The Scandalous London Debut of Miss Frances Benham 1 HOUR 35 MINUTE READ

Sunday, 9 October 1910

Francis Benham tried very hard to take every ounce of solace he could from the satisfying way the shell of his soft-boiled egg cracked and gave under the tap of his spoon. He was trying to find as much joy as he could in little things, as the morning he was going up to Oxford was the epitome of every trying morning before it for the last year.

“—of course, reading Classics is a solid foundation for many modern professions, should you choose to practice one, though you should never forget that your duty, first and foremost, is to our tenants,” Lord Frederick Benham intoned across the table. He had been as of late on a diet of broths and vegetables stewed to grayness because his stomach gave him troubles, but this morning he was intent on creating some sort of image in his children’s minds and had returned to a full English breakfast. Francis took another moment: he imagined with joy his father being so sickened by the indulgence that it was their butler, Davies, who took Francis to the train and saw him off instead. The daydream was interrupted afresh by Lord Benham continuing, “That said, this is an excellent time to focus on what may improve your station, and that is incontrovertibly connections. It is imperative that you associate yourself only with the most sound of organizations— the boat club is a must, as is the Union, and the Law Society is essential for connections in civil service—”

Francis tried his best to follow the example of his younger brother and sister in tuning their father out while retaining the appearance of attention. Directly across the table from him, however, sat Lady Veraminta Benham, his dear Mummy, and she was staring at him with an intensity that suggested if he did not commit every word of Father’s latest speech to memory they would shut him in the attic and try this all again next term. Francis dipped a corner of toast in the egg and nodded as if in agreement with some salient point about the boat club, and the essential discipline instilled by being shouted at in a canoe with seven other chaps.

“—always knew you’d be an Oxford man, just like your father,” Lord Benham continued, puffing himself up a bit in his seat. “In this family we prize being well-rounded, educated men, holding our positions with the gravitas of gentry, but the modern understanding of the world which distinguishes us from other members of the decaying peerage. Just think of the Caelums— relations through my sister, Violet, yet not a one of their children educated at a decent boarding school or a proper university. Imagine!”

Another moment of joy: the thought of inviting Reggie to his rooms in the Ryder quadrangle—his own rooms, for once, decorated as he pleased and with no others carrying a key—and talking long into the night about all manner of things, as they used to when Francis was a child. Mummy must have caught a sliver of his momentary happiness on his face, as she was quick to softly interject, “You have been thinking about your club prospects, haven’t you, Frank?”

Now on the spot, Francis floundered. “Er. Of course. Ah, b-boat club, as you said, and then, of course, in consideration of many of the texts I’ll be reading, perhaps Drama?”

If Francis had cracked his egg then, it would’ve rung out like a gunshot. Father and Mummy stared at him, lips thin and eyebrows raised. His little brother, Cecil, snickered behind his napkin. Little Amelie sipped her tea with incredible slowness so as not to risk a slurp. The butler, Davies, and Mary, the mousy Irish maid helping bring fresh dishes out from the kitchen, stood utterly still at the side of the room.

“But perhaps instead, extra tutes?” Francis offered.

“Can’t go wrong with extra tutes, that’s what I’ve always said. You have the opportunity to learn from some of the greatest minds in the world, seize every chance you have!” Father barreled on. Francis relaxed slightly, though Mummy’s eyes still bored into him. “Still, be good for you to do a bit of sport, can’t be revising all the time—”

Francis listened with half an ear, his breakfast becoming unpalatable as darker thoughts began to crowd his head. Ryder quad was a firmly Anglican institution, which was why he’d been steered towards it. He’d be expected to attend every service at the adjacent chapel or, as was undoubtedly the case for many of the boys in the quad, the vicar would report back on this lack of diligence to his parents. A vision began to form in Francis’ mind, this one hardly sunny: rather than finally being free to pursue what pleased him out from under the watchful eye of Lord and Lady Benham, he would exchange one set of jailers for another, a vicar and one of his father’s former professors, no doubt, who would regularly send away intelligence to Trembley Hall until what small bastion of individuality he managed to construct would be descended upon once more by familial duty.

“—care to steer clear of the ‘bad set,’ naturally,” Lord Benham said, apparently in conclusion to a thought Francis missed in his dark imaginings.

“What’s a ‘bad set’?” Cecil asked, interest piqued by the explicit mention of something not being good, as opposed to the endless implications. How like him. Utter monster in his little cricket whites.

“An excellent question, Cec, and good for you to know as well—I’m sure you won’t be far behind Frank in going up,” Lord Benham crowed, favoring the younger boy with a beaming look of pride. He cleared his throat, sobering before he continued. “There are those who see heading off to the city as an excuse to disgrace themselves utterly, reading preposterous subjects and spending all of their yearly income on wine and silk scarves. Inverts to a man, even the women who sometimes hang about them, usually armed with some book of poetry or other nonsense. Plenty in Drama.” He let that hang in the air a moment. “There are very few ways to go truly awry at Oxford, as distinguished an institution as it is. Falling in with the ‘bad set’? There’s quite a one.”

Francis was rewarded for his stoicism in not reacting at all to this pronouncement for the rest of the meal in the realization of his first whimsy. Lord Benham excused himself early to “attend to the estate,” and was reported to be regrettably unable to accompany Francis to the train station to see him off. Davies, in suitably feudal spirit, suggested Mummy might relish a chance for a moment of maternal affection at the platform, but nothing sounded more nightmarish to Francis. He insisted loudly that the clear blue sky over Trembley Hall was threatening weather she wouldn’t enjoy and all but threw his last trunk onto the carriage.

“Do you think it’s true?” he asked, once they were away, Mary and the rest of the maids standing on the drive waving the carriage off, with Amelie watching solemnly from behind her governess’ skirts.

“Do I think what is true, Young Master Benham?” Davies asked, seated primly across from him in a uniform so well-pressed Francis had often thought it left him no option but to stand and sit with perfect posture. By contrast, Francis almost lounged, so relieved to get away from the house his spine might’ve been reduced to a jelly.

“What Father said,” Francis clarified, voice low and uncertain, “about the ‘bad set.’ Do you really think, with the vicarages so close, not to mention the cathedrals for the Catholics, and of course with all the revising and clubs and such, anyone should have any space to be so… ridiculous?”

Davies seemed to mull the thought over for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I believe, Young Master Benham, that university presents a chance for a young man to choose based on his own concerns what his day should look like. Some may fill the hours with rigid study, sport, religious reflection, clubs, and so on. Others, items of more interest to them. Whether one schedule has more merit than another is not for one of my station to say, sir.”

Francis didn’t miss the careful neutrality of the response. “You’re not also going to impress upon me the import of following Lord Benham’s prescribed educational itinerary to the letter?”

“If I were to impress anything upon you, Young Master Benham,” Davies said, eyes on the idyllic countryside rolling away outside the carriage window, “it would be to keep careful watch over those possessions most precious to you, which is perhaps somewhat below Lord Benham’s concern. It is my charge to mind such things. I am afraid having elected not to hire on help for your stint at Oxford, however, the minutia of keeping an orderly wardrobe must now fall to you, sir.” Seeing Francis’ confused look, Davies cleared his throat and added, “Keeping organization in one’s shoes, for example.”

Francis was more confused for a moment before a wave of horror washed over him. In the frantic rush to get everything ready for him to go up to Oxford, he hadn’t spared a thought to the packing of his wardrobe and other effects, leaving that in Davies’ capable hands, as Father did. Shoes might not have mattered at all… had he remembered that tucked away in a box among his collection of brogues was a pair of Mummy’s less-worn heels he’d secreted away. He could think of no other reason Davies would make a point of mentioning he keep track of his shoes specifically.

“Ah,” he managed to croak out, feeling cold all over. “Yes. That.”

“I would be remiss not to send you off well-equipped, however,” Davies was quick to append. He laid a hand on a trunk which hadn’t fit on the luggage rack and was thus seated beside him in the carriage. “You’ll find everything accounted for, sir.”

Incomprehension ruled Francis again before he realized that under the old butler’s neutral affect and impeccable white mustache was the barest up-tilt at the corner of the lips. His heart seized with a sudden affection, knowing what Davies must know—and likely, given the multitudinous roles of a butler, had known for some time—and did not seem bothered by. Francis realized for the first time with another pang that he was leaving home, not just his parents. Leaving behind Davies, wise and faultlessly discreet. Mary, who made sure Amelie got a sweetie after her nightmares, and left one out for him, too, as her frequent escort to the kitchens. The governess, Anne, who’d expanded his world beyond Trembley Hall. An entire staff of people who had waited on him with patience and kindness when Lord and Lady Benham were cruel, who likely knew him better than he knew himself, and leaving also a house which he’d come to think of as a symbol of his parent’s oppressive rule, but which was in fact a beautiful place, filled with art and light and the comforts of home.

“Oh, Davies,” he managed, trying very hard not to make a real hash of his arrival at the train station by sobbing on his butler like an upset child, “what the devil am I to do without you?”

“Manage, sir?” Davies suggested, drily, though the smile at the corners of his mouth deepened. As the carriage came to a halt, he opened the door, gesturing Francis out before emerging himself. He carried the trunk from inside as the footman began unloading and handing off the others to station staff. Under the commotion, he added, “You’ve a sensitive and inquisitive nature, Young Master Benham, in spite of the best efforts of Lord Benham. I do not doubt for a moment you will find much to delight you at Oxford. Perhaps, even, a friend or two outside of your extended family or staff.”

“Perish the thought,” Francis joked, voice breaking a little on the last word.

Davies extended his arm, offering the last trunk. “You have your ticket and map, sir?”

“Yes, Davies,” Francis said as he took the trunk, patting the left side of his suit jacket, where said items were stashed in an inside pocket.

Davies raised a single eyebrow. “Pocket watch wound, sir?”

“Yes!” Francis assured him, surprised into a laugh which chased away some of the tightness in his throat.

“Then I suppose you are completely accounted for.” Davies stepped back and bowed. “It has been an honor, Young Master Benham.”

Francis managed to hold it together until the carriage pulled away and he was situated in his cabin on the train. Blinds drawn against the midmorning sun and the oncoming Oxfordshire country alike, he mopped his face with his handkerchief. He had forgotten to tuck that in his jacket, but found it, and several spares, packed in the trunk he carried himself— on top of the discreetly wrapped box he knew by weight contained Mummy’s stolen heels.

Thursday, 13 March 1913

In a rented flat off Abingdon Road, six young adults assembled in the dining room to greet the day in their own ways. The principal tenant of the flat was Sebastian Price; a young man with a vital tan that never seemed to fade, his hair only a shade darker, and who when going out matched any fashionable young man of the cohort but at home favored a soft cotton kurta set. Three people sat around his dining table at that moment. Two were siblings: the young Marquess Albert Duford a blond man with strong features and unsettlingly light gray eyes, and his younger sister, Lady Katherine Duford, a similarly blond girl of sixteen with her long hair piled up atop her head in a hairstyle that showed the wear of a night of revelry. At her mercy was Francis, wrapped in a striped dressing gown, his dark hair disheveled, and hands splayed on the table before her. Joining them with a tray bearing a hot cup of tea, toast, and a tidy omelet was Grace Marfleet. Her brown hair was more of an ash and daringly bobbed around her chin, drawing attention to her hazel eyes which seemed perpetually cool and watchful, as well as the circles under them evidencing a long evening spent herding her friends in and out of cabs.

“Grace,” George Sansom, the sixth and final young adult, groaned from under the table, “how can you be having breakfast at this hour?”

