastry and gravy clotting her stomach. Gazing out the window, she imagined the candle perched against the dark glass as a star to be wished upon. When she danced, she was a conjurer, writing spells with the whirls and arcs of her body. Her dancing was hers and hers alone, not for the enticement of any man, nor for her father to wield as a weapon against her. When she danced, she flew on gossamer wings that lifted her away from the dragging weight of her family’s expectations. Enticed her with a glimpse of an alternate path to the one she was obligated to tread. When she danced, she had a voice. And nothing was more fearsome than a silent future.