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La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Fourteen, Scene 2

The basic simplicity of the design was its strength. It was made of three shades and three fabrics: a creamy satin, a fawn-colored taffeta and a warm brown velvet. The skirt was of the dark velvet, stitched in layers of lace-edged flounces down the front and bordered at the hem with a ruff of the pale satin. The overskirts on each side of her waist were of the taffeta. They were grandiose in proportion. She made a mental note to turn sideways at all single doorways.

Her white shoulders appeared well above a mock shawl neckline which revealed much and covered little. The striking point of interest of the cream-colored satin bodice was its effect of a loosely-laced dress. Most frocks laced up the back. Hers laced up the front daringly, almost immodestly. Her brow puckered over this. She knew that the major had asked for this effect especially. Not only did he want to impress, he wanted to stun. His mistress would outshine the Sultana tonight. His Christiane would be the most beautiful, the most outrageous. She experienced a slight tremor at this thought, but refused to allow it to show.

“Monsieur Lagneaux,” she praised, “you are a master. It is the most lovely dress I have ever seen.”

He beamed and bowed his head as in humility.

Just then the major entered. Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he came over to Christiane. “Well, madame, how do you like your gown?”

She did not respond to his sarcastic tone. “It is very lovely, my lord. Monsieur Lagneaux is truly an artist.”

“Monsieur,” his lordship said to the Frenchman, “she is quite right. All of Philadelphia will be at your doorstep tomorrow.”

“Merci, Lord Eastham.”

“Now for your fee.”

The little man beamed as gold coins were pushed into his hands. The two seamstresses smiled and exclaimed their gratitude when they also received some of the largesse. Quietly and expertly then, they gathered up the accoutrements of their craft and bowed themselves out.

Christiane stood motionless, waiting for his next bit of sarcasm. It seemed to her that he was caught between his desire to carry out his plan and his natural tendency to sneer at it. What a man. So full of contradictions.

Instead of speaking, he came to her purposefully. Taking both her shoulders in his hands, he turned her so she faced directly into the mirror. His fingers were cool on her bare skin. A shiver tingled through her. Standing behind her, he casually drew from his pocket a necklace, which he placed around her neck. “The finishing touch,” he said solemnly.

She gasped not only from the feeling of its iciness, but also from its beauty. It was five strands of perfect, glowing pearls. The highest two strands hugged her neck regally; the other three dipped in faultless symmetry down to her decolletage.

“They are exquisite,” she breathed.

“I’m glad you approve.” The irony crept back into his voice.

“You’re sure the clasp and ties are adequate. I wouldn’t want it to come apart.”

He held up his hand. “Have no fear. All is secure.”

She turned to look at him. He was in his dress uniform: red-coat with white epaulets, knee pants, white stockings. His sword gleamed at his side and his brass buttons shone. For the occasion he had had his hair curled and powdered. She had refused to have hers powdered. It was the only objection she had made. She disliked the affectation of the practice. Instead her chestnut hair had been styled ala Pompadour. Coyly three curls hung down her neck in graduated lengths. “Major, you look very nice.”

“And you, Madame Belmond, look exactly as I planned. Now remember I want you to break hearts tonight. I want men to fall at your feet in hopeless desire. I want every man there to envy me unbelievably. Do you think you can do it?”

“Major, it will be the greatest performance of my life,” she answered truthfully. The penniless rebel going to the blue-blooded ball! No one, but she would plumb the true irony of this night. He handed her an embroidered, fawn-colored, elbow-high gloves and wrapped her in a red fox cape. She shivered in delight at the feeling of the fur on her bare back.

“Then let us be off.” He led her out the door and down the front steps. Usually he would have led her to the back stairs, but evidently tonight he wanted everyone in the house, everyone in Philadelphia to see them. A special carriage waited outside for them. Alfred stood outside to bid them a good evening.