“It’s half ten,” Grace replied as she set down her tray with more force than was necessary, prompting another groan. “My question is, with everyone awake, why has no one scraped Georgie off of the floor? I fear a stain.”

“Not your flooring, don’t see why you should care,” Albert observed over the top of his paper. “Tea?”

“Make your own,” Grace said, “and that doesn’t mean ‘make Kitty do it.’”

“I can’t anyhow,” Kitty piped up, waving a little glass bottle. “I’m varnishing Frankie’s fingernails.”

“At half ten?” George asked, muffled from under the tablecloth.

“We’ve already eaten,” Francis explained. “It seemed as good a time as any.”

Sebastian looked up from the small shrine he was kneeling in front of. “What part of ‘would everyone please be quiet for a bit, I am praying’ suggested you all should congregate and talk at once?”

Grace, Albert, Kitty, and Francis all looked between each other around the dining table, then at Sebastian. He’d pulled aside the piece of the paneling along the dining room wall which concealed his small shrine to Ganesh, and was still holding the lighter he’d used to get the incense started, but now in a way that suggested he was inches from running it under the drapes and sending the whole room up.

Albert flipped the corner of his paper back up to cut off eye contact. “Frankie’s fault. This business with the nails is deeply disruptive.”

“Pardon me?” Francis asked, affronted, while Kitty giggled.

“Grace, I can see the tops of your stockings,” George reported, still under the table. “What are they even teaching you at Somerville, if not to keep your legs together?”

“Keep on and I’ll show you more, and then you’ll die on the spot,” Grace threatened as she buttered her toast. George gagged loudly. Sebastian let out a massive sigh, murmured something in Hindi which had the cadence of an apology, and went about shutting his shrine back up.

“I should have all of you tossed out,” he complained, taking his own seat at the table. He extended a leg beneath it, kicking around until he found body. “Get up, Georgie, and if I hear a single comment about how my sock garters cup my calf, I will have Bertie throw you into the Isis.”

“Heathen bastard,” George complained as he dragged himself up and into a chair. He got halfway to reaching for a triangle of Grace’s toast before he was swatted by three different hands. Dressed in his clothes from the previous evening, George was an effete young man with wavy hair to his shoulders, wearing most of a suit under a brightly patterned silk kimono which was hopelessly wrinkled from spending the night with him on the floor. “Wretches, the lot of you. Here I am, abandoned to die in Seb’s dining room, and no one’s even offered me a stale scone. I know you have them. Bertie never shuts the bread box all the way.”

“It’s broken,” Albert snapped, not lowering his paper.

“It’s not,” said Grace, George, Francis, Kitty, and Sebastian all at once. Albert huffed but said nothing more.

“Anyhow, I’m in mourning, you coves should be much nicer,” George concluded.

“When my nails have set up, I can iron your things,” Francis offered, smiling at him.

Grace scoffed. “You’re so proud of having figured out how to iron, it’s heart-breaking, darling, but Georgie doesn’t deserve it. You can’t be in mourning over anything to do with Easter break unless it’s the death of Christ, and you intend to act very surprised on Sunday.”

“You don’t know my bloody relations,” George argued. He kept talking as he got up and bustled into the kitchen for a scone. “I’m going to awaken shaved bald and lashed into monk’s robes, and not in a fun way.”

“There’s a fun way to do that?” Kitty asked. Albert flicked the corner of his paper down again and firmly shook his head at the same time Sebastian shrugged noncommittally. She capped her bottle and waved her hands to show Francis how to dry them. “Don’t touch a thing but look at the color! Isn’t it lovely? The cakes are so improving in pigment, you know the other day I saw a lavender.”

“Do keep your hands in your pockets today around the Cherwell Boathouse, my friend. The boat club has been out in full force,” Sebastian cautioned, gently. Francis gave him a grateful smile while George flung himself back into his chair.

“They’re not all bad, Seb, you’re being rummy,” he argued through a mouthful of jam. Swallowing thickly, George added, “Besides, it would be bally unpatriotic not to take in the views along the river this fine spring!”

“Please give up on that rower you’re after,” Grace cut in, “it’s beyond embarrassing when you try to pretend you understand anything he’s doing. Stick to your maths.”

“Can’t blame a chap for wanting a good stroke,” Albert countered, deadpan. Grace choked on her tea as everyone rounded on him.

“Bertie, was that a joke?” Kitty asked, looking enchanted. “Schooling has improved you!”

“I confess,” Francis said, returning them to the point, “I’m not very much looking forward to heading home either. Nothing really to do around Oxford between terms, though.”

“Travel,” Albert countered both of them. He finally gave up and folded his paper, adding, “If Georgie gets lost in Paris, no one will really notice.”

“That sounds tip-top,” George said. He made a show of turning out all his pockets, finally holding up a single crumpled bill. “I’ve five quid.”

“Will that not buy a ticket to Paris?” Kitty asked, with all the earnestness of an obscenely rich young woman who’d never made that kind of purchase for herself in her life. Sebastian firmly shook his head while Albert shrugged noncommittally. Her eyes suddenly lit up. “It would buy a train ticket to London, though, wouldn’t it? It’s not terribly far! I’ve already arranged to stay with my aunt and uncle there for several months this spring, since Janice Hargreeves rather ruined the debut of most of us last season by stabbing Earl Favreau with a hat pin, and Mummy says I have to ‘make up ground with the gentlemen of consequence.’ It will be all dancing and no fun, but it would be ever so lovely to see all of you in town!”

Albert cleared his throat to object. “I don’t think—”

“London would be a welcome change of scenery,” Sebastian agreed. He nervously adjusted his glasses. “As well as easier access to international post…”

Grace polished off her omelet with a dainty bite and then pressed her hand to Sebastian’s. “Still no word from Reeva?”

“I have no idea if it is confusion in the post, or her family interfering, or my family interfering, or she is ill, or she is dead…” Sebastian trailed off, looking less and less put-together as he catastrophized. Francis laid his hand over the other man’s free one, while Kitty cooed sympathetically, and George for once held his tongue on the matter of his friend’s own ill-fated romance. Albert cut in, trying for levity.

“I would be interested, if I didn’t know with utter certainty I’ll end up footing the bill for keeping a house in town with you wretches,” he complained.

“We weep for you, as the trials of being a man of means truly never cease,” Grace said. “That aside, I could hardly stay with all of you in some hive of bachelor depravity without earning myself an even less savory reputation than that which I’ve already carefully cultivated. Nothing must impinge on my aloof, sensual harpy mystique, especially not being said to have slept with someone such as Georgie.”

George crossed his arms over his chest with exaggerated huffiness. “I’m hurt, I think?”

“Stay with me, then!” Kitty suggested. “Don’t look like that, Grace, listen, you’re so clever, and my aunt is always reading these books about philosophy and such, sort of like you read, so I’m sure you’d get on, and it would be so nice to have someone to talk to about all the terrible men of the peerage in the evenings.”

“I could pay for the men’s flat,” Francis chimed in. All faces turned to him in surprise. “I… don’t spend very much of my allowance.” He glanced down at his drying nails, varnished a very soft pink. “You all spoil me so, especially considering the sort of things I fancy…”

“I thought you dashed it all on gowns?” George asked. He waved a kimono-clad arm. “Not that that’s a judgment, but unlike Duke Ponce here, whose income I’m chuffed to spend, I don’t want you going out of your means.”

“Duke Ponce?” Albert repeated, incredulous.

“Marquess Ponce, my apologies.”

Looking embarrassed, Francis confessed, “I, er, I buy my gowns secondhand, and Grace taught me to adjust them on my own.”

“You can buy gowns secondhand?” Kitty asked, once again genuinely surprised. Francis looked even more mortified but was cut off in saying anything else by her being gripped by another exciting idea. “Frankie! You could debut!”

“I… pardon?”

Grace’s eyebrows rose as she sipped her tea. “That’s daring, Kitty, but a lovely idea.” She glanced at Francis with an expression impossible for him to parse. “If you are in earnest about how you would live if given the chance, I believe it would be worth seizing one there, even if only for a night.”

“London is awash in people,” Sebastian observed. “It is likely the safest place you could go out in one of your gowns without being very noticeable.”

Francis sputtered. “I— I couldn’t possibly. It’s one thing for me to have an evening drink with you all in a frock, for Kitty to have a giggle at me learning to walk in heels with books on my head, but I simply do not know enough about being a lady to go out on the town without mortifying myself. I also haven’t the hair, the makeup, or— or even a lady’s name. It’s quite impossible.”

He looked up from studying his hands to find all of his friends staring at him with terrifying determination. It was Albert who finally spoke, flipping his folded paper around to the cricket and declaring, “Right, then. Kitty, you’re on cosmetics and wig, you know Mother’s supplier of both. Seb, you’re the law expert, find out what he’ll need to know should the worst happen. Grace, you’d do well to continue deportment lessons, perhaps see about getting him something to wear that’s actually in fashion. Georgie, you’re an utter waste of space, but you are in Drama— help him with a name, a story, and perhaps a vocal affect to smooth things along.”

Francis continued to sputter but George cut him off. “Thanks very much for the orders, Bertie, but what will you be doing to help the cause?”

“Securing appropriate rooms, naturally,” he replied, “and an appropriate occasion.” He dug around in his jacket, finally producing a very fine-looking envelope from an interior pocket. “I was invited to make an appearance at the Royal Society’s spring gala. Fundraising for some wander into the Amazon, sure to see everyone killed, you know the sort of thing. I’m sure it’s not the evening at some East End hole you had in mind, Georgie, but perhaps it will do?”

George actually looked impressed and settled back without further sniping. Francis was left to gape at his friends, all apparently settled on their plans for the Easter break, his protests sure to fall on deaf ears judging by the mix of excited and self-satisfied expressions on their faces.

“We’ll start a bit early,” Grace said, leaning forward and closing his mouth with the tip of her index finger under his chin. “It is not considered very ladylike to leave one’s mouth hanging open in astonishment, Miss Benham.”

Francis really couldn’t have said in that moment whether the flush that consumed his face and neck was from the feel of Grace’s touch, or the swell of irrepressible excitement within him, in spite of his fear.

Monday, 17 March 1913

“You are telling me,” Francis said, voice very soft to keep from being overheard by any of the various attendants in the shop, “that the Duchess of Blighy is bald?”

“Has been for ages!” Kitty insisted. Her voice was a little louder, but she looked completely at ease. “Mummy doesn’t want anyone to know, of course, but it’s some sort of disorder, she doesn’t have hair any— well, never mind that! We usually order away for these, but it’s so nice to visit again!”

London was in the grip of an uncharacteristic bout of sunshine on Francis’ first day in the city, which poured in through gaps in the rich draperies of Harris & Son, Wigmakers. The discreet shop off of Saville Row had an unshakable aroma of soap and wig powder which made Francis sneeze on first walking in. Kitty was her usual cheerful self, perfectly coiffed and wearing a fetching pastel dress that brought out the blue in her pale eyes, all but bouncing in her seat as they waited for Mr. Harris himself. The owner had been promised to them immediately on Kitty mentioning her name.

“Is there… much trade in wigs?” Francis asked, doing his best to make conversation. He rarely spent much time with Kitty alone, and was floundering now, not the least of which because people kept bowing to her. Kitty didn’t seem bothered by any of it.

“Not as much as there used to be, of course, powdered wigs being out of fashion! Still, ladies like Mummy buy them to be presentable, and I’ve even bought a few things.” She patted the back of her head, and the elaborate up-do she wore. “Postiches, they’re called. Surely you’ve noticed my and Bertie’s hair is a little too thin to fill out this sort of thing on its own?”

