Cabaret Voltaire

By Trish Tonello

Seventeen-year-old Alexia Tresillian dreams of becoming an artist. Trouble is, her social-climbing father wants to marry her off to a nobleman - any nobleman - before she can ruin her reputation, and his along with it. Drawn to the seedy underbelly of Halifax Street, Alex discovers the Cabaret Voltaire, a nightclub worlds apart from her genteel aristocratic upbringing - a place where all her dreams could come true, and all her father's nightmares as well. But Alex finds herself becoming obsessed with the club's most revered and enigmatic entertainer, JD - rebel Rock-god and poet with a past that makes Don Juan look like the Dalai Lama - and she realises she risks losing not just her reputation and standing in society, but her heart as well.
Set in a world where history is skewed, yet familiar, 'Cabaret Voltaire' is the place where rebels, aristocrats and revolutionaries, poets, rock stars and avant-garde artists collide in this Punk-Victorian romance for YA and older.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trish Tonello
• Release date: Apr 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476231211

Trish Tonello

Trish Tonello lives and works in Perth, Australia. She's a practising visual artist and lives with her partner, computer graphics artist Graham Taylor, with whom she's currently working on an interactive graphic novel of 'Cabaret Voltaire' due for release in 2013. They are not married, have no children or pets and would like to live in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal in Venice.

Book preview

CABARET VOLTAIRE

TRISH TONELLO

Copyright 2012 Trish Tonello

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

1. THE SEED

2. TRUCE

3. EPIPHANY

4. ANTICIPATION

5. REVELATION

6. APPEASEMENT

7. TEMPTATION

8. DOUBT

9. NIGHTMARE

10. RESOLUTIONS

11. THE CONTESSA

12. DISCOVERY

13. SECRETS

14. DECEPTIONS

15. INITIATION

16. PAOLO

17. PARTY

18. SURRENDER

19. EUPHORIA

20. BETRAYAL

21. AWAKENING

22. ESCAPE

23. HAVEN

24. INDEPENDENCE

25. OBLIGATIONS

26. GINO’S

27. SEARCH

28. THRILLS

29. DISCLOSURE

30. THE CABARET VOLTAIRE

31. CLOSER

32. JOE’S

33. LIFT

34. RISE

35. FALL

36. INTERVIEW

37. GERARD

38. SHAME

39. FEMME FATALE

40. CONDITIONS

41. REGRETS

42. CONFESSION

43. RESOLVE

RESURRECTION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Have you ever wondered what life would be like now if the two World Wars or the many civil wars and revolutions over the centuries hadn’t happened? Would the old order of strict social segregation and class distinctions still be with us?

Cabaret Voltaire is set in a present where certain technological progressions have occurred - albeit at a slower pace - but the way of thinking and living is still stuck in a past where courtly manners hold sway and a person’s status in society is determined by one’s family’s name, wealth and connections.

Cabaret Voltaire borrows heavily from actual history and re-interprets it. In this world, historical figures from all different eras exist in the same time-frame. Some of the characters and places might be recognisable, even if the names are not entirely familiar. Call it a historical mash-up, a punk-Victorian fantasy or even stretch it to the realm of Steampunk to understand the world in which Cabaret Voltaire is located.

Cabaret Voltaire is the first in a series of books which sets out to explore the lives of the various fascinating characters that inhabit this alternate world of rebels, artists and revolutionaries. A planned graphic novel is also in the works.

Visit the website: www.cabvolt.com

1. THE SEED

Having failed a sixth time to persuade my father to let me study at the Academy of Fine Art, I vented my frustration by pacing around my attic studio, crushed that I was not going to get the education I needed in order to further my art career. My best friend Sebastian, doing his utmost to ignore my agitated state, reclined on an old divan, languidly smoking a cigarette.

What am I going to do, Seb? I’ll never be taken seriously if I don’t get some kind of qualification from a respected art school! I’m nearly eighteen - I’m old enough now to attend the Academy.

