Chapter Two
I didn't know where to start in finding a Regency ball to attend, so I did the obvious thing: I Googled it.
Much to my surprise, there were plenty to choose from. And all kinds of different events too, some more involved than others.
"You have to go full out," Bekah insisted after I'd read some of the search results aloud. "Balls to the wall. Here—" She grabbed her phone and began tapping and scrolling. "You find a ball. I'll start looking for your dress."
"I am not dressing up," I said.
Bekah made a face at me. "Of course you're dressing up. You're not a reporter. For God's sake, Lizzy. You can't just show up in jeans and be like, 'oh no thanks, no tea for me, I'm with the press. Don't worry, I won't use flash during the waltz.' This isn't some breaking piece for your editor. You have to commit."
"My readers will be fine with me just writing about it," I said. "I don't have to actually do anything."
"Au contraire," Bekah said. "I'm one of your readers, and I am absolutely not fine with you just hanging around the ball like a creeper. I want a 'Ten Ways To Style Your Hair Like Elizabeth Bennet' entry. I want to read 'Five Things That Happened To Me When I Learned the Virginia Reel.' I want all the nitty gritty details, down to the corset and pantaloons. Don't take this from me."
"It wouldn't be the Virginia Reel," I said. "And we'd drink punch at a ball, not tea."
"Bring rum in case it isn't spiked," Bekah suggested. "Here, look at this one." She turned her phone around and showed me a blue gown with white lace. "What do you think? Good? Your boobs are better than mine, it should work for you."
"I dunno, Bek…do you really think people are going to want to read about this? Or are they just going to laugh at me?"
Bekah sighed and set her phone in her lap. "Lizzy. You built this thing from nothing. You learned all kinds of crap about web hosting and site analytics are whatever else you needed to know to run this thing. You posted about 'braids for summer' and people loved it. You did a dollar store bathroom makeover and they went nuts. You posted baking fails and people rushed out to see how hard they could crash and burn. You could write about pretty much anything and people would love it. Your problem now is that you aren't writing at all." She went back to scrolling on her phone. "So we just have to get you going again. Shake things up."
When I didn't answer she looked up. "Trust me," she said. "Now go get your credit card so we can buy this dress. I found a good one."
I rolled up to venue half an hour before the ball was supposed to kick off.
I had not thoroughly researched the parking situation before I left. By the time I'd thought of it I was already driving. Bekah had taken up the last of my last-minute preparations by rearranging the pearls in my hair and insisting we pose a few photos next to a window in my apartment that had what she called, "the most old-timey-looking curtains in this place." I hadn't swiped through the photos yet to see if any of them were salvageable.
I wanted to lose about fifteen pounds, so the pencil-like silhouette of this gown didn't seem to be doing me any favors. I was wearing shapewear to give myself as straight of a body as I could manage, and my hips seemed to be groaning in protest.
Bekah and I had also disagreed about the amount of cleavage that was appropriate for this venue.
"Less is not more," she insisted, grabbing the sides of the gown and readjusting.
I slapped her hands away. "For God's sake, Rebekah. I don't need the whole pirate wench vibe. I'm pretty sure the idea isn't to be popping out of this thing all night."
"Don't be such a prude," she replied, unphased. "Just make them look a little…I don't know. Perkier." She mimed propping my breasts up somewhere around my collarbones. "I doubt anyone is going to give you shit for it. You're not going to get turned away at the door by the morality police. God, it's just cleavage."
"Bekah." I pushed her hands away and they fell to her sides.
She let out a sigh, exasperated. "Fine. Don't listen to me. But if no one asks you to dance all night, don't blame me. On the other hand, if someone comes up to you and tells you you're a hussy or a trollop or they whisper about you behind their fans, then I expect full credit for it." She shook her finger at me.
I tugged at the top of the dress and readjusted till I felt more comfortable.
Bekah rolled her eyes. "Boobs are wasted on the modest," she said.
Now I was sitting in my car, feeling very strange in my long dress and dainty slippers, listening to hip hop on the radio. I was in line for the valet, wondering how much this little experiment was going to cost me; between the dress and admission to the event itself, it was starting to add up.
I couldn't see a price posted on the signs advertising the valet. They only said, "valet this way" in dainty script.
When it was my turn, a teenager wearing a rather impressive double-breasted coat and a top hat opened the door for me.