Abruptly fascinated, Francis leaned forward to study the hairstyle, but was interrupted before he could ask questions by the approach of a thin man with an exultant expression on his face, presumably Mr. Harris or son, wigmaker. “Lady Duford, an incalculable pleasure, as always. Do tell me, you haven’t had difficulties with any of your purchases, have you?”

“No, no, everything’s been lovely!” Kitty assured him, giggling as he kissed her offered hand. “This is a visit purely to shop! Oh, here, this is Mr. Francis Benham, a dear friend of my brother’s— first son of the Warwickshire Benhams, you know. Frankie, this is Mr. Wilford Harris!”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir, I knew your grandmother,” Mr. Harris said, shaking Francis’ hand with enthusiasm.

“That… rather explains a lot,” Francis said.

“Willy, we’re here about a full wig,” Kitty explained, moving them along cheerfully and purposefully deeper into the shop. “Frankie needs one for a skit he’s doing.”

Mr. Harris looked vaguely offended but made best efforts to suppress the reaction. “I… rather think the caliber of our wigs is somewhat more, that is to say…”

“Willy,” Kitty insisted, as if she were about to assuage all his concerns, “it’s going to be a very funny skit. And I said I would pay for it!”

“We hadn’t settled that—” Francis started to protest, but an immediate change in Mr. Harris’ demeanor cut him off. At the mention of this coming out of the Duford purse rather than the more modest Benhams’, he brightened.

“Well, considering it will be very funny, I’m sure we can arrange something of the finest quality, Lady Duford.”

Mr. Harris pushed open a set of doors ahead of them and Francis boggled. In niches and on plinths lit with electric bulbs sat head after wooden head, each sporting a wig of a different color, length, or style. There were at least a hundred, all arrayed around aisles which could be walked down to carefully inspect any one of them. He had seen wigs before, helping George in quick changes with Drama, but they tended to be frayed, snarled, or made of yarn like a cheap doll’s hair. These might’ve been scalped off of any of the fashionable ladies they’d spied from the cab window on the way over. Perfectly brushed, shining with quality, braided and curled and pinned in innumerable ways.

“We’ll begin with selection of length, hair color, and general style,” Mr. Harris explained, bustling to a desk in the back of the showroom. “After that, we’ll take measurements for tailoring the cap. Dependent on the relatively rarity of the color you request or the length required, there may be a wait of a few weeks while we source more hair and care for it, ensuring the best possible quality in your wig, after which time it will be delivered in a discreet package to an address of your choosing. Take your time. We’ve all the latest styles if you do prefer something ready-to-wear.”

Kitty all but skipped down one of the aisles, dragging Francis with her. Quieter, showing a discretion Francis hadn’t seen from her before, she asked, “Well? Have you thought about your color? What do you think about red, red would be so bold.”

“I am, I think, er, not very much in the market for bold,” Francis pointed out. “A conservative color with a little bit of length should do for me.”

“Boo,” Kitty said, but she came out of her brief disapproval quickly as she happened upon a flowing blond wig. “Look at this one! I hadn’t even thought of it; we could look like sisters!”

Francis reached out and ran his fingers through the ends of the hair, feeling the smooth texture, how light it was in his hand. Something in him seemed to flutter. But he wrinkled his nose as he said, “I don’t know that I would make a very good blonde, and, besides, Bertie is taking me out—it wouldn’t do for us to look related, would it?”

Kitty made herself muffle a fresh slew of giggles. “Oh, you are low gentry. No, don’t look like that, I’m only saying, I’ll be fortunate to marry past first cousins. So, not red or blonde! That should actually make things easier, brown and black are much more common! Do you know what color wig I would fancy? Grace’s hair is so...”

They browsed for quite a while, Kitty regaling Francis with stories prompted by the wigs they saw, often about the foibles of various other gentle ladies she knew who sported similar styles or hair colors. Francis felt as though he should’ve brought a notepad along to be jotting some of this down. Kitty’s funny stories were a master class in what not to do in society as a woman, things he hadn’t even thought of. There was an entire anecdote about the length of one lady’s gloves as related to her rank in the line of her family’s eligible daughters.

“So!” Kitty piped up after a thorough tour of the wares. “Do you have a favorite?”

“The, er, the one here at the end of the second row is nice,” Francis said, pointing it out. “I think staying with black hair would be best, so I won’t have to worry about my eyebrows, and the length is good for a style perhaps plainer than yours, but in the same sort of vein…”

“I mean, maybe,” Kitty said, “but you also don’t sound excited. I asked which was your favorite, not which one would best suit a sensible young wife!”

Francis dithered for a moment before finally guiding her back to one of the wigs in a niche. There, backlit by its bulb, was a short wig full of loose, glamorous curls. “I— it’s completely ridiculous, but…”

“Ooh, it’s like Lady Diana Manners’!” Kitty enthused, looking it over. “Or like Grace’s, though her hair is straight. Utterly daring! And it’ll be light, too! I was wondering how we were going to pile your hair up; it not being rooted to your head. I could probably stitch you into it, but that’s never fun.”

“But see there, you’re right, it’s too daring,” Francis protested. “I like it, but you mentioned that short hair is seen so poorly by most, not to mention—”

“Frankie,” Kitty asked, “does it make you happy?”

The question brought him up short. Francis looked at it, reaching out after a moment to slide his finger into one of the curls, gently pulling it out in a long spiral of fine black strands. “I… It looks so simple, but I can just imagine, you know? Curls around my face, rather than having most everything pulled back, and I’ve always thought, perhaps… perhaps vainly, that for a man I have a very nice neck.”

“Even for a girl! No spots to speak of, just a beauty mark or two,” Kitty agreed, smiling up at him. Out of sight of Mr. Harris, Kitty took his hands in hers, her nails still soft pink while his had been stripped of varnish to save him embarrassment in travel. “It seems to me, Frankie, that you’re already doing something very daring! We could put you in an unfashionable gown, mousy hair, and unremarkable makeup, but if you’re already taking a chance—well, why risk all this for anything less than complete happiness?”

Francis started to argue, but it was hard to be dour and pragmatic looking down at her face. Kitty had this almost ethereal quality he admired. A creditable comparison might’ve been to a butterfly, but she actually put Francis in mind of a soap bubble more than anything else. Shining, beautiful, light, radiant with color, carried along by whim and whimsy. She made him want to listen to the little voice inside him that seemed perpetually aggravated with his circumstances. The one which urged him to buy his first frock, and the self-same one which had compelled him, even with Lord Benham’s cautions still rattling around in his head, to turn up for Drama regardless— where George had tucked him under his wing and brought him into this strange little group, which wasn’t overly bothered when he accidentally walked out of his room with rouge on.

“Do you really think it’s alright?” Francis asked, as much about his life choices as about the wig purchase. Kitty squeezed his hands.

“I think it’s lovely,” she murmured, with such sincerity he found himself looking at her again, even more intensely. There was something like envy in her eyes, as well as something like sadness. “I wish I were as bold.”

“Surely you have the means and the time,” he said, softly, “to do anything you like?”

Kitty just smiled at him. “Let’s go get you measured for the wig. With a short one, we can likely leave with it today. And then directly into makeup! Oh, I’m so excited!”

Francis was swept through the rest of the process by her energy, hardly feeling awkward about being professionally measured for a lady’s wig with her nattering on about particularly funny plays she’d seen over the years to Mr. Harris, and then her unending enthusiasm for developments in the concoction of cosmetics.

It was hard to shake the impression, however, in the few moments where she lapsed into quietude, of the bittersweet happiness in her face. For all her bubbly demeanor as they discussed items at the Selfridge’s makeup counter, he saw a resignation in her now that didn’t suit a girl of sixteen. She carried it with élan. But now that Francis had seen it, he could not forget it.

“Would you let me do your face first, just to show you?” she asked as they headed home from the department store, laden with bags. “It’s only you can’t be thought to be wearing makeup, although of course everyone knows you’re wearing makeup, so you must have a light hand!”

“Of course, Kitty,” Francis said, smiling down at her to see her smile back with genuine feeling. “I’d be lost without you.”

Monday, 17 March 1913

“Kitty is right, you know,” Sebastian said as they walked along the banks of the Tyburn towards where it joined with the stinking Thames, on their way to a café Sebastian assured him was quite worth the trek. Sunshine early in the day had given way to gray clouds and a sudden drop in temperature in the afternoon. It complimented the older student’s dour affect as he smoked a Gold Flake cigarette and talked with long exhales of smoke.

“On which account?” Francis asked. He had his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets for warmth, the wind cutting through him in spite of his sweater vest and wool jacket. “I must confess, I had a great deal to learn from her, quite unexpectedly. For a girl of sixteen…”

“Sixteen-year-old girls go through more than you would expect and are twice as sharp as we were at their age,” Sebastian said. “I meant on the subject of freedom for a lady of consequence. You chafed at the expectations on you as the first son of Lord Benham and heir to Trembley Hall. You cannot begin to imagine your life as a daughter—but you would like to. You must be aware. I will leave the deportment to Grace. I have prepared what you need to know should you be arrested while in your gown. Ah, here we are.”

Sebastian pushed open the door to a restaurant sandwiched between a cobbler and a butcher. A wave of scent and warmth washed over Francis on stepping inside after Sebastian, which was a welcome comfort as he immediately found eyes on him. The restaurant featured small tables with handfuls of Indian men seated at them, some in Western suits and some in kurta sets, some in a combination of both, all staring at the two Englishmen who’d wandered in from the cold. There was one other pale-skinned man, a chap in faded khaki uniform making quick work of a bowl of brightly colored curry, but he didn’t look up.

“Er, is this…?” Francis began, but Sebastian waved him off and approached the counter. He had a brief exchange in Hindi with the man working behind it, then pointed Francis towards a table.

“I assume a lager is alright?” he asked. The question was rhetorical, as the cold pints were set down at their elbows almost immediately by the man working, who Sebastian thanked by name as Arjun. “Do not look so bewildered. I have been craving a taste of home. Some of the best food is in the West End, but that is also a very conspicuous place to be seen dining ‘exotically,’ considering what you are about to do.”

He lit a fresh cigarette and sipped at his lager while Francis followed suit, trying not to feel acutely aware of every confused or affronted glance sent their way. “We… rather stand out, don’t we?”

“You will need to learn to be comfortable feeling watched,” Sebastian said. Sticking his cigarette firmly in the corner of his mouth, he dug around in his satchel until he produced a notebook, which he flipped through until he found a page covered in his crisp shorthand. “Right. The Buggery Act of 1533.”

Francis choked on his lager. “Just, agh, just right to it, then?”

“There is no point in dallying,” Sebastian said. He adjusted his glasses as he sorted through his notes. “Your situation is unique in that there are no laws on the books, per se, about wearing the clothing of the opposite sex. In fact, it could be classified as British tradition— if there was an attempt to prosecute for it, Scotland Yard would likely have to siege every theatre in the country. However, there is precedent for non-theatrical or comic wearing of women’s clothing being submitted as evidence of homosexuality.”

Francis shifted uncomfortably, his glass draining at a speed directly proportionate to his mortification over the topic at hand. “Yes, well, knowing Georgie and many of the other blokes in Drama…”

“It is not an entirely spurious connection to make, but it is a dangerous one,” Sebastian agreed. He left off talking as Arjun returned with several steaming bowls and a pair of plates. The meal set before them was utterly foreign to Francis, but his appetite was immense, and Sebastian loaded a plate for him with helpings of several entrees against a generous serving of jasmine rice. “I mention the Buggery Act because it was the first proper law regarding homosexual conduct, which previously had been handled by ecclesiastical courts, and it set the tone for the next several centuries.”