A sudden wave of despondency engulfed me and I came to an abrupt standstill in front of the wide bank of windows. Rain trickled like unstoppable tears down the face of the glass, distorting the view of the distant rooftops beyond into rippling lakes of colour. Dragging my eyes away, I forced myself to focus instead on the half-finished canvas on my easel.

Having a tutor just isn’t good enough anymore, I sighed. "I need experience - I need to see new things, open my mind to new possibilities. Most of all, I need exposure to other artists. I can’t learn in a vacuum! I need to see how other people work, know what they think of my work. It’s the only way I’ll improve."

I began my restless pacing again in an attempt to shake off the feeling of suffocation. Imprisoned in the narrow confines of the life I was expected to lead as an aristocrat, I felt I was forever peering out from between the bars of a cage at all the possibilities I was being denied.

Seb eyed me silently from behind a drifting cloud of blue smoke, his expression inscrutable.

Alex, Alex... he finally drawled. "You take everything so seriously. What does it matter in the long run? You’d never be allowed to become an artist, even if the Academy accepted you, which they probably won’t. You know as well as I do that aristocratic ladies can’t have careers, artistic or otherwise. You’d become a social pariah and your father would be stripped of his title and ousted from his position in the parliament in the blink of an eye. You’d both be ruined - why even risk it?"

"God...! Why do I bother? I slumped into a worn-out armchair, picking at a blob of dried yellow paint on the armrest with tiny violence. You’re all the same, I continued, digging my nails into the worn velvet. You hate these restrictive, archaic rules as much as I do; yet you sit there defending them!" I said, glowering at him.

Yes, it does seem a trifle unfair, he sighed. Gentlemen can get away with murder practically, so long as they aren’t seen by the wrong people. I hereby apologise for my entire sex, he said with a rolling flourish of his elegant white hand.

Seb and I had met when we were toddlers, but only really got to know each other seven years ago when we’d ended up on the same table at a society wedding. We’d spent a riotous evening flipping peas at one another using dessert spoons as catapults, as well as quaffing vast quantities of lemonade in a competition to see who could burp the loudest.

When my father and his father, Lord Reddington, were informed of our misbehaviour, we were both hauled outside and given a severe dressing down, trying to avoid each others gaze in case we exploded with laughter.

Since then, and despite the fact that he was three years older than me, we’d become fast friends. His quirky sense of humour always made me laugh, and his never-ending supply of witty observations and remarks helped me cope with the sometimes ridiculous formal manners required of us when out in public.

Seb’s overprotective mother had coddled him as a child, calling in physicians if Seb so much as sneezed. His father, apart from providing bracing punishments for Seb’s cheekiness, had little time for his delicate son. Lord Reddington was a keen outdoorsman - shooting, hunting and fishing were his preferred pastimes, none of which interested Sebastian. No surprise then that father and son avoided one another as much as possible.

Seb had always been just Seb to me, and I’d never given much thought as to how other people saw him, until one evening at a soirée I overheard a group of ladies talking in hushed whispers about the effeminacy of ‘the Reddington boy’. There were whispered comments about his ‘camp’ mannerisms and flamboyant outfits, and the probability of his becoming ‘queer’ if he wasn’t already.

I was thirteen years old and well educated, but in complete ignorance about certain things. I had no idea what their snide remarks could mean. On the verge of furious tears for the obvious slights directed at my friend, I hid in a window alcove the rest of the evening, avoiding even Sebastian, not wanting to explain what had upset me in case it upset him.

Later at home, I ran straight for my dictionary, but was puzzled by the explanations it afforded. Words like ‘homosexual’ and ‘gay’ were not part of my vocabulary, or of any previous experience I could draw upon. I had to admit though, that Seb certainly wasn’t like any other boy I’d ever met, and the explanation for his unusual mannerisms and quirks began to make a vague sort of sense to me. But instead of cooling my affection, it made me feel more protective toward him.

I never spoke of my assumptions. I figured if and when Seb wanted to tell me, he would in his own good time. At least I’d never have to worry about any silly romantic involvement down the line. For me, romance was out of the question; I was never going to get married. I was going to be an artist. Seb knew this and understood, even if my father did not.

