Posted on Tuesday, 31 October 2006
Lady Susan Vernon ... er, Lady Susan Martin (even after six months, it still took her a few minutes to recollect her new married name) rolled over in bed with a groan. Her head was fair splitting. Why had she indulged in brandywine last night?
Remembrance came with a hiss of pain and fury. In fact she had not drunk anything the previous night, (tho' it is to be confessed that the eminently gullible Sir James had believed her actions to be the result of mild overindulgence, and had consequently requested that the servants refrain from serving his wife any potable stronger than ratafia. Such shrewishness from his darling Susan!) having been too inflamed by rage to swallow even a sip. The cause of her rage lay in a crumpled ball in the far corner of her chamber, along with the shattered remnants of several china figurines. The balled up newsprint might seem innocuous enough, and indeed, Lady Susan had quite enjoyed her perusal of the society pages until...
The De Courcy Ball, one of the noted Events of any London Season, was made more memorable by the announcement, albeit long-expected, that its most eligible member intended to resign his bachelor status in favor of Wedded Bliss. No friend of the family will be surprised to note that Mr. De Courcy's choice of bride was Miss Frederica Vernon, who has been staying with Mr. De Courcy's sister. Indeed, both Mrs. Vernon and her mother, Lady De Courcy, readily informed this humble Author, that they were quite pleased that the Bride-to-Be had the initials of FV instead of SV, as was feared less than a twelvemonth ago...
How dare her (first) husband's family humiliate her so! Bad enough that Prunes-and-Prisms Reginald could be tricked into offering for mousy little Frederica the Milksap, but a thousand times worse that her sister- and mother-in-law should so openly sneer at her! It had not been her fault that Alicia had failed to prevent Mrs. Manwaring from pouring her poison in Reginald's ear. Well, she would be revenged upon the whole family!
Lady Susan rang for the servants and reached for her wrapper, only to freeze with her hand just inches from the fabric. That horrific puritanical item could not be the same delicate & adorably fashionable robe she had discarded on her bedpost the night before. Why, it was the most awful grey wool, and a minimum of four years out of date, if it had ever been in style at all! She could not allow her maid to see her in such a monstrosity; it would forever destroy her reputation as a model of fashion.
With more energy than she had ever expended before noon since leaving the schoolroom, she hurried out of bed and locked her door. She would find something more appropriate in her wardrobe before Wilson came.
Alas for Lady Susan! When she opened her wardrobe doors, she suffered yet another rude shock. The rainbow array of fashionable gowns which had filled the wooden armoire to near-bursting had vanished, leaving behind a half-dozen or so sober dresses, each dowdier than the last, and all (as she discovered when she wincingly pulled the least-offensive from its hanger to try) tailored for a figure at least two stone lighter than she. The cut made her appear fat! The dress went back on its hanger handled with even more gingerly distaste than it had left it.
"Your Ladyship?"
At the sound of the maid's knock, Lady Susan gave up all hope of clothing and rushed to her dresser. If she had to receive Wilson in her nightgown, she could at least remove any trace of eye-circles or (perish the thought!) wrinkles.
Whatever hobgoblin had raided her closet had been no less thorough with her dresser. All that could be found in its drawers was a cake of harsh lye soap and a horse's currycomb. Her rouge, paint, powder, perfume ... even that vial of Gowland's Lotion she had tried on the recommendation of that baronet in Bath ... all had vanished.
The knocking had turned more insistent. "Madam, are you all right?"
Lady Susan forced herself to be calm. "Go away, Wilson, I merely rang by accident. I don't wish to be disturbed for several hours yet."
"Very well, your Ladyship."
She heaved a silent sigh of relief as the footsteps faded back down the hall. There must be some way she could find/reach a suitable dress in the next few hours. It needn't be of the first stare, just elegant enough to prevent comment while she sent for her modiste. They had no guests at the moment, so there was no way to raid their trunks (even assuming she could slip past the maids). Frederica had left a dress or two behind ... but the wretched girl was so small that even these dresses would fit her better than Frederica's castoffs.