“I could hardly escape learning of Wilde’s trials and travails considering the company I keep,” Francis said. He picked up his spoon and mimicked Sebastian, gathering a little of the rice and then a red-gold curry, regretting it as his mouth was flooded with spice and heat. He hurriedly sipped at his lager to wash everything down and blotted his face with his napkin. Sebastian just smiled indulgently at him, the bastard. “Ugh. That’s…”

“Vindaloo. For you, I would wager a bit too much too quickly. Try this one here, the Tikka Masala, it is milder.” Sebastian tapped a lower note on the page beside his plate. “Wilde is the famous case, but countless men have been convicted for buggery over the centuries, hanged or beheaded until it was made a non-capital offense about fifty years ago.”

“Bully for me,” Francis said, miserably. He took a smaller bite of curry with his rice this time and found it, true to Sebastian’s word, much more palatable. He began to eat in earnest. “I don’t suppose the punishment has further softened, perhaps just a harsh scolding behind closed doors?”

“No such luck. If you are incontrovertibly witnessed in flagrante delicto, it is life or a shorter sentence, but no less than ten years.” Sebastian’s finger trailed steadily down the page. “If you are judged to have only made an attempt at it, which is the common application of the law, it is up to ten years but no less than three—unless, in the case of Wilde, they give you hard labor, at which point it could be as little as two. Have some yogurt, Frankie. You are going red again.”

“I assure my distress is no longer from the spice,” Francis said, though he did dish himself some yogurt and found many of the other spoonfuls put onto his plate by Sebastian much easier to stomach when mixed with it. “I… I am aware we have never spoken of it, but I am… it’s not that I am inclined solely towards men. I do find myself frequently attracted to the fairer sex. It is only…”

“Inconsistent?” Sebastian suggested.

“Yes!” Francis breathed. He started to gesture and then thought the better of it on remembering his spoon. “I so often find myself feeling split right down the middle on who I fancy, but also, well, this.” He held up a finger. “Before you prudently offer some suggestion of psychiatric aid, save yourself the effort. I’ve read everything I could get my hands on without coming under suspicion. It’s not that I feel deranged, delusional, or as two people. I simply feel… differently disposed at different moments. Although perhaps it is, in fact, a new failing of the mind I am pioneering for the profession.”

Francis pushed some of his rice around. “To me it seems more unnatural to think I’ll be confined to one way of being, one sex to love, as if… well, it’s a terrible comparison, but as if my whole life I could only wear grey suits and date blondes.”

“There are many wonderful grey suits,” Sebastian said, “and I am sure nearly as many blondes.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Francis replied, “but I would despair of both in exclusion to all else. Does that… does that make any sort of sense to you, Sebastian?”

“I cannot claim it does, completely, but I am sure my own situation does not make much sense to you,” Sebastian said, using his near-empty pint to make a gesture to encompass the restaurant. “Ipso facto, I have come to believe that the best way of approaching difference is not to insist on bending things into a shape you can comprehend, but making peace with never quite understanding, and still extending your support and regard despite this.”

Francis waited until he felt sure he wouldn’t start crying to speak again. “You… don’t mention Reeva very much.”

“To you,” Sebastian countered. He had a chunk of lamb and swallowed before continuing, “You have a great deal going on in your own life. Albert has no interest. Kitty thinks it is all romantic in the way Romeo and Juliet is romantic before you comprehend tragedy, and Georgie is sympathetic but, because of his own inclinations and personality, cannot bring himself to consistently ask after her. It is Grace I usually talk about things with.”

“I feel abominable regardless,” Francis said. He raised a hand towards Arjun and indicated their need for a fresh pair of pints. “What is she like?”

Sebastian got a look on his face that Francis rarely saw on the law student. His usual expression of pinched resignation relaxed as he began to speak, smoothing into one of deep fondness. “Reeva… What you must understand is, under the Raj, many Indian women are very deferential on meeting an Englishman. But Reeva despised me from the moment we met as children, her the daughter of a health board appointee and myself the son of an officer stationed outside of New Delhi. My life was a living hell in her presence. I adored every moment.”

Francis laughed, feeling for a moment less cringingly awkward in the café. “Is she that beautiful?”

“It is not that,” Sebastian explained. “It feels a terrible thing for me to complain about, but I grew up being incessantly praised by my family, touted as the most intelligent of children, the best behaved, the most mature. I did not know how much I craved normalcy until Reeva pushed me in the dirt.” He laughed himself. “I could not get enough of her, and over time I daresay she found me increasingly tolerable. She showed me so much I would have never seen in the life expected for me. By the time I came of age, we were in love, and I desperate to marry her.”

“But the law forbade it?” Francis guessed. Sebastian shook his head.

“No. Unlike in America, there are no well-enforced anti-miscegenation laws in the Empire. The practice is frowned upon here, but much less so in India itself. The issue was not law for us, but faith.” Sebastian thanked Arjun again as he came to collect their plates, saying something in Hindi that made the man laugh, which Francis was willing to bet had to do with the terrible way he’d handled the Vindaloo. Once the fresh lagers were deposited, Sebastian continued, “I thought it would be a trifle. My family is Anglican, and when I proposed I mentioned off-hand she would need to convert for the marriage to go forward. She declined.

“I rarely thought about faith as a significant force in my life,” he said. “I prayed to God when I was expected to, attended services, and assumed we would be wed by a vicar. But faith is not an afterthought to Reeva. She believes in and upholds her gods, and has no interest in converting, especially not to marry.” Sebastian took a long sip from his pint. “So, I did what I had done for all the years before: I accepted I was being a silly little boy, and I listened to her.”

“And you converted to her faith instead,” Francis surmised, a little stunned by the straight-forward conclusion. “I had wondered why you were so circumspect in your correspondence—I’ve heard of men, especially soldiers, taking wives there. But your family couldn’t be very approving…”

“My family does not know,” Sebastian said, correcting quickly, “at least, about the conversion. My devotion to Reeva has never been much of a secret, despite their staunch opposition, and the hesitance of her own relations.”

“I…” Francis blinked at him. “How could they not?”

“I did not tell them, and I did not rush out to temples, nor did I begin concealing idols until safely out of their sphere.” Sebastian stubbed out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table between them. “This is what I meant about Kitty—she believes that for our love to be real, I must declare my changed faith on the floor of the Commons, and thereafter defeat my father in a duel for Reeva’s hand. We understand that the better option for all is for me to come away to school, playing the penitent child who will obey my family’s edict and marry an Englishwoman. That is, until such time as I secure my professional standing and the means to purchase a home back in Jaipur, at which point I can give everyone two fingers and practice whatever faith pleases me with a wife I adore.”

Francis ruminated on this for a moment, nursing the last of his second lager, as well as the image of the gentle Sebastian flying two fingers at anyone. “I… I don’t know if I have your conviction, Seb, or your composure. I am… beyond excited for this chance to realize a dream. But I must think that’s all it is—a single chance, and a silly, unsustainable dream.”

“You flatter me suggesting I have always been so resolute,” Sebastian said, managing a shadow of a smile. “You think I do not lay awake at night, thinking of the consequences of what I have done—socially, professionally, even theologically? Every delayed letter freezes my heart until I see her handwriting again, receive her assurances she has forestalled any arranged match for another month. I am not trying to tell you anything either of us is attempting to do is easy or grows more so over time. Only that, as Kitty said, a complete happiness is worth striving for if you are willing to take risks. My addendum is that those risks should be informed.”

He cleared his throat and tapped his notebook again. “That said, your chief obstacle is the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861, but there is precedent for presenting as the opposite sex not necessarily resulting in conviction from the trial of Boulton and Park in 1871, who were much more ostentatious than you are likely to be…”

Wednesday, 19 March 1913

“It won’t be easy, on that I agree with Seb,” Grace said when they met two days later, Francis having been dismissed from breakfasting with the boys early to call upon her for his next preparatory session, as the group had come to call them, “but while he and Kitty have spoken to the legal and inspirational aspects of this endeavor, I’ve been ordered by our distinguished commander to narrow my focus. Darling, you are going to have to stop trying to take larger steps. The corselette simply won’t allow it.”

When he’d arrived at the city residence of the Duford clan, Francis had been made to immediately change into the gown and other accoutrements he packed for the break in an upstairs guest suite. There he discovered additional items laid out for him, foremost of which was the garment he struggled with now. Grace swept around him in a manner which further highlighted his bumbling. It was in no way helped by the novel experience of seeing her in the context of the city.

Grace had long seemed to him to be somewhat out of step with Oxford— not that she was outpaced by the university town, but rather that she wanted to go too far, too quickly for the stodgy stone walls and idyllic countryside to suit her completely. London looked well on her, by contrast. She traded in her usual uniform of muted, flowing day dresses for a wrapped black skirt under well-fitted blouse and waistcoat, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar open in a sort of dramatic, masculine way that put Francis in mind of a Byronic hero. Her intelligent eyes frequently flickered to the windows as the sounds of the street floated up to them: a clamor of voices, harried footsteps, and, on occasion, automobile engines mingled with the clopping of horses’ hooves.

“Try again,” she commanded, bracing her hands on her hips as Francis clung to a bedpost. Heels, he knew. Hose, garters, stuffed brassiere, myriad dresses, even the conventional corset, he was intimately acquainted with. This new, hellish invention she’d purchased for him was entirely outside of his experience.

“What was wrong with the regular corset that they felt the need to extend it so?” Francis grumbled. He waved his hands around his upper thighs, where the longer line of the corselette ended. “It was wretched enough having to learn to breathe differently. Now my hips have been all but immobilized, and for what? The safety of the masses?”

“The silhouette,” Grace countered, swatting him with an ornate fan he was certain fell out of fashion twenty years ago. Likely the Duchess of Blighy’s, retrieved solely to torment him. “Fashionable gowns are moving on from the wasp waist. You should be grateful, Frankie. My hips and bust are soon to be gauche, the tubular skirts and long tunics proliferating in Paris this spring much more suited to your form.”

Francis took a small step, then another, feeling a bit like an oriental dancer with the precision of his attempts at motion. “If that’s so, why do I have to wear a blasted corselette, anyhow?”

“The boning will give you a softer shape where you should have curves rather than angles, although…” She paused, studying him as he tried not to overbalance. “You shouldn’t be having quite this much trouble. How tightly do you have that laced? No, don’t bother, I’ll just look.”

Francis huffed as Grace took hold of the back of his gown and unbuttoned it, stripping him to the waist. “Of course, help yourself.”

“Hush.” Grace pressed a hand between his shoulder blades and worked her fingers into the lacing below. “You have this far too tight. I understand the inclination to squeeze your ribs into curlicues considering your experience growing up in Edwardian outfits, but you may thank a Mr. Poiret for a shift in fashion rendering such extremes unnecessary. Hold still.” She unlaced him to his lower back, loosening the corselette enough for him to take a deep, welcome breath, before tying it much more comfortably. “Try now.”

Without the over-tight undergarment immobilizing his torso and pelvis, Francis found that, while still somewhat restricted by the length of the garment, he had much more freedom of movement. They took a few turns around the room together, Francis able to match her pace and gait with twenty minutes of focus.