At least with Seb I could be myself. I never had to pretend with him. My father had long since given up complaining of Seb’s frequent visits; his view that it wasn’t proper for a young lady to spend so much time with a gentleman who wasn’t her betrothed, soon subsided into the same assumption that the rest of society made of Seb’s matrimonial capabilities.

Up from university for the weekend, Seb had chosen a bad day to visit. I was still in a foul mood after the heated argument with my father earlier that morning.

Seb, making an obvious effort to rouse me from my black humour, began in a cheerful tone, Do you know, I’ve been going to a club recently where the most extraordinary people converge - the latest Bohemian hangout, the Cabaret Voltaire, on Halifax Street. Full of the oddest people - it’s like a circus every night, practically. A freak spectacular - I fit right in, I’m afraid, he said, casually inspecting his manicured nails.

All the young rakes go slumming on Friday and Saturday nights, letting loose and carousing with the local fauna. You’d never guess how the other half lives, my dear; you’d be shocked senseless, he chuckled, his ice-blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Huh, I muttered, interested in spite of myself. "Define ‘freaks’. You mean freak freaks? Like circus freaks with two heads, or ladies with beards?"

My dear, you are so literal, he drawled, his eyes rolling back into their sockets momentarily. I only meant eccentrics like myself. Revolutionaries, poets, musicians, arti -…a-aristocrats- Seb came to an abrupt stop. Lighting another cigarette, he blew a mouthful of smoke upward where it roiled like a portentous cloud in the subdued light of the overcast afternoon.

His clumsy attempt at a cover-up had me on full alert.

"You were going to say artists, weren’t you Seb?"

No answer.

"S-e-b-a-s-t-i-a-n?" I dragged the syllables out, infusing them with a warning tone which made him squirm a little.

"Oh, very well - artists, he snapped, annoyed. But not very good ones, he added hastily. The type that dribble paint on things, or line up bits of junk and call it art. Certainly no one of any consequence. Those Bohemians are out to tip society and all its rules on its head. They aren’t to be taken seriously. It’s all just a bit of fun."

He continued smoking in silence, refusing to meet my eye.

Artists? Bohemian artists? What exciting possibilities might this nightclub have to offer me? I leapt from my chair and leaned over him, hardly able to contain my eagerness.

Seb, take me with you next time you go! If I can’t go to art school, then I’m going to get an education where I can. My imagination plunged into overdrive. Maybe I can meet some of these artists-

The shocked expression on Seb’s face made me step back in haste.

Alexia Tresillian, if you think I’d ever expose you to the vulgarities of such a place, you are horribly mistaken! Seb’s pale cheeks flushed an angry, mottled red. How can you even think of such a thing? Your father would have a coronary! To risk your reputation - your standing in society - on…on…cheap entertainment? I’m absolutely appalled that you’d even consider such an abomination!

Unused to the sound of anger in his drawling voice, I was taken aback by his vehement response.

Hey, calm down. It was just a thought. Geez, Seb, you sound like my aunt Nellie… I mumbled, stung by his overreaction.

Seb’s usually languid features remained folded in a deep frown, his icy gaze avoiding mine. I’d never seen him get this riled about anything before. Itching with curiosity as to what he might be hiding about this disreputable nightclub, my thoughts chased each other’s tails like cats in a barrel.

My rabid musings were interrupted by a light tap at the door, followed by the maid’s head appearing around the corner.

Miss Alexia, your father would like to speak with you in his study. She hesitated, glancing at Sebastian. Right away, miss.

Thanks, Jessie. I’ll be down in a minute.

Seb still had not recovered his good humour and I’d had enough negativity for one day.

Seb, go home. I’m not very good company today and, to be honest, you’re not much fun either. I’ll see you soon, okay?

He sighed, stubbing out his cigarette in the lid of an old jar. Dusting off his pants leg with one elegant, flapping hand he gathered up his coat and headed for the door. Just as I was wondering if he was going to walk out without saying anything, he turned, his hand poised on the doorhandle.