She eyed the bed speculatively. The sheets were plain cotton, and white had never been her color. The coverlet was far too large a pattern to suit, and the heavy brocade was out of season as clothing anyway. Strike that idea. The curtains? Hmm, not too light, nor too heavy, and her nightgown (once she removed some lace) could pass for a shift...
Lady Susan had pulled over a chair and gotten the first pair halfway removed when she realized the major flaw in such a plan. In order to make clothing, one must first be able to sew. She had always left such trivial tasks in the hands of the maidservants, preferring to concentrate on those areas of accomplishment which the opposite sex found alluring. No man picked his wife based on how neatly she could sew a seam or darn a stocking.
In desperation, she rushed back to the bed, vowing to make some use of the sheets. If she could only produce a toga, she could always claim to be designing a costume for a masquerade. If the primitive Greeks could do it, surely it wasn't that difficult.
Twenty minutes later, she had to concede superiority to the ancients. Even using all her brooches, she could not create anything that both covered her decently (and her standards of decency were much lower than many) and looked half-way attractive. Most of her attempts had failed spectacularly on both counts, and she was bleeding in four different places from stabbing herself accidentally.
In despair and frustration, she threw herself on the remains of the bed. Hours passed and she did not move - what was the point? She could never be seen in her current state. Taps at the door became pounding and still she lay motionless. In point of fact, her only movements in the next few days were occasional trips to the ewer in the washstand to relieve her thirst and smashing her mirror because she could not stand to view the horror of her own reflection.
A week later, the dresses that had pinched so tightly now hung loosely on her frame, and she crouched before the dresser, gazing into one of the shards of her mirror as she evaluated her predicament. Surely she was going to starve if she remained locked in here much longer, and while death did not frighten her, having her body be found in such a state made every last one of the (now split) hairs on her head stand on end. Yet she could not open the door as she was: plain, unfashionable, and downright haggard of face!
Her gaze strayed to the window. Could she escape that way? Ride out into the country where no one would know her and have some country dressmaker fit her up with something that, even if it lacked Ton bronze, had at least some à la modality to it. Her dearest Manwaring had entered her room through the window on several of his visits, so it must be possible to leave the same way. (It had completely escaped Lady Susan's consideration that her lover was an athletic fellow, sturdy and strong of limb, while she had not done anything more vigorous than pour out tea in quite some time)
Yes! She would slip away now and return in a few days to take the Ton by storm again. Mustering all her strength she dragged herself over to the window and opened it, propping it open with a curled up copy of a fashion magazine. It seemed miles to the ground instead of only 12 feet, but there was a trellis that could serve as a ladder.
She was most of the way out the window when she felt the trellis bar under her left foot begin to give way. Her hands flailed for a grip on the window frame, but only succeeded in knocking out her makeshift brace. Consequently, the pane came slamming down on her head, knocking her mercifully senseless during the trip to the ground.
When she regained consciousness, she found herself on the midden heap behind the house, covered in peelings and other refuse. Her leg throbbed, and the ungainly angle from which it projected from her shift told her it was broken beyond any ability to hold weight. She was stuck until she was found. In mounting horror and humiliation, she took stock of herself: hair not only greasy but lank from malnutrition, face haggard, wrinkled/drooping cheeks from weight loss, body gracelessly sprawled among the trash, wearing only a nightgown that was now stained in a dozen places in less-than-appealing hues.
So she did the only sensible thing a woman in her position could do: she died on the spot from mortification.
Mrs. Manwaring to Mr. Reg. R. MortissMy dear sir,
I cannot thank you enough for your kind advice (enclosed please find a more substantial expression of my gratitude). I have been revenged upon the harpy beyond all Expectation. Instead of the mere humiliation of having to appear as a dowd (your recommendation to raid Great-Aunt Eugenia's closet was a stroke of genius), she has removed herself from this world in such a manner that the Scandal must last a se'enmonth and make Manwaring wonder what he ever saw in so Absurd a Creature.
Yrs, in gratitude,
A.M.
Mr. Palmer chuckled as he filed away the letter and the banknotes. His first customer was satisfied - who could have guessed that Charlotte's demise could have led to such a profitable hobby?