“As you no doubt gleaned from Kitty, being seen as a woman is a constant and relentlessly critical process. You will have no reprieve from, and no allies within, the ranks of the other women in attendance. Rather, they will be as judge, jury, and executioner for your reception by society— in your case, a reception which could be dangerous if unkind or overly astute,” Grace said. She stepped behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist and maneuvering him into a sort of sashay as they began to walk again. Francis committed all of his mental faculties to not bursting into flame at the closeness and succeeded only in rolling his ankle on the edge of a rug. “Gracefully executed, my dear, up you get. Your best armor in society, all I’ve said taken into account, is a combination of style, poise, and disposition.”

“Simple enough,” Francis joked, earning him another swat with the fan.

“Style can be purchased, to an extent,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, adjusting her grip to push him into something akin to a gliding dance step. “Your hair, for instance, and the makeup Kitty selected, with me procuring a suitably fashionable dress and accessories. However, excess betrays a lack of style in favor of attention-seeking, which speaks less to a discerning eye and more to greed. We will avoid this, so you should consider yourself well-prepared in that regard.”

Francis flushed. “Thank you, Gracie. I’m… still finding the line between what I like and what is liked generally.”

“Pray you never do,” Grace said. Her lips proved much closer to his ear than he could tolerate without shivering. “You’ll find yourself happiest having a wardrobe you enjoy, rather than rave reviews amongst people you don’t care for. But I digress.”

“Poise?” Francis prompted, unsteadily.

“Poise,” Grace agreed, sweeping out and away from him, although one hand still rested on his waist. He realized then that they were dancing, a slow hesitation waltz, and fell with some relief into the familiar pattern of following, though he couldn’t place the tune in Grace’s head which dictated their pace. “That is to say, how you carry off your style. Be bold or be modest, but for God’s sake, choose. Commitment to one bearing suggests a fully-developed personality, and personality is one asset which can’t be bought, and which inherited wealth doesn’t guarantee.”

“I feel you may be overthinking some aspects of this,” Francis ventured. Grace laughed.

“I’m reading Philosophy and Ethics, Frankie,” she said, “of course I’m overthinking things. But in this case, it will help you to be more cognizant of the subtleties of the average ballroom, and their implications. You’re going to walk in on the arm of the man who will one day be Duke of Blighy. Oxford educated and, astonishing among English gentry, actually attractive. You, by comparison, will be a girl of little import, with a daring haircut but no connections to speak of. People will be voraciously interested in that story. You can tell your side in an over-rehearsed monologue Georgie works up for you, or, you could save yourself the effort and tell a great deal of it without words.”

“I assume this brings us back to disposition,” Francis guessed. “If I were to be very rude, I don’t suppose I would have to talk to many people at all.”

“Naturally, but I won’t stand for you lifting my public persona wholesale.”

Francis laughed at that, prompting Grace to up the tempo, swirling their dresses around them.

“Disposition is what you think of style and poise,” she said, voice barely strained by her own corsetry or the increased intensity of their dance, “the judgment you pass on yourself and society at large. Are you scornful, as I am, present only by obligation and visibly holding in contempt all who play the game of courting favor? Are you effervescent, as Kitty is, enamored by every move and everyone around you, buoying others with enthusiasm? Are you perhaps, as I would venture you might be, compassionate? Generous with your good opinion and kind in attitude towards even towards those who are strangers to you, understanding all have their own struggles, and gifting them with sympathy to their plights you wish for your own?”

“You… you think very highly of me,” Francis managed, face and neck reddening. Grace smiled up at him, an expression he’d come to think of as her Mona Lisa smile: thin but present, slightly lop-sided, sad and pleased all at once.

“My dear, I’m infatuated with you, but only for the wrong reasons, of course.” Before Francis could recover from the declaration she stepped back, staring down at his calves as his skirt settled around them. “Stockings are a wonder, Frankie, but you must still shave beneath, else you risk unsightliness which will not go unremarked upon even if you don’t do any lively dancing. You do know how, don’t you?”

“Of course, I know how to shave,” Francis sputtered, gesturing to his jawline.

“Certainly, but do you know how to shave legs?” Grace asked. She unceremoniously reached down, grabbed the hem of his skirt, and yanked it up to get a better look. He batted her hands away with a furious blush. “I will take that as a ‘no’ in no uncertain terms. Go get into a dressing gown and run a bath in the en suite, will you?”

Besieged by more emotional responses than he could reasonably manage, Francis turned and went to do as he was told. He rationalized it as a tactical retreat bearing no resemblance to fleeing.

Francis hung up his frock and released himself from the grip of the corselette and other convoluted undergarments with great relief. He wrapped himself in a dressing gown so atrocious he could only attribute it to the Duchess of Blighy again and ran a bath while he waited for Grace. When she reappeared, she had also cast off her clothes in favor of a robe, which for some reason Francis hadn’t been expecting, and which hit him with the force of a cricket bat to the head. She set her travel kit down on a table adjacent to the tub as she took in his new garment.

“Oh, that is nightmarish,” she declared. “Off with it and into the bath. You’ll want your legs quite wet and the hair somewhat softened by the temperature.”

Francis opened and closed his mouth several times. Grace just looked at him. Whatever distress he felt at being naked for the first time in front of a woman since he was in the charge of nursemaids was clearly beneath her notice. After a moment of further hesitation, Francis took off his robe and slid into the bath.

“We’ll use a straight razor, since I know from Georgie that’s your usual carry, although of course a safety razor or any other kind will do just as well,” Grace said as she perched on the rolled edge of the tub. “Also, it’s what I use— I prefer the feel. Scooch your feet apart, darling.”

Without much ado, Grace turned so she could slide her leg into the bath between Francis’, thoroughly wetting her calf while he did his level best to die on the spot. With the radiating warmth of the bathwater sloshing against his chest proof he hadn’t actually managed it, he looked up at Grace for any clue as to how he should be handling the whole thing. She looked back with amusement plain on her face, but, thankfully, her eyes not on anything happening beneath the waterline as she withdrew her leg and propped it on the side of the tub.

“I haven’t much hair myself, having shaved just last night, but to demonstrate this will do. First, wet a cloth. You’ll need to clean off your razor as you work, and the less hair you’re swimming around in at the end of your bath, the better. Then lather your leg as you would your face. That done, hold the razor at this sort of shallow angle and just…”

Francis watched, spellbound, as Grace expertly guided the straight razor over her skin, studying both the alluring shapes her body made and the deft way she moved with the blade to prevent nicks or missed spots. Without much hair to remove it was over quickly, but before he could think to ask a question, she situated herself more firmly on the tub’s edge and said, “Right then. One of yours, now. I’ll do the first, you’ll do the last. Watch closely.”

Abruptly on the spot, Francis froze, and it was only when Grace’s hand dipped as if to start fishing about in the water for something—with an insufferably unphased expression on her face, he might add—that he managed to lift his right leg out of the water and into her reach. While at first excruciating both to make himself the focus of the situation, and then to endure the pragmatic yet frustratingly erotic way Grace lathered his leg and handled him as she began to work, the rhythm of shaving, wiping off the razor, wetting it, moving again, eventually lulled him into a more relaxed state. His mind drifted, reminding him of the declaration he hadn’t been able to question before this whole debacle unfolded.

“What did you mean, earlier,” he ventured to ask, “when you said you were infatuated with me, but for all the wrong reasons?”

“You’re incredibly foolish to ask me about my feelings while I’m armed,” Grace joked, brandishing the razor. After a moment, however, her tone turned serious. “I… You mustn’t think uncharitably of me, now, Frankie.”

“I could never.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” she warned. “When I look at you, I am thrilled by the idea of the future you might give me. You don’t take issue with my education. You wouldn’t importune me to perpetually play lady of the house. You’re too kind to be pushy about your sexual appetites, or children, and far too giving of your support for things that could hurt your reputation. I could do whatever I pleased, secure in finances and societal standing by the match, but free to pursue my interests, however unconventional, with the knowledge you would never attempt to curb me.”

Francis felt his heart beating faster at the same time his stomach sank. “Why are those the wrong reasons?”

Grace ran a fresh damp cloth over his now-smooth leg. “Being in love with someone because of the ways they wouldn’t inconvenience you, because of the ways they are inoffensive, seems a horrible way to love someone.”

“I wouldn’t mind being loved like that.” Francis smiled ruefully. “The way I am, I never thought I’d be loved at all.”

Grace glared at him as though he were a troublesome puppy, a look so simultaneously frustrated and arch he couldn’t help but be mortified by everything all over again. He sank into the bath until only his eyes peeked out.

“You,” Grace said, pointing at him with the razor, “deserve, perhaps more than anyone else alive, a sincere affection.” She closed it with a flick of the wrist and stood, setting it on the table for him. “Second leg, now, and I hope you were indeed paying attention, and not just ruminating on questions of the heart. Otherwise you will bleed out in this tub and I shan’t tell a soul about it, for fear I might have to publicly testify to being gentle and patient.”

“Perish the thought,” Francis said as he emerged from the water, reaching for the brush and bowl of lather. Now that the immediate danger of humiliating himself in front of Grace had either been avoided or survived, depending on the point of view, he admired the smoothness of his shaved leg and was keen to finish the task with the other. Grace had to clear her throat to bring his attention back to where she stood in the doorway of the bathroom.

“All that being said, I’ve clearly proven myself an able instructor, and every tute ends with a review.” She pulled the tie of her dressing gown and let the whole thing drop in a wave of silk. “Finish up and then come and see me. We’ll have an intimate comparison.”

Wednesday, 19 March 1913

“You let Grace Marfleet get near you with a straight razor, in the nude?” Georgie asked. “You do understand the specter of Death only passes over you once, and now the next potentially lethal tipple you get yourself into will spell your end, yes?”

Francis stared deep into the bottle of wine they were sharing and decided it didn’t bear mentioning to his horrified friend what had happened with Grace Marfleet in the nude after the bit with the razor. “That does only seem fair.”

After an eventful morning which had bled into a late luncheon, Francis had spent the better part of the afternoon searching for Georgie in hopes of getting a jump on one of his final preparations before the big night. With characteristic unhelpfulness, however, Georgie had failed to appear. Finally locating the wayward Maths student took Bertie astutely pointing out that, much like a cat, Georgie was fond of being up high, and if Francis had already searched the top of every bookcase and wardrobe in their flat, he should likely check the roof.

To be fair, it had a peerless view. From the area Georgie had found to drink on, one could see nearly the whole of the city: every lit window; the daisy-chains of streetlights which indicated roads, electric lamps brilliantly yellow while lingering gas lamps burned a warmer hue; the distant marquees of entertainment halls and adverts; and everywhere there was water, from the Thames to nearer garden fountains, the misty, vague reflections of light which conveyed their own interpretations of London. The stars were lost to it all, but the moon hung, waxing, over the ancient metropolis. Its suffused light suggested only the shapes of buildings which closed when the sun set, the homes of those the vicars would say had good sense, limning the city’s darker thoroughfares with their own silvery glow. Georgie reclined above all the beauty with six bottles pinched from the wine cellar where Kitty and Grace laid their heads, judging by the quality of the vintages. When Francis found him, one was empty and a second freshly uncorked. Now, several hours later, all but two rattled on the shingles.

“Say, Georgie,” Francis asked, “now that you may consider yourself fully briefed, where have you been all day? You know I’ve been worried about the gala.”

Georgie took a deep pull from the bottle as Francis handed it back. It was an 1832 cab sav worth without a doubt more than his allowance for every year of his education combined, and Georgie drank it like dime gin. “That’s the problem, isn’t it, darling?”

“Which part?” Francis asked. “If it’s the name, I’ve had a few thoughts about that, and if it’s the pedigree I can always try on an American accent—”

“First, never do that,” Georgie cut in. “Second, it’s none of that. Not the name, not the story, not the act, it’s… well, it’s me trying to give you any advice at all on doing this mad rot.”