Alex, he began in a voice holding no trace of his previous anger, don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t mean to dictate… I’m just trying to protect you. The places I frequent are assuredly not suitable for ladies. They can be…rough, and certainly not worth risking your reputation, or your father’s. Please understand that. His serious gaze held mine.

I know, Seb, I sighed. It’s all just so… unequal, you know? I’m growing really tired of these archaic double standards. Not that it’s your fault or anything… I shrugged, rolling my eyes.

A tiny smile flitted across Seb’s thin face. See you around.

I stood and watched as he closed the door behind him, feeling uneasily like I was being shut in.

***

But, my dear Alexia, an invitation to dine with the Duke of Nestor is of the highest honour! You can’t imagine the prestige it would afford us if we were to become intimate acquaintances with his family! His eldest son has recently come of age and would make some very lucky young lady a perfect husband. Just think - in time she would become a Duchess.

My father, dear as he was to me, was a social climber. He had money and prestige, but what he prized above all were connections to the core of the aristocracy. It was his mission in life. Unfortunately, I was the lynch-pin in all his well-intentioned schemes.

The vision of his daughter married to a future Duke may have answered the dearest wish of his heart but the thought of myself as a Duchess held no appeal for me whatsoever.

The very idea of marriage made me shudder. Aristocratic women were expected to get married, raise decorative children and partake in endless society functions. Women like me, who had ambitions to do more with their lives than simply perpetuate a life of frivolous ease, rarely - if ever - got the opportunity to do so.

Matrimony within aristocratic circles was rarely about love, more about powerful social connections and the merging of fortunes. I loathed the shallowness of these unions. How the acquisition of things could be more important than the happiness of two souls on life’s journey together baffled me. Even children seemed to become accoutrements to a lifestyle that was all about keeping up appearances.

But that wasn’t the only reason I shunned the idea of marriage. What memories I had of my parent’s life together were invariably tainted with sorrow. In the last few years of my mother’s life, the air of gentle melancholy she carried with her had settled like an impenetrable fog. She was affectionate, but strangely listless, as if the passing of time was draining the joy from her life.

She hadn’t always been like that. I remember her laughing and dancing and singing, her bright, beautiful voice filling the house. She’d often accompanied herself on the piano, singing arias from operas as well as popular songs she’d heard on the radio. Father didn’t approve. His disdainful asides about ‘vulgar entertainment’ and his muttered remarks wondering what the neighbours would think, always put a dampener on Mother’s musical exuberance. She would stop singing, snap shut the lid of the piano and stalk away in silence.

Once, I ran after her begging her to play more. My usually soft-spoken mother rounded on me saying in a sharp voice, ‘His Lordship has spoken, Alexia. Now let me be!’ She’d turned away from me, but not before I saw the angry tears welling in her beautiful eyes, hurt written in every line of her face.

Much later, I came to realise that my mother’s melancholia stemmed from my father’s tacit disapproval of her creative talents, and that self-expression in any form made him uneasy. When she died, he seemed to fold further in upon himself, his confidence in his own authority wavering. I think this was why he didn’t try to stop me painting at first. I also think allowing me to spend time alone working with my imagination absolved him from having to try and make up for my mother’s absence. I knew he loved me; but like most fathers, he had a hard time showing it. He never re-married, though he could have. I was all he had left in the world.

When I first told him I wanted to be an artist, he nearly had a heart attack. I was twelve years old and didn’t yet understand that the freedom to choose my own path in life was not exactly an option for me.

Over the years, he tried in vain to distract me with trips to places which only served to fuel my obsession further. Wandering through the narrow lanes of Venice, the amber light of afternoon dousing the ancient stone buildings with breathtaking golden radiance, I drank in sights that would inspire paintings for years to come. I’d found a way of capturing all that beauty so I would never forget it and somehow that helped soothe the constant ache I carried with me since my mother died.

My father’s answer to my burgeoning creativity was to try and get me married off as soon as possible. He’d been parading me around society circles and events since I was fifteen, trusting I’d catch the eye of some wealthy nobleman who, it was hoped, would cure me of my ‘unnatural obsession’ with art and literature.

