The man had an air of amusement. ‘Why, we were terrified that you were going to cut us.’ A little hum fizzed out of his chest. Was he being sarcastic? ‘But now I see you are bowing good and deep.’ The woman’s eyes were as attentive as a bird’s. The man continued: ‘These rules of introductions are awful hard. In London, it is much simpler, for everyone just ignores one another and barges right past until they point out that you met them once at Blenheim Palace!’
Everyone laughed. ‘Blenheim Palace!’ Edgar repeated, awed, like a child before adults.
‘I am Sir Gideon Hervey,’ the man introduced himself.
‘Sir Gideon,’ Edgar said, adding his own emphasis. The man then turned to indicate his friends.
‘This is Miss Augusta Anson. And this is Mister Frederick Anson, her cousin and companion.’
‘Are you brothers?’ the woman asked, her mouth pursed in the same expression of amusement as Sir Gideon’s.
‘We are,’ Edgar said. He was blushing ever so slightly. ‘This is my brother, Benjamin. I am Edgar.’
I stepped forward. Miss Anson took a long breath. ‘I was wondering when you might introduce us.’ She flicked a finger in my direction. ‘He was hiding, hoping we might go away.’
I shook my head. ‘Not at all, miss.’
She held my eyes for a moment and in her gaze was something so unremittingly knowing, I had to drop my gaze to the ground, and as I did so, I heard it: her chuckle, softly pretty, yet deeply cold. ‘I am teasing you, Mister Bowen. You mustn’t take me seriously.’
Now I was blushing, too. ‘Would you care to walk with us a while?’ Sir Gideon asked and Edgar agreed so readily that it could have knocked us all flat. I don’t know why, but I felt a reluctance.
We strolled, all of us together, around and around the geometric patterns of the gardens for perhaps half an hour. Edgar chattered brightly and enthusiastically about any and every subject. Sir Gideon laughed and laughed as he did so, and appeared genuinely to find my brother amusing. Now and then, stylish French people walked airily past us, their faces frozen in a permanent, ironic misery. Each time one of these gloomy, fashionable people passed, Sir Gideon pulled a mocking grimace to show his amusement. Edgar laughed loudly, enthusiastically, a perfect mimesis of Sir Gideon. With the tip of her fan pressed into the flesh of her lips, Augusta Anson leaned towards my brother. Her lips were painted a glossy, pert pink. Edgar’s eyes focused on them as they drew near his face. She whispered into his ear, loud enough for all to hear:
‘The French do not expect to be mocked. That’s what makes it so delicious to poke fun at them.’ The fan pushed harder against her mouth, and her upper lip plumped sensually around it. How quickly Edgar and I forgot that we had, only moments before, cared deeply how the French behaved. There was nothing wrong with that, perhaps: after all, we were here to meet English people. In terms of our parents’ plan, the French were quite irrelevant. It was the likes of Sir Gideon and Augusta Anson whom we were here to impress. Miss Anson pulled back and let the fan fall to her side: ‘But, of course, none of them speak English.’
‘I hear that is changing now,’ I said, because I thought I should say something. ‘I hear that the Dauphin himself is learning our language.’
Her eyes flickered to mine. I felt that flicker in my chest. ‘How extraordinary!’ she cried. I was not clear if it was extraordinary that the Dauphin was learning English, or that one might think it something worth reporting. I coughed a little, embarrassed, and she smiled the smallest possible smile.
Our little group continued its promenade. Edgar almost immediately seemed so effortlessly a part of it. Did I feel jealous as he chattered on, unencumbered by doubts, telling some story about something we had seen, some person who had made us laugh? Now and then, in my silence, I felt Augusta Anson watching me, which only served to silence me more. I kept expecting her to say, ‘Do you have nothing to add, Mister Bowen?’ but she did not. Whatever her thoughts of me, for the moment she kept them to herself.
Sir Gideon was saying how ‘darling’ it was that we were all such friends now. My brother’s eyes beamed with happiness. Yes, he said, yes, it was ‘darling’. ‘There shall be all sorts of invitations,’ Sir Gideon declared. ‘You shall come with us and be our friends. It will be a kind of dream.’ A dream for whom, he did not say.
We said goodbye near the Pont Royal, as our new friends were due to attend a viewing of portraits by Boucher of various ladies of the Court. ‘All of them King Louis’ whores,’ Sir Gideon joked, causing Augusta Anson to give a throaty, worldly purr. Edgar was laughing too, more innocently, of course, nodding eagerly. Cards were exchanged so that notes could be sent later. There was talk of a party and then of another stroll. You will come. You will come, Sir Gideon kept saying. My brother’s eyes shone with unconcealed joy.
Sir Gideon proved to be an alchemist of social opportunity. Every day, folded notes with our names written in his rolling cursive hand arrived at our lodgings, numerously, note after note, saying we should go here or we should go there. As we became known in society, printed cards of invitation, edged in gold or purple, started appearing. Les messieurs Bowen … Nous demandons votre présence … It was beyond anything we could have imagined, and it was all Sir Gideon’s doing. There were invitations to go and see this painting by Leonardo da Vinci and that sculpture by Bernini at the house of this fine prince or that notorious marquis. There were balls and parties and receptions and card games très intime. And there was a stroll most days, usually in loud, good humour at the Tuileries Garden.
Knowing Sir Gideon and Augusta Anson meant there were more introductions: to a Lady Montagu or an earl from somewhere. Most days, Edgar wrote to our mother with long lists of names of the people we had met and the outfits we had worn to do so. He did not tell her how much wine we’d drunk, or how few of her prescribed cultural sights we’d seen. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Edgar wrote. ‘This new life of ours. How I wish you were here to see for yourself. I dare believe that even you could not have imagined we’d be such an instant success!’
Sir Gideon said that we simply had to go to a salon, that it was the Parisian experience par excellence. Edgar agreed this would be wonderful. Heavily made up and dressed in brocade, I was sweating underneath my powdered wig as we stood in a sudden burst of springtime heat outside La Comédie-Française. Sir Gideon strolled up to us, a quarter of an hour late. On his cheek, over layers and layers of white chalk, was stuck a huge black, silk beauty spot, so that it looked like a great bug had alighted on his face.
‘Oh, such a treat today, my good fellows!’ he cried.
‘Where is Miss Anson?’ I asked.
‘Oh, poor Gussy! She drank too much champagne last night after the opera. She insists that she ate bad shrimps, but that doesn’t explain why she reeks of wine!’ He laughed, and Edgar laughed too. I marvelled at Sir Gideon’s privilege in being able to say such things about the lady. I am sure we were not. ‘Today, we are going to the salon of la Duchesse du Maine.’ This sounded very important, but Sir Gideon could see that we did not know who she was. ‘She is the bastard daughter of old King Louis. The fourteenth. She is as old as Methuselah now, but at one time was a great beauty. Well, that’s what they say. I’m sure she looks like a side of beef these days. She keeps a salon at the Palais-Royal.’ He pointed up the street. ‘Up there.’