Francis tried not to look as hurt as he felt. “Everyone’s been rather keen on the thing. I would’ve thought that you, of all people—”

“That’s just it, though.” Georgie sat up, eyes alight with a sort of furious energy which was only partly due to raised passions from the wine. “Bertie can command us around all he wants because in a year’s time it won’t matter what unripe friends he ran with at Oxford, he’ll be managing his estate in preparation for his dowager mother getting bunged in a hole. Kitty’s having a grand time chatting to you about makeup because no one else listens but will be tottering down the aisle in six months, forgetting the entire affair except as premiere drawing room natter. Seb will run off back to India the moment he can, and Grace need only settle on an appropriately cowed little lordling to become dark queen of some manor house.”

“I didn’t know you thought so uncharitably of our friends,” Francis observed, feeling his stomach sink once more.

“It’s not that I’m conspiring to be nasty, I’m only conspiring to explain my cowardice,” Georgie snapped. “That’s all them. Me? The second son of a second son, well known for several counties as the effete wastrel shaming the ancestors? The confirmed bachelor identifiable by a refusal to shear my hair to an appropriate length and give up silks? I haven’t any idea where I’m going to end up, even walking out with top marks in all my courses and a sort of unsavory knowledge of complicated maths.” He pulled on the bottle again. “I live in terror of it, frankly, vacillating between nonchalant disregard for tomorrow and paralyzing fear. And now, on command to help you get your story in order for this outing, our friends have asked me to drop you in the same soup. Maybe they all believe this is a break’s worth of amusement and nothing more. But I would consider you perhaps my dearest friend, Francis, even if the sentiment is not mutual. This isn’t a gag for you.”

“Oh, Georgie,” Francis breathed, reaching for the bottle before his friend finished it on his own. “You… well, you aren’t wrong. I’ve dreamed of something like this even before I really knew what it meant. I—I don’t believe I will be satisfied by one evening if I can carry it off with any grace.”

“Precisely,” George replied. “I felt the same the first time I kissed a boy at Eton.”

They drank in silence for several minutes, staring out over the distant city.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Francis finally said. “You are my dearest friend. You’re just rarely sober or awake enough to see me adore you.”

“I deem it a small sacrifice to be sufficiently medicated for the pains of life,” George murmured, then grimaced at his own dire pronouncement. “Whatever my prevarication, you’re here now, so I suppose we should do the bloody thing. You said you had thoughts on a name?”

“Yes.” Francis put his two hands out like he was about to describe a grand vista. “Mary.”

“Mary,” George repeated over the lip of the wine bottle. “Your thought was ‘Mary.’”

Francis glanced over, dropping his hands. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, old thing, except it’s the most exceptionally uninspired thinking I’ve been graced with coming from you to date.” At Francis’ affronted look, George flew him the two fingers, albeit playfully. “Honestly, does it actually tickle, or did you just hear it on the street on the way over and not find it offensive? Was it seasonally inspired by the blissful bird of grace? Do you crave the honor of birthing your own messiah? Or just being overcome by a powerful, masculine force?”

“Come off it,” Francis quipped, but he couldn’t stop himself from laughing as George’s guesses about his thinking got more ridiculous. “Yes, I heard it on the street, but listen, if I tried for anything Mummy might’ve actually named her first daughter, I’d be someone frightful like— Eudora, or perhaps Theodosia.”

“Those, at least, have personality, or suggest suffering under the burden of an unbecoming name that builds character,” George replied. “Why not something elegant? Celeste, Estelle, Giselle?”

“Because my French accent is more atrocious than my American, and besides which, I’m a patriotic English… something-or-other… and I can’t very well ponce about being called Odette, which I’m sure was your next suggestion.”

George set the wine bottle he was holding with the empties and contemplated the next full one. He didn’t uncork it. “Francine?”

“No.”

“Frances?”

“That’s already my name, you silly bugger.”

“No, no,” George insisted, “with an ‘e.’”

Francis broke out in giggles. “Frencis?”

George reached over to smack him and overbalanced, which led to a very scary moment where Francis caught him, and then lost his own footing on the shingles, and they slid together a gut-wrenching distance before being stopped by a piece of ornamental brickwork. Despite the near plunge into the street below, neither of them could stop laughing as they crawled back up to their previous perch.

“The way I see it,” George explained, “is that you want something you’ll answer to even pickled, and something that doesn’t tax Bertie’s negligible acting talents or memory. But the changed letter is a comforting variable.”

Francis laid back on the shingles and closed his eyes to stop the sky overhead from spinning. “You’ll have to explain that one.”

“Well, it’s like you said to Seb, isn’t it?” Francis felt George join him in laying back, the heat of his body a comfort against his side. “It’s not that you have two personalities, or something blinkered like that. Sometimes you feel a bloke, sometimes a bird, but always you. Why have such distinct names, then, as if you’ve got two people sharing your head?

“A variable,” George continued, in the somewhat reverent tone he adopted whenever the topic of conversation pivoted away from frivolity and, somehow, onto his studies, “is a quantity in a calculation which is assumed to be capable of varying in value, represented by a letter. In maths, a value determined by resolving the other side of the equation.”

“For me,” Francis inferred, “masculine or feminine inclination, as indicated by the ‘i’ or the ‘e.’”

“Knew there was something in your gourd other than chutney and pocket lint.”

Francis curled into his friend, breathing deeply of his scent—a lot of red wine, a bit of sweat from the near-fall, and the spicy orange notes of Narcisse Noir, a ladies’ perfume he ordered every Christmas, allegedly for his mother, and never delivered. “Do you really think I’m mad to do this?”

“Utterly,” George said.

“It bolsters the spirit to hear you say so,” Francis replied, sourly.

George reached up and patted around until he found Francis’ chin, then gripped it and gave it a firm shake. “Really? Really and truly? It’s not that I think your inclinations are mad. I’ve never personally known the urge to see myself as a lady entire, but I do chafe at arbitrary restrictions on what I chose to drape the corpus in. I knew a bird in Shropshire who never wore anything but three-piece suits and was having a go at being known about the village as Mr. Howes full-time, consequences of discovery be damned. It’s that, though—the consequences—that have me in fear for your sanity.”

Francis shook off the grip on his chin and nuzzled down into George’s shoulder. “You’re afraid for me.”

“I don’t think I’ll sleep at all the night of the gala until I see Miss Benham breeze back into the flat.”

“So, you’d have me answer to Frances and keep my own surname?” Francis pointed out, hoping to lighten the mood. “Stunning subterfuge.”

George snorted. “You’ve no idea how many Benhams there are in England, Frankie, noble or otherwise. Besides—who would at all conceive that the first son of the Warwickshire Benhams would go out in a frock using what is, functionally, his own name? What a daft idea.”

Francis laughed into George’s rumpled shirt. “Thank you ever so much for conceiving of it, then.”

Friday, 21 March 1913

When the anticipated night finally arrived, Miss Frances Benham comforted herself with rituals she perfected with her friends but sent them away while she carried them out. She woke that morning with the conviction she must be able to prepare for the evening herself if she was ever to do this again. It was that conviction that found her alone in Kitty’s bedroom, deciding once and for all not to throw the whole thing out for a bad plan, and read the rest of the evening.

She bathed and shaved as Grace taught her, dressed in stockings, stuffed brassiere, corselette, and garter belts, among all else. The gown they’d shopped for and finally settled on was a salmon-colored number of the newer, oriental style: layered in gauze and lace, embroidered beautifully, and nipped in at the waist with a black velvet sash. She paired it with a daring black velvet choker, which she set aside to put on after her makeup, arranging for the piece to settle in such a way that it deceived the eye away from her modest Adam’s Apple and down to the teardrop pearl dangling below.

Frances’ short hair went under a stocking cap as she settled in to apply her makeup, consulting her memory of Kitty’s tute alongside several magazine pieces cut out and stuck to the vanity mirror. A subtle application of cream and powder softened her features. After that came touches of rouge high on her cheeks, just enough to suggest life without detracting from the pale look, which was en vogue, and quite natural to her. She had to take a moment to steady her hands from shaking when it came time to apply lip stain. Kitty had dared her to sport a red, but she had elected instead for a softer pink color, a few shades darker than was natural and tinted slightly towards her gown. She forced herself to finish the application of her eye shadow and mascara before truly taking in the whole effect.

“Oh,” she murmured. She turned her face slowly from one side to the other, both to check for evenness and… just to see. “Oh, that’s…”

The wig. She took hold of it and donned it as she’d practiced, pinning it firmly before straightening out the curls and further securing it with a headband which complimented the short style, a soft beige lace matching the neckline of her gown. She positioned pearl earrings borrowed from Grace and screwed the backings in until they clamped her earlobes firmly. Then she sat and allowed herself a moment to absorb the entire picture.

Miss Frances Benham. From one thousand stolen moments with purloined heels and secondhand gowns, murky reflections in her childhood pond and vague daydreams, breathed into life.

It wasn’t until the first dark tear streaked down her cheek that she realized she needed to pull herself together or risk having to wash and redo her entire face. She was finishing a touch-up when someone knocked at the door.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help, Frankie?” Kitty called. “It’s only Bertie’s done something very silly, and it’s likely the more time you have to reach this little party, the better!”

“No, I… I believe I’m finished,” she replied. She wrenched her eyes off the mirror for long enough to give Kitty and Grace a soft smile as they entered. Kitty was similarly dressed up for a party, albeit it a different one, while Grace wore a pair of heliotrope pajamas which, judging from the size, she had pinched from someone else. It wasn’t until Kitty dropped hers that Frances noted they were also carrying drinks.

“Good Lord,” Grace said, looking genuinely shocked.

“Frankie!” Kitty cried. She skipped right over the glass rolling around in a wet spot on the rug to grab Frances’ hands. “Oh, Frankie, who are you? I knew we’d get you close to the thing, but this is… Why, I went to finishing school with girls less handsome!”

“There’s no call for hyperbole,” Frances said, feeling her face and neck heat beneath the powder. Grace stepped forward and offered one of the two glasses she held, a Cream Fizz by the look of it, which Frances took a sip from gratefully. “I haven’t mucked anything up terribly, have I? Look closely, now, my reputation depends on it.”

“You sell yourself short,” Grace said. She reached forward to smudge a bit of the cream and powder along Frances’ jaw but otherwise didn’t fuss. “Whatever the combined efforts of the good dress, fine wig, makeup, and other contrivances, it’s the person beneath who must carry off the look, as we discussed, and you, dear, are completely at home. I… don’t think previously I quite understood.”

“Are you suggesting I am not particularly manly?” Frances asked with faux outrage as she straightened out her skirt.

Kitty giggled and stole Grace’s Cream Fizz for a sip. “I think if you’re worried about that, you might have to lose the pearls!”

“I trust everyone who it would bother me to find unclothed is decent,” George called from outside the door, giving no time for a response before swinging in with the bottle of gin he’d no doubt used to make all the cocktails. He got a look at Frances and promptly dropped it next to Kitty’s lost glass.

“This poor rug,” Frances said. George just clapped his hands together.

“Bertie’s going to drop dead,” he declared, “and will have earned it. My evening improves tenfold.”

“Why do I keep hearing thuds?” Sebastian asked, peeking in from the door behind George. He, thankfully, was not holding a drink, but he still gaped like the rest had.