My father couldn’t understand my vehement rejection of every marriage proposal that came my way. There had been a few over the last couple of years, but certainly none elicited by any encouragement from me.

I sometimes wished I hadn’t been born into the aristocracy. To be working class was, by all accounts miserable, but these opinions were all forwarded by aristocrats who, I began to doubt, had any idea of what life was like outside their own narrow circle.

Certainly, the working class had it bad, having to find money to pay for all the extra taxes that were constantly foisted on them by the government. I knew a little about what was happening, as my father often had fellow members of parliament over for dinner. I’d listen in on their conversations and caught occasional snippets about the civil unrest that was brewing because of the introduction of the latest round of government tariffs.

I’d asked my father once if the taxes we paid had gone up as much. His reply had astonished me.

My dear Alexia, he’d laughed. "The nobility don’t pay taxes! What an absurd notion! Taxes are only imposed on the working classes - aristocrats don’t work - we govern the masses. The ordinary folk must pay for the privilege of having us rule over them."

This revelation had left me profoundly disturbed. It made me ashamed of my life of ease and excess. As far as material possessions went, I had everything I could ever want. Yet I felt restless and dissatisfied, longing for a life outside this pampered sterility. But the life I wanted was not possible. Seb was right, my father’s reputation rested on my conduct.

Ladies did not become artists, not the kind of artist I wanted to be, anyway. They might be allowed to paint pretty watercolours and decorate trays and screens, but to make great works, to exhibit them in public? Impossible. Even the great male artists were looked upon with suspicion. They were a curious breed, rarely born from within the ranks of the aristocracy and were therefore treated, for the most part, as working-class upstarts.

But I knew of no women artists - none that were ever acknowledged, in any case. I felt desperately alone, a freak among my kind. Maybe I belonged with the rest of the freaks at the club Sebastian spoke of.

Once the idea had taken root in my mind, it was hard to think of anything else -I had to see the Cabaret Voltaire for myself. It was my only lifeline - I had nothing left to hope for.

Did you hear what I said, Alexia?

Glancing up, I realised my father was waiting for an answer to a question I couldn’t remember hearing. I tended to do that a lot, these days. It was easier for me to tune out his ramblings rather than try and argue my point of view. It did no good anyway. He never listened to me, either.

But right now, I was pondering on how exactly I would get to the Cabaret Voltaire without risking discovery, so wasn’t my usual antagonistic self.

Um… Duke’s son…okay. Tonight? Right. I’ll go and get ready then…, I muttered, distracted, hoping I’d covered all bases with my disjointed answer.

My father’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he harrumphed as if satisfied.

I turned and hurried from the room.

2. TRUCE

"You haven’t spoken in how long?" Seb’s left eyebrow disappeared under his long, dark fringe.

A few days, I said, trying to sound casual. I saw Seb wasn’t buying it. Okay. Eight days. Don’t look at me like that Seb, my voice held a warning, it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

Over a fortnight had passed since I’d seen Seb, and once again we were in my studio, him in his usual position on the dilapidated old divan, while I was trying to concentrate on getting an armature to stand straight so that I could begin binding it with wire. We were discussing the cold silence that continued between my father and me since the hideous dinner party at the Duke’s two weeks ago, and the disastrous chain of events it had triggered.

So what exactly was your objection to the poor boy? Seb’s eyes narrowed, inspecting his fingernails as he spoke. It might have been interesting to have a Duchess as a friend.

Seb! Honestly! You know I’d knock back a proposal from a prince if one was stupid enough to ask. I was bored with the conversation already. And besides, he was a drip - twenty one years old with a head as empty as a gourd. He didn’t even have the grace to be ashamed of his ignorance. Seemed quite proud of it, in fact, I shuddered.

Hmmm, you can’t keep saying ‘no’ forever, you know. One day even you, Alexia Tresillian, will have to say ‘yes’ to someone. Seb regarded me intently with his glacial blue gaze.

