PASSAGE INSPIRED BY LISTENING TO:
Bach’s Italian Concerto in F Major for the Harpsichord.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqAv7TOwhuE
An austere stinging rain attacked the immaculate lawns of La Maison Faye. No warning had heralded its arrival, for a good half hour earlier the sky had been a cloudless blue vista.
Games of hide and seek among the tall topiaries had produced a good deal of amusement, as had a foray through the great maze by blindfolded, bewigged gentlemen in pursuit of pretty ladies, their prize, to dance the minuet with the female of their choosing.
Two oval mahogany tables had been set up on the terrace, where guests could take part in a card game of Cinquille. Pairing off they had been taking great delight in trumping one another for coin.
Now, however, within the deluge of a downpour, gentile squeals of discontent rang out across the monumental grounds of the estate. An army of parasols rallied forth from the great house, hastily transported by tall footmen in black gaiters, their mission to shield the guests from the mounting driving droplets. Powdered white faces attired in much finery took refuge beneath the caravan of shades, which proceeded at speed, to quick march across the sodden grass. Passing the great maze with no apparent mishap, an enormous gust blew the party sideways scuppering its negotiation of a narrowed path between two prickled and muddy beds of late summer roses.
Amid the tangled brouhaha of snarled white wigs, mud spattered breeches, and besmirched satin petticoats, the sun audaciously emerged.
“How very tiresome!” croaked the Duchess, arriving in the grand foyer sporting the remainder of her headpiece, now merely consisting of a single ostrich feather hung limply over her left ear, with the rest of the bird’s plumage, having long taken off in the blustery barrage.
“Brother dear, shall we in for our tea, for this squall has quite ruined the day?” With the aid of her lace handkerchief, she daintily attempted to dab at her lead-dusted face. The white mask, now miserably mottled and crusted by the force of the downpour, gave her the demeanour of someone suffering from an attack of the measles, for the beauty marks once adhered above her heavily painted lips, her left cheek and eyebrow, had now assembled in a small pattern which decorated the end of her lengthy, pointed nose.
The dandy of a man she addressed, stood opposite, his squat, small frame, drenched and dripping in gold taffeta. Rivulets of rainwater trickled slimily off the frilled cuffs of his grand jacket and miserably meandered down his beige stockings, to fill his small, buttoned shoes with a puddling steep.
“Tea?" squealed her brother irately, "a most disgusting liquid I fear, I believe a large brandy will do the trick!”