"Sorry—" I said, not making any move to get out of the car. "How much is this?" I looked at the sad pile of coins in my cup holder, a remnant of the last cash-only toll I'd made it through on pennies and dimes I'd tossed in frantically as the people waiting behind me grew more impatient.
"It's included, miss," he said, holding his hand out to me.
"Included with…"
"Your admission ticket. Wouldn't make sense to have keys jangling around the dance floor all evening, would it, mum? Be right ghastly, dontcha think?"
His accent was some kind of strange mashup between cockney and what sounded like every chimney sweep ever televised.
"Ahh, sure," I said.
He presented his gloved hand to me again, indicating that I was supposed to take it to help myself out of the car.
I hadn't been wearing my own gloves to drive, so I snatched them out of the front seat and gave a final glance at the car to see if I was forgetting anything. Notebook, pencil, phone for pictures. I couldn't think of anything else I needed to face the evening, but I felt like I was missing something.
It was probably just the strangeness of the wind whooshing up my legs. This dress was downright breezy.
"Here you are, miss," the valet said cheerily, presenting me with a ticket. "Just bring it back at the end of the evening and we'll bring it 'round faster than you can say, 'God save the Queen.'" He winked and drove my car away. I moved aside awkwardly to avoid the next car's exchange.
I had to give him some credit, though: he was a confident little guy, considering the dopey way his coat fit, and his hat fell over his acne-covered forehead. I should probably adopt some of that same bravado if I wanted to have any interesting interactions tonight. Or at least anything worth writing about later.
Unseemly to have keys jangling all evening, I thought. I would not have considered that detail. I made a mental note to include it in my retelling of the evening's events.
I watched my car disappear from sight and began to move toward the crowd gathered nearby. I'd had a vision of walking up a long garden path, admiring Pemberley or Netherfield or whatever, but between the cars crunching the gravel as the valets drove them away, and the tents in a field, it felt more like a themed wedding than a night in the 19th Century.
It occurred to me that there were probably going to be a lot of moments like this tonight, so I took out the small notebook I'd brought for this very purpose and jotted it down. I also had a pencil that I figured I could get away with using for filling out my dance card or whatever. It was about the length of my palm: not convenient for writing, but small enough to be unobtrusive.
I hesitated again, then thought of the valet's confidence and commitment to his act. I held my shoulders back. "I can do this," I said aloud to myself.
"Do what?" a voice said.
I turned to find a small, round-faced girl with auburn ringlets looking at me with a friendly smile. She had a model-perfect gap between her two front teeth, and though her dress didn't seem to fit quite right, with its uneven hemline and neckline that seemed slight off-kilter, the ivory jacquard suited her nicely.
"Um," I said, not expecting that anyone would hear me muttering to myself. "Just…" I glanced down and realized I had not donned my gloves. "Put these on!" I said, holding them up.
"Good idea," she said. "Do you need help? Here, let me hold your things." She took the notepad, phone, pencil, and valet ticket from me so my hands were freed up to slide on the elbow-length white gloves I'd brought with me.
"Those are nice," she said encouragingly to me as I struggled to pull them up and straighten the fabric.
"Yours are beautiful," I told her sincerely, admiring the little pearl buttons at the tops of each glove.
"Thanks," she said. "I added the buttons myself and I really like the way it looks. That was what got me into sewing. I made this dress," she added, swaying a little sheepishly.
"It's lovely. And it looks perfect on you." Perfect was an overstatement, but it really was a nice dress. I certainly couldn't have made it.
She flushed with pleasure at the compliment. "Oh, well, it's nothing. I taught myself. You'll see lots more dresses that other ladies have made that are much more well-constructed than mine. I'm a beginner."
"Not sure what that makes me, then. I can't sew at all. A nonstarter, I guess."
She giggled. "No no no, you're fine. We should go inside. Do you want me to hold your things for you?"
Not really. I'd much rather hang onto my semi-mocking notes and cell phone myself.
"You'll look really out of place if you're carrying around a phone," she said, upon seeing my hesitation.
"Where you hide your stuff?" I asked. For some reason this was not a problem I had anticipated despite all my other careful preparations.
"Here." She held up a small bag, held shut by a drawstring and attached to her wrist.
"I didn't even think of that," I said.
"Well let me help you out then!" She looked thrilled to be useful. "I just have some lip balm and stuff in here. There's plenty of room."
"All right," I said. "For a little while. I won't impose on you all evening."