The hell I will! I shot back. I’m not going down that path. It’s bad enough I won’t get to be an artist, but to end up as some man’s trophy… I began twisting the wire viciously around the armature. It hurt, but I didn’t care.

Well, you can’t keep fighting with your father. He’s liable to ship you off to a convent on the other side of the world and then I won’t get to see you nearly as often. Seb unfolded his slim body from the divan. I’d better go see what I can do to patch things up between you. He paused at the door, leaning his face against the frame.

Any requests? He fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly.

Yeah. Tell him I’d rather be a nun than marry some pin-head. Just kidding. I don’t think they let nuns be artists either, I sighed, feeling suddenly drained. Try and make him see it’s no use trying to force me into some advantageous marriage because it’s just not going to happen.

I’ll do my best, sang Sebastian in a fair imitation of a boy soprano as he ducked out the door.

While he was gone, I recounted in my head what exactly had gone wrong this past fortnight. It had started the night my father and I had been invited to the Duke of Nestor’s dinner party.

I’d dressed with care that evening. I put on my best silk ball gown - a full-skirted affair with tiny buttons sewn down the front of the tight-fitting bodice with a low, scooped neckline.

My dark hair was swept up in a high ponytail, which was then styled into a single thick ringlet that draped over one shoulder. I hated fussy hairdo’s and refused to spend hours every week sitting in a salon being primped like a poodle. I was thankful that Jessie was able to help me achieve my simplified ‘do within a few minutes.

I normally shunned jewellery, but that night I’d made an exception. A sapphire studded choker which had once belonged to my mother encircled my throat, the deep blue of the glittering stones matching the colour of my dress and provided a dramatic contrast to my pale skin. I kept my makeup to a minimum, adding only a touch of mascara to make my eyelashes darker, and a few dabs of my favourite coral-pink lipstick.

The whole time I was getting ready, I was trying to imagine what went on inside the Cabaret Voltaire. With only Sebastian’s brief descriptions to go on, my initial thoughts were of circus freaks and sideshows which left me wondering what could possibly go on there that would ‘shock me senseless’, as he put it. I really had no clue as to what the club might contain, or who frequented it, but the idea of it excited me so much, I could barely think of anything else.

You have to hurry, Miss Alex. Your father is waiting for you in the hall.

Sorry, Jess. I was woolgathering.

I grabbed my purse and hurried downstairs, my thoughts still full of the hidden life behind the walls of the Cabaret Voltaire and of how I could become part of it.

***

The Duke and Duchess of Nestor’s house was a palatial wedding-cake confection with turrets and pilasters and miles of ornate plasterwork. The back of the house overlooked the river, the reflected city lights zigzagging on the ink-black surface like waltzing fireflies.

In due course my father and I were presented to the Duke and his family.

Your Grace, may I introduce my daughter, Alexia?

My father bowed so low, I half expected his forehead to hit the marble-tiled floor. I took a quick breath and composed myself. I couldn’t afford to laugh during the introductions.

The Duke kissed my hand, his reptilian mouth set in a wide smile as he raked me up and down with his eyes.

Lord Tresillian, she is a treasure indeed. How fortunate you are to be the guardian of such exquisite beauty! He glanced sideways at his own daughter standing less than a metre away and sighed in obvious disappointment.

The girl looked about thirteen years old. She was a heavy-limbed child with a sweet, plump face, and at her father’s less-than-subtle criticism the sensitive girl turned a bright shade of red and hung her head.

I took an immediate dislike to this pompous man. I gave him the briefest curtsey I could manage, disengaging my hand from his the minute my knees straightened and leaving him holding nothing but air. I moved across and curtsied to the Duchess, who had her nose so high in the air, I could practically count the number of hairs therein. She gave me a quick, cursory nod before ignoring me completely.

The daughter, despite her earlier humiliation, offered me her little hand in a most gracious manner and curtseyed.

What a sweet child! I winked, giving her an encouraging smile. She gave me a shy smile in return.

