Les Bas Rouge

Although I knew the vaulted ceilings to be twenty foot high and the floor capable of hosting a ball of royal proportions, the effect of the flickering candlelight upon the marble walls was to give the illusion of movement. I shuddered where I stood as I imagined the room closing in on me. The walls were alive.

Looking to my left I saw my James give me a reassuring nod before turning back to his business associates. Why we have to meet here I shall never know. The room seemed full of men; small, rounded men in brown frock coats, long men who perched seemingly equally long stove hats atop their angular faces and in the corner, a rotund little fellow sporting an impeccable moustache. Lowering my face I began to examine the exquisite detailing of my rose shaded evening dress. My eye roved over the fine seams and delicate ruffles before a subtle stir in conversation prompted me to direct my attention to the centre of the room where a couple had taken to the floor.

She wore a grey dress of no significant craftsmanship and her partner looked much the inferior to my James. But then the music started and the couple began to move. They danced together as though of one consciousness, each anticipating the other’s every step. Her red hair began to work its way out of it’s bun, blushing myself my eye followed the line from her red hair to the flush that spread over her high cheekbones, down her delicate neck to settle in the provocative triangle of flesh beneath her collarbone, revealed by a lost button. Under the pretence of moving closer to James I managed to gain a better position, twisting my head and feeling the familiar twinge at the nape of my neck that meant my chignon was particularly neat tonight. The habitual pride this sensation aroused was in this instance dormant, subdued by the passion of the woman’s dance. Her simple skirt flared and swirled, revealing not only her black buttoned boots but a flash of scarlet stocking right up to the knee. This woman knew no inhibition. She danced with absolute freedom, relinquishing control and trusting to her body.

Even as my mind was appalled by her behaviour, my body longed to join her in childlike abandonment. Shifting my weight to ease the tension that had built up in my limbs, my awareness returned to my own body, held fast by my corset in it’s regimented curves, unbalanced by my elaborate hat and my milky skin irritated even by the finest of furs. With enormous effort I wrenched my gaze away from her, thankful that my impropriety had gone unnoticed - the men in the room were as captivated as myself. Without external discipline it was hard even to reprimand myself, it was as though the woman’s defiance had entered me, and I knew the thrill of boundless opportunity. My bosom swelled with the very prospect. Then a hand clasped my arm and I felt myself deflate, overcome with guilt and horror that I had allowed myself to become so carried away with such dangerous notions. I turned to my gaoler, a picture of meekness in my sugar plum dress, and felt the warm sensation of relief flood my chest as James whispered to me, “The French.”