I came to with a start, realising he was quite as distracted as I under the circumstances. He reached for my hand. “Do you think Lady C. would mind terribly if we kept the costumes?” he asked, eyes gleaming.
I did not trust myself to reply. Lady C. returned then, giving him a quick nod of approval. “Very good. Now, places, if you please.”
All of the public reception rooms had been set aside for the tableaux, each according to its theme. Ours was Biblical, so she led us swiftly to the reading room where a series of daises had been erected to serve as the settings. Ours was decorated with a low divan heaped with cushions and carpets in front of a wall beautifully painted with ancient motifs. Grasses waved their plumes from a vase in the corner, and just in front of the divan lay a lion skin rug, the head in repose. As promised, a small copy of the source painting rested on an easel beside the platform, and I paused to study it. It was lush with detail, a lovers’ nest of comforts captured just before the moment of betrayal. Samson and Delilah lounged intertwined, hands clasped as the hero rested upon his mistress, unaware of his fate. Her posture was more upright, stiffened, no doubt, by the tension of what was to come. Her expression was wary,lips parted in expectation, whilst his was gravely adoring. I peered at the signature in the corner and made out the word “Echena.” I had never heard of the fellow, but he certainly knew which end of a paintbrush was which.
Lady C. clucked her tongue and hurried us into position, arranging our limbs this way and that, occasionally stepping back to compare with the painting. At last she was satisfied. “We shall close the doors until the guests arrive. They will be admitted to each room in turn, for fifteen minutes only. For a quarter of an hour, they will be free to peruse the tableaux. Then we will herd them along to the next gallery and close the doors once more. When the guests have seen the last, all of the doors will be thrown open for a further five minutes’ return, and then everyone will vote. They have each been issued a token, and the tokens will be dropped into boxes in the refreshment room bearing the name of each tableau.”
“And the purpose of voting?” Stoker asked.
“Money,” was the crisp reply. “We are raising funds to support the education of a new generation of possible members, our protégées. Each token costs a penny, but further tokens may be purchased for considerably more, so if someone wants to scatter their vote amongst several tableaux, they must pay for the privilege. Or if they want to ensure their favourite tableaux wins.”
“Wins what?” I asked.
“Glory,” she said in a dry voice. “And vintage champagne from W. & A. Gilbey. They have been kind enough to donate a case for the cause. Now, I must get on.” A general milling indicated the others were arriving—a spectacularly pretty Bathsheba with her wash basin, Mary Magdalene with a perfume flask, and assorted saints as well as the aforementioned Eve with a serpent. I was particularly happy to see a Judith carrying a sword and a papier-mâché head that looked startlingly like the real thing. Lady C. arranged us all, muttering and fluttering as she did so.
“Portia, you were meant to bring a serpent,” Lady C. scolded mildly. “Not a pug in a snake costume.” The animal in question—a portly dog of decided antiquity with patches of thinning hair and a dour expression—had been stuffed into a tube of patterned velvet with a hole for his head and a long tongue of red felted wool dangling down between his eyes. The effect was farcical, but the dog did not seem to mind. His mistress set him on the floor and he waddled about, dragging his snake costume behind.
“I couldn’t leave Puggy at home,” said the figure in fig leaves. “He pines.”
A sudden pungency filled the air and Lady C. covered her nose. “Portia, is that dogflatulatingin my tableau?”
“It isn’t his fault,” Eve said in defiance as she picked up her errant pet. “He is nervous around new people and his tummy is delicate. A little blancmange would settle it right down. Have you any blancmange?”
“I have not,” Lady C. returned firmly. “Now, keep that dog in its place or I will have a fetching pug-shaped hassock for my sitting room come morning.”
She swept off as Eve crooned to her pug and Judith admired her reflection in her sword. Stoker rested in my arms, one leg thrown lazily over the other.