Last in line was Lewis, a tall wide-eyed boy of twenty one, his smooth, bland face still holding a hint of baby roundness. He lingered a touch too long as he kissed the back of my hand. My father, obviously noting his interest, smiled to himself, no doubt congratulating himself on his matchmaking skills and already imagining himself the father of a Duchess.

A great pleasure indeed, Miss Alexia. May I be so forward as to engage you for the first dance of the evening? His guileless blue eyes looked hopeful.

Well, at least he isn’t presumptuous, I thought to myself.

Of course. That would be…nice, I said in a dull voice, hoping he wouldn’t mistake my compliance for enthusiasm.

I strove for polite disinterest at all times. I’d had to modify my tactics over the past few years, as I rarely managed to convince any of the young men to whom I’d been introduced how little interest I had in their attentions. For a while, it seemed that my complete lack of encouragement had the opposite affect - it made them try even harder. I’d mulled over this bizarre cause-and-effect scenario, convinced that men - being sporting animals - enjoyed obstacles, therefore my indifference to their charms only made them more determined to engage my admiration.

So for a while I tried doing the opposite. I flirted outrageously, pretending to hang on their every word with breathless anticipation. I took to following them around all night (well, as long as I could stand it), and was in their face as much as possible. I only succeeded in securing a number of besotted followers myself. It got so bad, the front door bell rang with incessant frequency for weeks - flower deliveries, telegrams, parcels, invitations - and eager visitors who were always turned away with ‘I’m afraid she’s not at home at the moment.’

In the end, I was forced to take an extended holiday at my aunt Nellie’s country house before the notes and flowers stopped arriving, and my father was finally able to retire from the job of turning eager young men away from the house.

So, polite indifference was my goal.

Just before the music started, Lewis stood in front of me, waiting to take my hand. With an inward sigh, I arranged my most indifferent smile and allowed him to lead me out onto the dance floor. Luckily, he was a good dancer, so I didn’t have to worry about losing a toe.

He launched straight in with a barrage of the usual trite complements.

May I say, Miss Alexia, that you outshine every lady in this room. There is none to equal your grace and beauty.

How nice of you to say so, I replied in a colourless voice.

I avoided his avid gaze, trying to catch my father’s eye. I had a signal worked out with him for when I wanted rescuing. He was sitting with a group of older gentlemen drinking whisky from crystal balloon glasses and looking away from the dance floor. I would have to endure a little longer, it seemed.

To stop Lewis’ gushing flattery, I asked him whether he’d been to university.

Only for the first year, he chuckled, after which I gave up. I found it impossible to sit still and study for any length of time when all I wanted was to run outside and play a game of football. I believe I have an allergy to books - yes, really! I always feel extraordinarily sleepy when around any, he said, laughing at his own joke.

He went on to mention the properties in the country owned by his family and the type of sports he indulged in while staying there. He then started in on his sporting prowess and the exploits of his team, the number of birds he’d shot, the races he’d won, until I was ready to convulse with boredom if he uttered one more word.

Luckily, the music changed, and a blonde-haired young man tapped him on the shoulder. I was relieved of Lewis’s presence, for a while at least. As I danced, I could see Lewis hovering anxiously on the edge of the dance floor, completely oblivious to the group of young women clustered around him, eager to get his attention. His eyes never left me as my partner and I waltzed around the room.

I had to make my move soon. When we reached the furthest corner of the dance floor, I feigned dizziness and excused myself. My dance partner, a handsome boy of eighteen or so, offered to fetch me some wine, but I declined with such haste that I’m sure he thought I was either extremely rude or about to be violently ill.

I dodged through the crowd, slipping out through the bank of French doors to the balcony beyond. It was cool and dark outside, a relief after the warmth and light of the ballroom. I tried to steady my breathing, feeling as if I’d just had a narrow escape from an all-too-familiar nightmare. I moved as far away from the doors as possible, and hid behind one of the stone columns holding up the balcony roof.

I stayed there for over half an hour, getting colder by the minute, but too much of a coward to face going back inside again. I was debating whether to try and sneak in unnoticed, when Lewis appeared on the balcony, squinting, as his eyes tried to adjust to the dark outside. He hadn’t seen me. I plastered myself as tight as possible to the back of the pillar, surreptitiously gathering my full skirt closer around me.