“Hold a moment, you’re not finished,” Grace realized. She reached for the velvet choker and motioned for Frances to face the mirror as she carefully put it on. Once done her hands settled on Frances’ shoulders, Kitty, George, and Sebastian crowding in to join her and Frances in staring at the woman in the mirror.

“Stunning,” Sebastian said. “I do not think I ever realized it, Frankie, but you have very shapely lips.”

“One assumes you’re going to leave that out of your next missive to Reeva?” George teased him, earning an elbow to the side for his efforts. He leaned in and flicked at one of the pearl earrings. “Sharpish, I’d say. Just remember, until you’ve more time to practice the lilt, best to just talk softly, humming responses when you can. Make Bertie work at the conversations. You’re clearly only going to be in attendance as an art piece.”

“You can see already you’ve lost just a smidge of the lip color on the rim of the glass,” Kitty pointed out, “so put the pot of stain in your clutch, and about midway through the night, excuse yourself to the powder room and freshen up!”

“Do not let anyone follow you in, though.” At the scornful looks of the others, Sebastian just shrugged. “What? More foolish things have happened. If you do fancy chancing it, do it somewhere you can kill and bury your partner should he or she show any inclination to speak to the authorities.”

“Oh, indeed,” Grace agreed, “and then phone me, I’ve plenty of experience with getting blood out of gowns.”

Frances was surprised into a laugh that made all of her friends smile, until a loud clearing of the throat was heard through the open door, albeit distant.

“Do we plan to go this evening,” Albert called from the bottom of the stairs, “or shall I call and have the Society reschedule the event for tomorrow morning instead?”

“Hold on to your knickers, Bertie, you can’t rush perfection,” George shouted back. To everyone else, he muttered, “And he’s one to talk, considering.”

“Now, what is it that Bertie’s done?” Frances asked, utterly lost. Kitty snorted into her cocktail and then laughed at the mess she made.

“Never mind all that, it’s time for your debut!” she squealed, daubing at her face with a handkerchief. “The stair here is just perfect, but we’ll all want to go down first so as not to detract from your entrance!”

“I suppose that is our cue,” Sebastian said. He placed a hand over Grace’s to give Frances’ shoulder a final squeeze. “You really do look lovely.”

“Thank you, Seb, they’re your pajamas,” Grace said, archly, making the law student sigh and Kitty break out in laughter all over again. Soon after they all filed out down the stairs, leaving Frances alone once again with her reflection.

Very last chance to lock herself in a cupboard until the urge to carry off this insane plan left her. Frances stared at the admittedly fetching woman in the mirror and then stood, straightening her gown to descend the stairs. The very last thing she donned were her evening gloves, long and as starkly black as her sash, choker, heels, and wig. She stepped out into the hall and began down the long staircase to the foyer at the slow pace Kitty had taught her, head held high.

If for nothing else, it was all worth it for Albert’s reaction. When the starched and aloof gentleman gave her a look like he’d been cracked on the head with a billiard ball, the very last of her fear bled from her, and she all but floated down the remaining steps.

“Well?” she murmured, schooling her voice into the soft, androgynous pitch she’d practiced with George. “Shall we?”

Albert remembered himself and bowed, offering his arm. “Miss Benham.”

Friday, 21 March 1913

Stepping out of the house with the rest of her friends snickering in the foyer, it became evident what gaffe Albert seemed to have committed in their eyes. There, pulled around the front of the townhouse and being glanced at by passers-by on the street, was an American Ford Model T automobile, midnight blue with black fenders.

“You’ve let a motor car for the evening,” Frances said, confused.

“No,” Albert replied, looking a little puffed-up, no doubt from the scorn of the others.

“You’ve purchased a motor car for the evening,” Frances tried again. Albert scoffed.

“Hardly. I purchased the automobile when I wintered in New York, and had it shipped over a month ago. It was actually due to be driven up to the ancestral manse three days past, but I cancelled the request.” He cleared his throat, and for the first time in their friendship looked embarrassed at himself. “I… noticed you were in awe of the one we saw on first arriving in London at the beginning of the week.”

Frances walked up to it, marveling at the construction, the paint, the shiny finishes. “You did?”

“I do pay attention to you, you know,” Albert muttered. At Frances’ surprised look, he crossed his arms. “Thought you might’ve noticed by now, considering I rarely pass up an opportunity to tease.” He cleared his throat. “Anyhow, I thought it might be something to look forward to, in case you were still bothered about the gala— only survive it for an hour or two, and then I thought we might escape to the outskirts to let you drive this thing around, hmm?”

“It sounds to me as though you’re the one worried about the event,” Frances replied. On saying as much, her expression softened. “Er, although of course I understand you’re risking a great deal, doing this for me. If you’d prefer not to, you may trust I would never breathe a word of it to Georgie or the others—”

Albert rolled his eyes and opened the passenger-side door for her. “You must learn at some point not to throw yourself on the sword at the first sign you might be inconveniencing someone. There are too many people in this world who love to act inconvenienced.”

“Do you speak from personal experience?” Frances goaded, settling in and admiring the tufted leather seats, her reflection in the circular side-view mirrors. Albert rounded the car to get in behind the wheel.

“I do not deign to respond,” he said, but she could see out of the corner of her eye he was smiling as he spun the wheel to pull away from the curb.

Picadilly Circus gleamed as they drove through it, maneuvering around carriages and hansom cabs bustling along the arterial, the whole of London’s nightlife seeming to envelope them. Burlington House, home of the Royal Society, was not to be outdone by the many brilliantly lit buildings surrounding it. With the gala already underway, dozens of well-dressed personages streamed in and out. Footmen and valets followed them like shadows, deftly handling vehicles, coats, walking sticks, invitations, tips for other help, and all the myriad little tasks necessary to make an evening’s entertainment smooth for the peerage. Albert and Frances’ arrival was almost more notable for the lack of assistance. Albert got out on his own, strode around, and helped Frances out of her seat, leaving the Ford in the hands of one of the House staff, who seemed equal parts thrilled and terrified to take charge of the beautiful new automobile. The somberly suited butler at the door checking invitations was visibly startled to read that Marquess Duford had seen himself to the door alone.

The inside of Burlington House was a true delight. Decorated with artifacts of the scientific pursuits of its occupants, halls boasted glass cases with relics of Egypt and Babylon, stunning geological specimens, and some gruesome items with apparent importance to natural history. Frances became enamored of a series of stunningly precise watercolors of flowers along one hall they moved down. Labelled to the finest detail, they put her in mind of the fun she’d had as a fresher with a watercolor set purchased in Banburry. She remarked as much to Albert, who merely teased her for not continuing her muddy efforts at wildflowers for the betterment of English science.

“Remind me, for the announcing, what did you settle on?” he asked as they finally entered the vestibule, leaning close so as not to be overheard.

“Oh,” she whispered back, offering one of the cards Kitty picked up for her the day before, “I almost forgot entirely.”

Albert looked as though he’d suddenly smelled something awful on reading it. “Frances. You settled on Frances.”

“With an ‘e,’” Frances pointed out, adding, “in place of the ‘i,’ you see.”

“What else would it be in place of?”

Frances was saved from having to mention anything about her drunken misunderstanding of George’s suggestion by their reaching the Society’s steward and handing off their cards. Albert drew himself up and Frances forced herself to breathe, focusing on the way she was holding herself, and taking little steps as they descended into the main ballroom.

“Marquess Albert Nathaniel Duford, first marquess of Blighy and heir to Her Grace Duchess Regina Elizabeth Duford of Blighy,” the steward announced, “accompanied by… Miss Frances Terpsichore Benham, of Chiswick.”

More than a few heads turned at the discrepancy in ostentation of their titles. Albert, dressed impeccably in white tie and coiffed like an Adonis, looked every inch the duke he would someday be. Frances understood what Sebastian meant when he had said she would need to get used to being watched. She moved and held herself with the knowledge Grace had advised— awareness she was dressed in latest fashion, and beautifully, and, with Kitty’s reassurance, as fetching as many of the other ladies in attendance. Still, it was indescribably unnerving to be scrutinized as a miss on the arm of a marquess.

“Nathaniel?” Frances asked, sotto voce, in an attempt to assuage her nerves. Albert just snorted.

“Terpsichore?” he shot back.

She swatted him on the arm as he led her into the fray.

It had to be said that slumming it with a group of social undesirables in a university town hadn’t afforded Albert much occasion to play the gallant. He seemed determined to make up for it here. He led Frances around the room, much more knowledgeable of the personages they greeted than she guessed from his blasé attitude about the event. He showed Frances off like a proper lady, making introductions and then gracefully whisking her away when questions got too personal for Frances to answer with a soft, witty comment. Her name was on the lips of many in the room, eyes on her, but in Albert’s arms as they joined the dancers on the floor, she didn’t feel isolated or afraid.

And dancing, as ever, was its own delight.

“I think Dr. Halvers is going to ask for a personal loan,” he commented as they turned, Frances’ dress swirling beautifully around her feet as she followed. “He kept returning to that point about ‘making one’s own name.’ Either he thinks I’m desperate to be recognized outside of my inheritance, or he intends to recruit me for this expedition, and either way, he’s entirely misinterpreted my speaking with him tonight in spite of his reputation.”

“Why did you do that?” Frances asked, eyes half-closed as she listened to the band play, steps coming to her naturally. It was the same thing she’d practiced dancing to with Grace—a hesitation waltz. “He certainly seemed a pariah, even among the admittedly eccentric members of the Society.”

“He painted the watercolors we saw before,” Albert said. “I thought he might mention that, but no, it was all, ‘please my lord, would you spare a pound, we are endeavoring to locate the perfect potato and are certain they have been sequestered in Chile.’ Farcical.”

Frances looked up, astonished, to find Albert looking away, a touch of earnest color on his cheeks in spite of his joke. His step actually faltered on seeing her sudden attention, although he covered it smoothly with a change in direction.

“Bertie,” she murmured, “are you, in spite of your general nature and likely your better judgment, attempting at all costs to make this evening very lovely for me?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, but, being blonde, once the blushing started it was very difficult to stop.

“Oh.” Frances spared him further conversation until the song came to an end, but as they began to step away, squeezed his hand. “I think it may be time to repair to the motor car.”

“It’s barely nine. This will end up in the society papers,” he warned.

“How exciting,” Frances said, smiling brilliantly at him. “I’ll be sure to take a clipping in the morning. Now, shall we?”

“Thank bloody goodness,” Albert said, offering his arm again, and carrying the two of them back out into the cool London night.

Albert refused to relinquish the driver’s seat of the Model T until they had driven for nearly an hour and left all but the occasional village behind them. By then it was truly dark, and with the lights of London gone the sky was a deep, rich velvet, pinpricked only by the distant points of stars. He pulled off to the side of a country road for the change in drivers, stripping off his jacket and lighting a cigarette as he explained the workings of the wheel, various dashboard-mounted mechanisms, and pedals.

“Right, so, depress the left-most pedal,” Frances recited, gingerly stepping on the clutch with her kitten heel. She removed her satiny evening gloves for better grip of the wheel and left them with Albert’s jacket in the back seat. “All the way in, it seems? I’m pushing but it’s—oh! There we are!”

“Don’t release it yet, slower speed is best to start,” Albert advised. He snapped his cigarette case open again as they rolled forward and offered, “Gasper?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Frances leaned to the side and Albert slipped it between her lips, meeting her in the middle of the seat to light it off the end of his own. “These are Sobranies, aren’t they? Gasper. I’d wager if you tried to smoke a Woodbine you’d simply perish.”