"It's no trouble! I'm Maria."
"Lizzy." I stuck out my hand to shake hers. She grasped only the tips of my fingers and sort of pinched at them before releasing and packing my phone and notebook comfortably into her purse-thing.
What were they called? I wondered to myself. Reticule? I should have done a Pride and Prejudice re-read before I went through with this madness, but it had been a fast-and-furious seventy-two hours since my twin had come up with this crazy idea. The last three days had been a blur of online shopping and expedited shipping charges to get me here as fast as possible.
"Lizzy is the perfect name!" she exclaimed. "Tell me your last name isn't Bennet." She giggled again. "Oh, wouldn't that just be wonderful!"
"It isn't," I said. "But it would be a nice coincidence."
"I wish my name were Lizzy Bennet," she sighed, wrapping her arm around me and beginning to saunter toward the tent. "Or rather, Lizzy Darcy!" She laughed, louder this time, as though she'd made the most clever, original Austenite joke the world had ever known. Maybe I should reconsider my decision to use my real name.
As we walked arm-in-arm, Maria chattering along like we were the oldest of friends instead of complete strangers who'd met only minutes before, I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings.
It was late summer—still warm—and the event coordinators had pitched two enormous, white tents in a field. We were ushered into the smaller of the two tents by some Cinderella-esque footmen, and directed to a table where two gray-haired ladies with feathers in their hair checked our tickets.
"Have a nice evening, dear," one said as she handed me my ticket stub with a smile.
"Thank you!" Maria chirped, answering for both of us. I tucked my ticket stub into my bra before Maria could offer to keep it. I could use it for pictures or something later on the blog, and didn't want it to get lost.
I got my first good look at the interior of the tent as Maria was tucking her own ticket stub away for safekeeping. She was saying something about scrapbooking but I wasn't listening.
The tent was lit with large lights draped in fabric so the room was bright enough to see the floor but dark enough that it sort of felt like an old dance hall. In the tent beside us, I could peer over just enough to catch a glimpse of the interior. In the larger tent were tables set with candelabras whose fake candles flickered merrily. The flowers on the table were real, however, and there was a faint scent of lavender floating through the air. So one was for dancing, and one was for dining. My fingers itched to make a note. I didn't want to forget anything.
"Lizzy."
I turned at the sound of Maria's voice. I'd been staring around the room, not paying attention to her at all.
"Come on. I see someone I know. Do you know anyone here?" She tugged at my arm again, reminding me of children on a playground, who made friends without a hint of self-consciousness.
"Just you," I replied.
It occurred to me that maybe I should have brought a friend. If I'd done that I'd always have someone I could talk to if I wanted to avoid interacting with strangers. But wasn't meeting people who went to these for fun instead of work kind of the point? It was probably for the best. Bekah was definitely not a viable option. Instead of helping me or taking pictures, she'd just have been monitoring my cleavage all night.
Maria was half-dragging me to the other side of the tent, where two girls around our age were chatting.
"I'll introduce you," she said.
"That's okay," I said. "It's a little crowded over there. Let me grab that notebook from you and I'll meet back up with you whenever you're finished."
She didn't protest, and fished around in her reticule until she found the notebook and pencil. She kept my cell phone though, presumably for insurance. She didn't need to worry. I'd be back; I hadn't found anyone or anything else that made it seem worthwhile to ditch her.
I scribbled some quick notes in the little, brown pad.
Old ladies like feathers. Younger ones like pearls
Dudes can't decide if hats on or off inside tent
Fake candles, real flowers
3 lavender
Underwear?
The last question was one I was still wondering about.
Bekah and I had made a hasty search for "undergarments women Regency" as we were piecing together my costume. We never found a definitive answer; we just ended up reading about petticoats until we got bored and gave it up.
"They probably just all go commando," Bekah had said. "Couple of dresses under your dress, plus pantaloons or whatever? Yeah, that's plenty of fabric to protect your virtue."
"What do you think they do at this ball, though?" I asked. "It's not like they were trying to decide between bikini or boy cut or a thong two hundred years ago."
"Fair point," Bekah said. "This is definitely something you should ask about while you're there."
I made a face. "Just ask some stranger what underwear she's wearing?"
"Yup," Bekah said, abandoning the quest for answers about undies.
Now, standing in the ballroom/tent, I considered this. The grass beneath the tent was covered in vinyl flooring that made a gentle tapping noise as I shuffled my feet uncertainly.
