Covent Gardens 1701 (again...)
Miss Barton's footfalls were not immediately apparent behind me, as she was rather light on her feet and anyway, I was not exactly paying attention. I heard her coming only a fraction of a second before she had knelt down beside me and laid her delicate hand upon my back.
She was an awful lot of crinoline and heavy, fancy fabrics, and so her dress spilled over my foot and came to a drift that reached nearly to my thigh. I looked up and was instantly arrested by the look on her face. Her eyes were a warm brown, nothing at all like the ethereal black of the lady from the cellars, but all the more comfortable to look at for it. A concerned look melted into a smile as our eyes met, and I found myself helpless but to smile back.
"Pardon me, Miss Barton," I said, though my voice sounded tremulous and tiny in the corridor.
"No need to ask pardon," she replied. "The opera is frightfully dull, I can't say as I blame you for leaving so quickly."
And just like that, she had alleviated the tension. She didn't expect me to explain myself, and I was so relieved I nearly fainted.
"Shall we walk?" she asked as she rose, and she took my arm as though I were some aristocratic dandy like Montagu. I smiled, and nodded, and we began to head down the corridor away from the private box. "I never used to come to any of these things," she said, once we had put some distance between us and the box. "Uncle Isaac does not typically frequent the opera either, but more and more it seems that our acquaintances seem to be the types to flock here in droves. It makes me actually miss the boredom of days at home, punctuated only by the rowdiness of the coffee-houses." She paused, and I glanced up to see a faraway glint in her eye. Just as quickly as it had come, she banished it.
"But I can hardly imagine that your father approves of the opera either," she continued. She had a way of taking slow but long steps, and it made her hips sway with a swish of fabric from her crinoline. It was clear that she was quite conscious of this movement, though perhaps not of how seductive it was, and for whatever reason, I found that dichotomy bewitching. I almost forgot to answer her.
"Oh, he disapproves of it entirely," I replied. "What with all the dancing and singing and men dressing up in women's clothing."
Miss Barton burst into giggles, which made me laugh in turn. "How serious!" she managed to get out between giggles. "You Calvinists take exception to the oddest things. Their transvestitism is all in good fun. I doubt they mean to offend the Lord's sensibilities."
This statement seemed blasphemous on at least four different ways, which struck me as both strange and brilliant. "Well I don't know if they mean to offend the Lord," I replied, "but they certainly excel at offending my father!"
Miss Barton laughed again, and so did I, and I am certain that if there had been anyone save us in the corridor they would have thought us utterly mad. To laugh so unguardedly in a public place with a pretty girl on my arm seemed to me then to be just about the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me, and I made up my mind to do it as often as possible.
"Uncle Isaac had told me that you are a solemn child. I daresay I'm seeing another side of you entirely."
I grinned crookedly, and blushed a little. "It's my reckoning that I haven't laughed this much in a long while. Maybe my entire life!"
"Well then," she replied, "I guess that I'll refrain from insulting his judgment of character. And you ought to smile more. I can't imagine what it is that has you seeming so serious."
I decided not to mention that I had no idea what made her so jocular, and only smiled back.
She was an awful lot of crinoline and heavy, fancy fabrics, and so her dress spilled over my foot and came to a drift that reached nearly to my thigh. I looked up and was instantly arrested by the look on her face. Her eyes were a warm brown, nothing at all like the ethereal black of the lady from the cellars, but all the more comfortable to look at for it. A concerned look melted into a smile as our eyes met, and I found myself helpless but to smile back.
"Pardon me, Miss Barton," I said, though my voice sounded tremulous and tiny in the corridor.
"No need to ask pardon," she replied. "The opera is frightfully dull, I can't say as I blame you for leaving so quickly."
And just like that, she had alleviated the tension. She didn't expect me to explain myself, and I was so relieved I nearly fainted.
"Shall we walk?" she asked as she rose, and she took my arm as though I were some aristocratic dandy like Montagu. I smiled, and nodded, and we began to head down the corridor away from the private box. "I never used to come to any of these things," she said, once we had put some distance between us and the box. "Uncle Isaac does not typically frequent the opera either, but more and more it seems that our acquaintances seem to be the types to flock here in droves. It makes me actually miss the boredom of days at home, punctuated only by the rowdiness of the coffee-houses." She paused, and I glanced up to see a faraway glint in her eye. Just as quickly as it had come, she banished it.
"But I can hardly imagine that your father approves of the opera either," she continued. She had a way of taking slow but long steps, and it made her hips sway with a swish of fabric from her crinoline. It was clear that she was quite conscious of this movement, though perhaps not of how seductive it was, and for whatever reason, I found that dichotomy bewitching. I almost forgot to answer her.
"Oh, he disapproves of it entirely," I replied. "What with all the dancing and singing and men dressing up in women's clothing."
Miss Barton burst into giggles, which made me laugh in turn. "How serious!" she managed to get out between giggles. "You Calvinists take exception to the oddest things. Their transvestitism is all in good fun. I doubt they mean to offend the Lord's sensibilities."
This statement seemed blasphemous on at least four different ways, which struck me as both strange and brilliant. "Well I don't know if they mean to offend the Lord," I replied, "but they certainly excel at offending my father!"
Miss Barton laughed again, and so did I, and I am certain that if there had been anyone save us in the corridor they would have thought us utterly mad. To laugh so unguardedly in a public place with a pretty girl on my arm seemed to me then to be just about the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me, and I made up my mind to do it as often as possible.
"Uncle Isaac had told me that you are a solemn child. I daresay I'm seeing another side of you entirely."
I grinned crookedly, and blushed a little. "It's my reckoning that I haven't laughed this much in a long while. Maybe my entire life!"
"Well then," she replied, "I guess that I'll refrain from insulting his judgment of character. And you ought to smile more. I can't imagine what it is that has you seeming so serious."
I decided not to mention that I had no idea what made her so jocular, and only smiled back.