“Alfred, do not wait up for us,” the major remarked over his shoulder as he assisted Christiane in the delicate operation of safely entering the swaying carriage. Finally the maneuver was accomplished. Her gown took up one entire seat, so he sat opposite her, studying her obviously.

She felt his intensity. It made her uncomfortable, so she turned her gaze out the window. His question nagged her. Could she manage this? The farewell party for Mrs. Washington last spring had been her debut as a woman in society and it had been extremely informal compared with the affair she would attend tonight. But she had been groomed to appear at the French Court, the pinnacle of society. Tonight’s festivities would be lackluster when compared to even the most commonplace ball at Versailles. Could she be her mother for one night?

She knew that most of the senior officers would be watching her to see how the next generation Pelletier measured up. For the first time in her life she felt something like the tug of family pride. Her resolve was firm. For once in her life and only this once, she would behave in a way that would have made her grandmother proud of her.

The ride to Smith’s City Tavern was brief, but she still became chilled by the time they arrived. A liveried footman opened the carriage door. The major alighted, then helped her down and up the few steps to the inn entrance.

She rehearsed herself silently. Grace, elegance and sophistication–that was what she wished to portray this night. The ball had already begun over an hour before. At the door they were announced, “Major John Eastham and Madame Christiane Belmond,” and were received by a few of the officers who took turns sponsoring these weekly balls to stave off their boredom in this provincial capital.

Christiane was struck by the brightly lit room. Smith’s was certainly an inn par excellance to boast such a large room for dancing. The oak floor gleamed in the candlelight. In all her troubles, she had almost forgotten that they were nearing Christmas. Boughs of holly festooned the paneled walls and be-ribboned evergreen wreaths graced the doors. The scent of bayberry candles filled the room.  At one end of the room there was a long dinner buffet and at the other end were the musicians. In between were the celebrants.

Most of the men were officers in dress uniform and white wigs, but here and there wealthy civilians were dressed in satin knee breeches and long waistcoats of all shades. The ladies were dressed in evening gowns. The young maidens primarily in light pastel shades and the matrons were in muted grays, blues and browns. One glance told Christiane that, barring the Sultana, she wore the most striking dress present. Heads turned to look at her and then turned again. She had barely been relieved of her cape by a servant girl when Lord Hazelton swept her away from the major for her first dance.

“Christiane, my dear,” he praised, “your beauty dazzles the eyes. If only your dear mother could see you.”

“Thank you, my lord, what a sweet compliment. I am so happy to start with a quadrille. It is my favorite.”

“Oh, now, my dear, don’t start practicing your idle conversation with me. Save it for the fortunate men who will count you a partner tonight. I am delighted to see the major has finally awakened to your purpose.”

“My purpose?”

“To enjoy life and to be enjoyed, of course. That was your mother’s and it is yours. The pearls are truly lovely. Soon you will have a collection of jewels to match your mother’s.” Then as they concentrated on the intricacies of the dance, she tried to ignore his comment. She had never felt that giving and receiving pleasure were her only reasons for living. But tonight only, this one night, she would  behave like her mother.

At the end of the dance Lord Hazelton was immediately beset by three other gentlemen who wished to meet his lovely partner. The introductions made, she was off and dancing. Gavotte, schottische, minuet, the dancers whirled around the floor to the stringed quartets’ music. Christiane chatted, laughed, teased, insinuated, and flirted outrageously with every man who came to claim her. And not one, but many greeted her at the end of each dance.

The major watched his “creation” as she went from man to man. The dark velvet of her gown and her natural chestnut tresses stood out in the milieu. The other ladies with their powdered hair and light-colored satins paled when compared with Madame Belmond. When the Frenchwoman swung by on another lord’s arm, the major observed the matrons pout angrily. These prosperous matrons of Philadelphia wanted to marry off their daughters to gentlemen and wanted no such competition. He watched their heads draw together and their tongues wag at this stranger’s unseemly behavior. Why anyone could see she was making a scandal of herself? He smiled.
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