Ah, what the hell. Couldn't hurt to ask.
"Hey," I said to the girl next to me in an undertone. She glanced at me, frowned, and looked away.
"Hey," I hissed, more insistently.
"Are you talking to me?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "I have a question."
"What?" she snapped.
I wasn't sure why she was so pissy. It wasn't like I had interrupted anything. She was standing alone, nursing a drink in a plastic goblet.
"Are you wearing underwear?" I asked.
Her shock was so complete I could have sworn for a second I'd been transported back in time. She actually gasped and laid her hand over her heart, looking both very shocked and very pretty. The move was so delicate I had to wonder if she'd practiced it in a mirror.
"Are you serious?" she said.
"What? I couldn't really get a straight answer when I looked up online, and you seem to have this whole thing down. So I was just wondering if you were wearing a thong or whatever."
She seemed to consider answering for a moment, then gave a small "hmph!" of disgust and walked away.
"Geeze, rude," I muttered under my breath, knowing perfectly well I would have probably blown off the same question were it directed at me. I doubted I would have done it with such graceful, Regency, ladylike finesse, however, and for that I was a little jealous. Where had she learned that? Was she some kind of shut-in whose only contact with the outside world was these weird balls?
A breeze blew my petticoats against my legs and reminded me that I was one of the weirdos at the ball now, so I might want to tone down my inner hypocrite. There was also a fine line between, "isn't this improbable but somewhat adorable?!" and "can you believe these losers?" that I always tried to strike in my blog whenever I wrote about things I didn't have experience with.
"There you are!"
Maria appeared at my side once more.
"Do they have drinks here?" I asked her, thinking of the glass underwear girl had been carrying.
"Oh yes," she said. "The punch inside is nonalcoholic, and usually not very good." She wrinkled up her nose in disapproval. "But outside they set up a little bar area. Do you want me to show you? I can show you where it is—I'll go with you and get a little glass of wine or something. I don't drink much, but I really love Moscato."
I fought to keep my face neutral. Moscato. Fucking grape juice.
"Sounds great," I said, hoping I sounded passably sincere. I also hoped they had something better than wine sweet enough to pass for a liquified candy bar. Though at this point, I reminded myself, anything was better than doing this dead sober. And, if nothing else, I could use it for story material.
Enough Pollyanna bullshit. Who was I kidding? I hoped there was liquor.
Maria looped her arm through mine again, further solidifying our best-friends-for-life vibe that she'd been putting off all evening. We weaved our way through the crowd toward the back of the tent.
There were two small steps down from the back of the tent to the little patio where they'd set up a bar. It looked like any other corporate, hotel convention center bar I'd seen before—just tables draped in black cloth—surrounded by people in period costumes. Someone had strung fairy lights around the tables to designate the approved stand-around-and-drink area. The juxtaposition of the old with the new wasn't badly done, but it was a little disorienting.
The flooring they set up inside for the ballroom area had not extended to the outdoor bar, and we all mingled on gravel similar to the other side. It was loose under my feet, and I was glad I wasn't wearing heels. The dainty slippers didn't provide much protection against the tiny stones digging into the soles of my feet, but at least I didn't have to stand on my tiptoes all night to keep from tipping over.
The bar area was a little crowded, so I moved to the side to let others get in line.
"I'm going to wait over there," I told Maria, pointing to the corner nearest to us.
I found myself facing away from the tent and the line to the bar, looking down a rather alarmingly steep precipice. A small creek trickled past.
I turned around to face the bar area again, watching the ladies mingling in their dresses. They stood in small flocks, waiting for their gentlemen callers to bring them drinks. Maria was one of the few people in line.
I craned my neck to see if she had advanced in line. Our eyes met and she waved at me. She was mouthing something.
"What?" I mouthed back, unable to read her lips.
She mouthed whatever it was more slowly, raising her arms to gesture.
I shook my head, frowning, to indicate that I couldn't understand her. But as I moved forward, I bumped into a group of women who suddenly began laughing uproariously, one of them cackling so hard that she stepped back, off the gravel, and bumped into me.
I tried to steady her, but as she straightened, I stumbled on the gravel. I caught myself and thought I had my balance. Just as I thought the moment was over, the earth gave way beneath me. I was on the edge, then suddenly I wasn't.
Before I realized what was happening, I was flying—falling—straight toward the water, too shallow to catch me.
The world went black.