Albert reached over and took hold of the wheel on the bottom of the left side, course-correcting. “Ladies don’t wager, Miss Benham. Steady on. Just a twitch to one side or the other and we’ll be in the ditch, it’s flighty that way.” He puffed on his expensive cigarette. “Then again, come to think of it, you aren’t a lady.”

“Tragically, removed from my birthright, I am just a miss,” Frances agreed.

“Not what I meant,” Albert said. “I meant, you’re a tart.”

“I’m a what?” Frances squawked. Against his warning she jerked the wheel and found the Model T quite sprightly and keen to veer off to the right. Only the firm hand on the bottom of the wheel kept them from hopping off the road. “What in the Devil’s name do you mean by that?”

Albert, for his part, was laughing, which was a rare enough occurrence to take the edge off of Frances’ outrage. In shirtsleeves and rumpled white tie, cigarette hanging from his lips and hair tousled by their drive out with the top down, he seemed almost boyish. “You’ve misled me in respect to your virtue, is what I meant. Don’t know that I could be any plainer.”

“And how do you excuse even bringing up my relative virtue, Albert?” Frances said, managing a tone so scandalized it made her laugh at herself, and forced her to fumble through bringing the car to a halt lest they die at all of five miles per hour. She flicked ash out of the window as she regarded him. “Is this a ploy to stop me learning how to drive? Because I shan’t be stopped. In spite of the touchy steering, I’m in love with this contraption.”

“It’s no ploy,” Albert said, leaning back in the seat and exhaling smoke up to the starry sky. “I know you’ve given it up to Grace. You can hardly blame me for being sore about being beaten to the punch, despite your ostensible commitment to hanging on my arm at the end of everything.”

Frances choked on her next inhale. “What? How on Earth do you know about that?”

“Did you forget who Grace is staying with?” Albert asked. In the dim light of their cigarettes, he smirked as Frances sputtered, wide-eyed with dawning realization. “Who has the adjacent room to hers, even?”

“Kitty,” she breathed. “Oh, bollocks.” It took a moment, in her mortification, for her to puzzle over the rest of his statement. “Wait, how’d you mean ‘beaten to the—?’”

Albert kissed her.

By the time they parted, her Sobranie had burnt down nearly to her fingertips, and she had the distinct impression her lip color was a total loss. It had done admirably in the face of overwhelming odds, however—she’d enjoyed its look on the rims of champagne glasses at the gala, and the gold-foiled cigarette butt in her hand, and she liked it somehow better on Albert’s flushed face and starched white collar.

“I hadn’t the faintest idea,” she managed. “You never responded to Georgie’s many solicitations, mocking as they may be.”

“The day I lay hands on Georgie will be the day I finally relent to my base desire to throttle, not debauch, him,” Albert said. He flicked the smoldering remnant of his own cigarette onto the road and leaned in with intent. “Inversion doesn’t compromise one’s taste, I’ve been grateful to find.”

“And you are—?”

Albert looked up from doggedly plucking at Frances’ waist sash. “You’re in doubt? How does this thing even come off?”

“That bit doesn’t come off, it’s sewn into the dress, and that hooks in the back.” Frances swatted his hands away. “And you fancy me, even… even with all this?”

“Perhaps especially, although I’m sure my ‘nerve specialist’ would have a great deal to say about it,” Albert groused. “I was certain you’d back down, but no, there you were on the stairs, and pearls suit you. Bully for me. Never thought I’d get to dance with anyone I liked in public.”

Frances all but gave him carte blanche to start on hooks as her stomach fluttered at his words, before a sobering thought struck her. “Stop, stop, Seb will be ever so disappointed in me if I get put away tonight for violation of the Offenses Against the Person Act.”

“Bit of a raunchier scheme in mind than I had, then,” Albert said as he looked up. “I hadn’t intended to do anything which would leave evidence for a magistrate— although I assure you, it would all be quite against the spirit of the law, if not the letter.”

“Well,” Frances said, feeling breathless all over again, Albert’s skin hot under her bare hands, “that’s alright, then, isn’t it?”

Saturday, 22 March 1913

Morning came over Frances gradually. It was one of the many wonders of the London trip. At home, even on holiday, rising early was the expectation and the rule of the household. To have the time to lay in bed, watching sunlight creep over more and more of the room, was a luxury that invited contemplation.

The central thought of the morning: despite having shed dress, underthings, wig, and most of the remaining makeup after furtively returning late to the flat with Albert, she still felt… she. It wasn’t a foreign feeling. Sometimes it seemed it had haunted her in fits and starts her entire life. Never before, however, had it felt so comfortable.

She sat up, rubbing at her eyes, a bit of leftover mascara smearing on her knuckles. Other than those little traces, there was no real reason, she thought, to feel as such. Exhausted, she’d been daring and retired to bed in the nude. Besides the shaved state of her legs, all the evidence anyone she’d ever known would need to declare her male without question was stark in the light of day.

Something fundamental still felt changed. Frances made herself get up and stand in front of the mirror by her wardrobe. Her body didn’t disgust her, but the thought was there—this was her body. She wanted to dress again in stockings and frock, even with the minor inconvenience of the corselette, and why not?

Why not? The only people awaiting her that morning were her friends. The people who had made this possible.

“Am I happy?” she murmured to herself, thinking of Kitty, and her sad little smile. Of Seb, and his heathen conviction. Grace’s dread of marriage. Georgie, and his too many bottles of wine, and dark portents. Bertie, with title hanging over any love he could find. Frances hugged herself, arms crossed over her chest. Like that, from the waist up, it was harder to judge, to assume. She seemed ambiguous even to herself. Her father’s dark eyes and hair were there, but so were her mother’s delicate features, and the fair, smooth skin years of being sequestered in the Bodleian reading the great works of Greek and Roman civilization had given her.

She could be anything, as Mestra, who changed shape by divine blessing. She had secreted away these stories of transformation, the good and the bad—Caenus, Iphys, Tiresias, the cults of Agdistis and Aphroditus—and now, given a night of seeing herself not instantly exposed and ruined in society, they felt closer. Within her power to realize. It was only a matter of picking the outfit.

“I think I am,” Frances answered herself.

She dressed for breakfast in one of her more modest, second-hand gowns and her wig, tied up with a silk scarf, and descended the stairs to join the boys after applying light day makeup. No one else looked as gay when she joined the breakfasting party. Kitty and Grace had been summoned, and they matched the rest of the group in somber blacks and grays. Even George, rarely to be seen without a poppy in his lapel, was wearing charcoal pinstripe.

“Good lord,” Frances blurted, “who died?”

“The question,” George rasped, doing his best impression of a vicar on the edge of death, “is whether moral death is equivalent to physical death. This question, it dogs us throughout life! And yet here, we have hit upon an answer…”

“Is this the skit?” Frances tried again, looking to Kitty, who had produced a full-length Victorian mourning veil from God-knows-where. “I thought you were joking.”

Kitty glanced at Grace, who nodded. She raised a frilly handkerchief to her face beneath the veil and all but shrieked, “Boo-hoo!”

“Bloody hell, I’m glad you never came out for audition,” George said. Then, “Bollocks, broke character, hang on.”

“Are we supposed to be crying? I was not clear on that,” Sebastian asked. He wore white, but his somber body language marked it as a funerary choice.

“We are gathered here,” Grace declared, raising her voice over the others, “to mourn a fallen woman. Our dear Frances, who this morning, it was reported in the society papers, departed early from the Royal Society Spring Gala after dancing intimately with a Marquess Duford, and, it was reported by Mr. George Sansom, who was at the scene, they returned to the flat Marquess Duford let together afterwards at an unseemly hour…”

“Oh my God,” Frances said.

“What impact this scandal on the night of her society debut may have on Miss Benham, purportedly of the unremarkable Chiswick branch of the family, is hard to judge,” George continued, “but it is known that our Lord, God, in His infinite wisdom, will have the ultimate say—”

“Which one of you prats used the last of the butter and didn’t ring the maid to fetch more?” Albert complained, barging in from the kitchen with a plate of toast. Unlike the rest, he was wearing a lovely light blue linen suit, with only a black armband as a nod to the scene.

“Bertie!” Kitty hissed. “You’re mucking it all up. Oh—boo-hoo!”

“You only managed an armband?” Frances asked. “At the funeral for my virtue? I know you own several black suits. I believe I’m insulted.”

“I’m not interested in dressing twice for this bally nonsense,” he grumped. “I wasn’t the ‘murderer’ anyhow. Toast?”

“Yes, please,” Sebastian said, plucking a slice before Frances could.

“You’re not wrong,” Frances allowed. An impulse struck her, and her wide, unladylike grin at Albert was all the warning he got before she turned dramatically and pointed a trembling finger at Grace. “You presume to lead this contingent of mourners with villainy in your heart, Grace Marfleet? Knowing you, yourself, were the true culprit of my besmirching!”

George had chosen the wrong moment to drink his tea, and Kitty had chosen the wrong seat when she sat down, so she squawked with outrage as she was spewed upon, George coughing like he was going to die. Sebastian shielded his suit with something that looked suspiciously like an international envelope, the letter it contained safely folded next to his plate.

“You only mentioned the shaving!” George cried, stricken. Kitty tossed aside her ruined veil as her upset turned to howls of laughter.

“That was before Grace poised herself to sing dirges,” Frances said. She stared down the other woman haughtily. “What say you in your defense, now that your attempt to defame me has only resulted in the revelation of your own loss of innocence?”

“Only that if you believe that was when I lost my innocence, you haven’t been paying attention,” Grace shot back, clearly fighting not to smirk. George gagged as he made a fresh cup of tea.

“Right, are we done with this?” Albert asked. He sat and placed the toast plate in the midst of a collection of other dishes, none looking very well made. The maid had been sent out for the scene, clearly, and everyone had cooked in her stead. Frances knew at a glance the only things likely to be edible were Grace’s eggs, Sebastian’s bubble and squeak, and possibly Albert’s toast, but she’d have to see the other side. A poor call had been made to leave George in charge of the bacon and bangers, which were raw looking in worrying patches, and Kitty in charge of the fried tomatoes and mushrooms, which were blackened. “I’m starved, as we skipped the Society dinner to disgrace our families in the Ford—which, for the record, was an excellent choice, and you can all eat your hats for mocking me.”

Frances couldn’t help but laugh then, dropping her crossed arms and leaning on the edge of the table. “Automobiles are the future. Shall I make the beans, then?”

“Please, no,” Sebastian said, tossing down the dripping envelope and standing again, “I will—”

“Don’t you dare let him run away to save us from your culinary experiments, Frankie,” Grace ordered. “He got a letter from Reeva this morning and refuses to read it to us, and I, for one, am dying to know what the Honorable Solicitor-to-Be Sebastian Price is called for a pet name.”

“I put a pound on ‘sweetie!’” Kitty enthused, all but bouncing in her seat.

Frances cut her eyes at Albert. “Ladies don’t wager?”

“She’s not a lady, she’s my sister, and I want a pound on ‘fathead,’” Albert said.

“I am trying not to be upset that you are closer than Kitty,” Sebastian said, frowning.

Frances took herself into the kitchen to begin a survey of the many kitchen devices on offer to try to ascertain which was the can-opener, the noise of her friends talking, teasing, and arguing amongst themselves following her through the door. Her dress was a light-yellow silk that whispered around her as she moved, the beading and embroidery a few years out of style, but she remembered how pleased she’d been when she found it at the secondhand shop in Oxford. All the little details, carefully sewn. The sound of her family, now, settling down to eat.

“I think I am happy,” Frances answered herself, again.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 5/17/2019 | REHOSTED 2/27/2024

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