I felt the beginnings of a tickle in my nose and tried to hold off the inevitable sneeze as long as I could.

Go! I was shrieking in my head. Get lost, you dorky future Duke! Of course, my barely-suppressed sneeze gave me away. Lewis turned toward the sound, followed it and despite my vain attempt to disappear into the stone pillar, found me.

Miss Alexia, I’ve been searching for you everywhere!

He then proceeded to tell me every place he’d looked, right up until the moment he discovered me on the balcony. He finally noticed I was shivering and made me take his arm as he led me back inside. Though grateful for some warmth, after another fifteen minutes of his one-sided conversation, I was ready to brave the river itself in order to rid myself of his company.

The night dragged on. I accepted every offer to dance just so I could escape Lewis’presence. Lewis, more often than not, would cut in after a polite interval and I was stuck with him once again. I was so exhausted by the end of the night, my father had to practically carry me to the car.

Of course before I could leave I had to suffer the final indignity of having Lewis grasp my hand in his big beefy ones, and watch in horrified disbelief as he pressed his thick lips against the back of it. Filled with dismay at his look of longing as he wished me a fervent good night, I just closed my eyes and went to my happy place for a while, trying not to hear anything else he was saying until my father led me away.

The next day, an enormous basket of red roses turned up on the doorstep. I picked up the note that accompanied the flowers, read the first two of many, badly written lines and ripped it up, not even bothering to read the signature. I stomped upstairs to my studio, slamming the door shut.

By the end of the week the living room looked like a hothouse; every spare surface covered in vases full of the most exotic blooms imaginable. The maids eventually ran out of vases and had to resort to using preserving jars. My father, of course, was delighted. He just could not fathom my complete loathing for the situation. When Lewis began telephoning, I would refuse to come to the phone, forcing my father to make excuse after excuse as to why I was not available.

The day he turned up at the house, wanting to speak to my father, I was in my studio, hiding.

It was inevitable, a confrontation was looming and I could no longer pretend it was all going to go away. I felt ill just thinking of what was coming. However, I didn’t have to wait long. Jessie passed on the message that I was wanted downstairs in the parlour. Not bothering even to wash my hands, I plodded with leaden feet down the stairs. Still dressed in my work clothes - my hair bundled back in a careless, mangled ponytail - I looked a fright. I hoped this would be enough to avert the impending catastrophe.

As I entered the parlour, Lewis, facing the door, stood up, and by the surprised look on his face, I gathered that my paint-spattered pinafore and haystack hair made the required impression. Quick to recover himself, he took an eager step toward me.

My father, slower to turn around, did not notice my outfit until he was out of his chair and about to leave the room. His eyes widened in disbelief as they took in my dishevelled hair and paint-smudged fingers. The look in his eyes promised all sorts of horrors, but he only said, Lewis, I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive my daughter. She dabbles in all sorts of artistic pursuits which require a rather eccentric wardrobe. It seems we have caught her at a bad time.

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and I had to stand there and watch the ensuing train-wreck as Lewis declared his love for me while kneeling on the living room rug. When he went to grasp my hand, I saw him recoil ever-so-slightly when he saw how dirty it was, but he held it stoically while he made his proposal of marriage, and even kissed a spot where the paint had not reached.

I felt horrible reciting the familiar little speech about how honoured I felt, and how impossible it would be, and how very sorry I was etc, etc., which I knew by rote. The effort to look into those round blue eyes and say what I had to say made me feel like the lowest life-form on the planet. I watched as the hope faded out of his eyes, feeling as guilty as if I’d whipped a puppy.

I couldn’t bear any more.

I’m so very sorry, Lewis, I said in a choked voice as I stumbled from the room, tears streaming down my face. My father, standing outside the closed door, had heard everything. His face was livid.

Alexia! Come back this instant! he bellowed, but I just kept running; down the stairs and out of the front door, not stopping until I’d reached the park two blocks away.

I hid in the densest grove