Victoria brushed some ash from the folds of her dusty pink ball gown and wished that she hadn't sat so close to the hearth before she left. The sun had long since disappeared and with it went any warmth it might have offered. Her only consolation in being forced to attend the theatre was that the crush of bodies would ensure that she stayed toasty and warm.
She reluctantly took off her cloak, handing it to the nearest attendant and gazed up at the beauty that was the Drury Lane Theatre. Burgundy carpets matched the upholstery of the seats and long thick curtains hung elegantly around the room. Glass chandeliers lit the milling crowds below and Victoria shivered from more than cold. The ton always made her nervous. She always felt looked down upon, even from the height of her brother in law's box. They could still see her from every angle and watch her every mistake, from her out of fashion attire to her unfashionable coiffeur, she knew that the ton could be brutal.
Victoria looked down at her simple satin dress. There was a time that she would have matched it with pearls around her neck but she no longer sought to stand out. So she left her mother's old jewellery in its chest and hoped only to blend into the background. In an unguarded corner of her heart she was grateful that her aunt still insisted that they retain their tenuous place in society. Victoria loved the theatre and the rhythm of its music was a pleasure she would have sorely missed.
Aunt Beatrice nodded to several matrons as they made their way up the coiling staircase to the family box and Victoria gave her usual dips and curtsies although no one marked her existence with so much as a smile. By the time they were ensconced in their seats Victoria once again felt the weight of the tons disapproval settle like a mantle over her shoulders. She wondered if the Duke of Westley could indeed make good on his promise despite such staunch opposition. It would be a miraculous thing indeed to turn the ton around, and greater still if Victoria could learn how to goad and coax them all on her own. Men seemed to have far greater breadth of movement in their own actions but occasionally some women were known to be able to make the greatest of the ton dance a pretty tune.
The orchestra struck its opening note and the heavy curtains pulled back to reveal one such woman. The star of the play tonight and practically every night whether she graced the stage or not was the courtesan Miss Liara du Coeur. She was the jewel of the Crimson Guild and though every respectable woman could pretend not to know her, Victoria knew that they were all lying if they did not confess to a feverish fascination. The actress had made her debut into London roughly one year prior and now there was not a man who did not admire her, nor a trend in fashion that she herself did not dictate. Victoria sighed as the play began and Aunt Beatrice discreetly passed her peanuts from within her reticule. To be such a woman. To exude both confidence and coolness without even trying, that was the dream.
Victoria's eyes dashed quickly around the room. It was filled with the glittering throng of the ton. It was the opening night of the 'Siege of Rochelle' and the libretto was to be performed to highly anticipated music by the famed Balfe. Everyone who wished to be seen was present and even some who actually came to view the performance rather than the antics of their peers. There were counts, dukes and debutantes all decked in their most beguiling attire in the hope of catching another's eye but Victoria was not remotely interested in such games anymore. Darling of the ton or not she was always enamoured with the passion that poured from the stage. Her gaze fixed on the actors and she allowed herself to be swept up in the story.
The courtesan brought to life the character of Clara, the daughter of a secretly married count and princess, raised by the cruel, Moltalban whom she believes to be her father. Victoria felt the woman's pain as if it were her own when Clara witnessed Moltalban kill the son of her lover, Valmour. Her fingers gripped the upholstered arms of her chair when the innocent Clara suffered the blame and escaped to assume another identity in the town of Rochelle. By the time the siege had brought together Clara's true father, Valmour and Moltalban, Victoria ears were ringing from the powerful operatic swell of voices. When the doors opened marking the play's intermission her heart clamoured to peer behind the curtain and follow the story further.
YOU ARE READING
The Seduction of a Spinster
Historical FictionMiss Victoria Hastings, aged twenty-four, was a confirmed spinster. At the height of her glory she was once considered a diamond of the first water, although she had since descended closer to consistency of mud. And, once the ton believed you had be...