Just then the bell sounded, interrupting my thoughts, and the doors were thrown open with a flourish. The next several minutes passed in a mild agony as we attempted to hold the positions we had assumed. The greater the stillness, the more complete the illusion, and although we had been coerced into appearing in the tableau, I had no intention of disappointing Lady C. She had always shown me great kindness; indeed, I would never have been admitted to the Curiosity Club in the first place had it not been for her sponsorship. We had become friends, intimate enough that I was the one person she chose to accompany her to Madeira when she found herself—unexpectedly and without benefitof wedlock—with child. She had concealed the identity of the father and farmed the infant out to a French caregiver, but in the end, she had not been able to bear the separation and Stoker and I had retrieved the boy under the guise of Lady C. adopting him. I am certain the ruse fooled few, but the Beauclerks possessed both the wealth and the power of an ancient name to quell any would-be scandal. Besides which, Lady C. seldom ventured into proper society, preferring the bosom of her large family and the camaraderie of the Club to endless tittle-tattle over teacups with ladies she had never particularly liked. She had been withdrawn after the little man’s birth, and I had expected restoring him to his mother would cause her to bloom again. Instead, she had grown thinner and paler over the ensuing months, impatient and occasionally snappish—all qualities I should never have associated with her in the past. As the mistress of her brother’s household, she had stepped into the shoes of his dead wife with good humour and common sense, and if the various demands of overseeing the staff and the education of the assorted young Beauclerks had taxed her to the limit, she had been inclined to respond with fond exasperation instead of this new querulousness. It was entirely possible her moods were simply the nerves of a new mother with too many claims upon her attention, but I feared an intrigue was afoot. If so, I could only hope she would tell me, or I should be called upon to prod her secrets out of her. Sometimes, I have noted, it is necessary to provoke people into doing things for their own good, and Lady C. was no exception. Perhaps, I mused, we could discuss matters over a stiff glass of aguardiente and a packet of French cigarettes. There are few things in life more conducive to sharing secrets than modest vices, I have found.
I made up my mind to tackle her on the subject when a propitious moment presented itself, but at present, I was straining my ears for any interesting snippets of conversation from the guests. They talked as if we actuallywereexhibitions of art, letting slip remarkably frank titbitsas they lingered. My own figure was admired but it was nothing to the enthusiasm shown for Stoker’s.
“Heavens, Millicent,” one matron murmured behind her fan to her friend, “do you think all of that isreal?”
“Decidedly,” came the response.
“Perhaps we should touch it just to be sure,” the first woman replied. She had just put out her hand when another voice, mildly reproving, joined them.
“I shouldn’t if I were you. Miss Speedwell might well take offence, and I have it on good authority she is skilled in the arts of martial combat.”
The pair of importunate women squawked and hurried away whilst I suppressed a smile.
“I know you are not supposed to reply, my dear, so pay me no mind, but you look ravishing,” said Lavinia Templeton-Vane. “Stoker, if it consoles you, I have not dropped my gaze below your neck, so you may spare your blushes when next we meet.”
There was just enough amusement in her voice to indicate she was not telling the whole truth, and I perceived the tiniest flare in Stoker’s nostrils.
“My god, I haven’t seen that much of you since we were boys and Nanny used to force us to bathe together,” came Sir Rupert’s voice. I could well imagine his moustaches vibrating in amusement as he regarded his younger brother.
“Rupert, don’t tweak him. It’s a lovely thing he is doing to raise money for the scholarship fund, and I’ve half a mind to volunteer you to take part next year,” Lavinia warned him.
Without moving his lips, Stoker emitted a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Rupert stepped closer. “You think I can’t make as good a showing as you? My calves are just as fine, and I shall prove it.” From the tail of my eye, I could see Sir Rupert beginning to tug at his trouser legs, pulling them to his knees.
“Dearest, do stop exhibiting your garters to the world,” Lavinia advised. She raised her voice. “We are leaving you now, but I intend to vote for you, and I shall ensure Rupert does the same. Come along, Rip.”
They gave way to a succession of other groupings, some couples, some larger parties, all of whom seemed to be having a wonderful time, sipping champagne and commenting frankly on the tableaux. “Well, they aren’t quite nude, and I suppose it is forcharity,” said one inebriated voice.
Several more commented on Stoker’s muscles, and one intrepid dowager duchess even got as far as poking him just inside his hip bone. “You can always judge a man by his iliac furrows, and these are most elegant. Very good indeed,” she pronounced.
Just then Lady C. hurried up to guide the stragglers from the room, indicating they were to proceed to the Hall of Antiquity next door with their Amazons and Trojan heroes jostling the odd Roman empress. As soon as the door shut behind her, another bell was rung, our signal to relax for a few minutes. I rubbed out the kinks in my neck whilst Stoker looked around.