“I prefer . . . Scarlet,” Prim loftily intoned. Anyone could be someone. Or no one. There were no formalities. No introductions required.
It was liberating.
The man eyed them warily as he stumbled off with his friends.
Olympia sent her a wink. “Welcome to Vauxhall, eh? Mam did describe it as rowdy. At least that’s why she makes excuses not to bring me here.”
They passed through the entryway and scanned around them at the carousing patrons. Primrose was confident she was observing the effects of over-imbibing. It seemed to be in evidence everywhere. On rare occasions, Papa indulged in his port and waxed on about his youth, his eyes shining like glass as he reminisced. She suspected she would observe a goodly amount of glassy-eyed individuals tonight.
The door thudded shut behind them, muffling the orchestra and all other outside sounds, leaving them with the undiluted experience of the tavern.
The establishment was crowded. A woman with an improbable shade of red hair and wearing a garish orange gown—not the best color on anyone, and Prim would know—stood on a small stage along one wall singing to the accompaniment of flutists. The entertainment, while not as skillful as Mrs. Zaher’s performances, was no less entertaining.
“See there.” Olympia nodded to the stage as they wove through the room, locating a vacant table. “You bemoan your hair while there are those desperate to replicate it.”
Sinking down at the table, Olympia waved over a nearby server with all the expertise and authority of a veteran patron. It took a while for the aproned lass to wind through the crowd of tables to reach them.
“What can I fetch you, ladies?” she asked breathlessly.
“How is the mulled wine?” Olympia asked, as though it were a common practice for her to order spirits at taverns.
The lass looked left and right and then leaned forward to answer. “Were I you, I’d have the ratafia.”
“Two ratafias it is.” Primrose nodded emphatically.
The server grinned. “Fine choice. I will be back soon with your drinks, ladies.”
Once she was gone, Primrose inspected their surroundings further. Several people were joining in, warbling along with the singer’s bawdy song. Apparently it was a well-known ditty.
A Lusty young Smith at his Vice stood a Filing,
Rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, rub in and out, in and out ho.
Olympia laughed. “Mam should sing this at Haymarket.”
“You will have to share the lyrics with her.”
Olympia’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “Mam might be more tolerant than your mother, but even she would suffer apoplexy were she to know where I am sitting right now.”
Primrose considered her for a moment, feeling a sharp prick at her conscience. She had scarcely given thought to Olympia or how any whiff of scandal might affect her and her mother.
Her friend always seemed to have so many more freedoms than Prim, but of course even Mrs. Zaher would not approve of this night’s exploits. An unchaperoned trip to Vauxhall? Indeed not. And yet Prim had insisted on this adventure for herself, bringing Olympia out with her.
“I appreciate you taking such risks to go against your mother for me. I would never want you to get in trouble. I know how close the two of you—”
Olympia waved her hand. “Hush, now. You’ve been my dearest friend since Mam and I moved here three years ago. What is youth without a little bit of rebellion? I am certain my mother expects it of me.”
Prim laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”
Olympia continued, “And you well know not every girl in this city has been kind and welcoming to me. They talk about me in indiscreet tones, as though I cannot hear their petty remarks about my looks. Mam they welcome because she is wealthy and a celebrity.” Mrs. Zaher had toured all over the continent, performing for even royalty. “Me they simply tolerate.” She wrinkled her nose. “Just barely.”
Prim’s mother called Mrs. Zaher and Olympia scandalous. It’s shameful the way that woman takes her daughter everywhere with her as though it was appropriate. A girl of such tender years does not belong at the opera. It’s unseemly!
Papa took a different stance. He insisted that Mrs. Zaher was merely an eccentric artist and allowances could be made as she was so admired among the ton. Leave it be, Mrs. Ainsworth. Socialization betwixt the girls can only benefit our Primrose.
For no other reason did Mama allow the association between them. It was because of Papa’s logic alone. If their friendship was perceived as a benefit to Primrose, then it would be perceived as a benefit to the entire family.
If others voiced their disapproval of Mrs. Zaher taking her young daughter all about Town, it did not influence her—quite the opposite. Prim had heard both Mrs. Zaher and Olympia comment, although never with any heat or acrimony, that the British were far too conventional.
Mrs. Zaher lived her life as she wished, giving no tribute to English customs. Perhaps Mrs. Zaher followed the customs of Andalusia, where she and Olympia had originally lived? Likely not though. Prim suspected Mrs. Zaher followed her own rules and lived by a code of her own creation.
Prim breathed in deeply, marveling as she did so. Could there be any greater freedom than the power to flout social conventions? She felt a thrill in knowing she was doing that very thing now.
Sometimes, late at night, she’d hear carriage wheels clattering down the sleeping streets of Belgrave Square, and she would dash to her window to watch as Mrs. Zaher and Olympia descended from their carriage, glittering and sparkling in their finery. Envy burned hot in her chest on those evenings, eating its way up her throat. She had always longed to do the things Olympia did, to be similarly close with her own mother . . . but Prim knew that even once Mama allowed her out into the world, it would never be like that. She would never have a special relationship with her mother . . . and Mama would never grant her independence.
Prim shook her head, chasing away such maudlin thoughts. Now was not the time to think about things she could not change.
Now was the time to enjoy herself.
Their drinks arrived. In unison they lifted their cups in a toast.
“To friendship,” Prim intoned, “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.”
“Aw.” Olympia pressed a hand over her heart. “And to birthdays,” she added. “May they all be as memorable as this one.”
They clinked cups and took their first sip.
Primrose gave a satisfying sigh and lowered her cup to the table. The serving girl was right. The ratafia was excellent. Her first taste of spirits was all she’d hoped it would be.
“Certain, are you, that this birthday will be so very memorable?” Prim asked playfully.
“Is it not already?”
Primrose considered that. Even if they left following this drink, she would have done more than she ever had before—and more than she would likely do once Aster was engaged and Mama turned her full attention to Prim. It would be no easy matter to sneak away then. Not even to the bookshop while Mama napped.
“Simply seeing Vauxhall has made for a most memorable evening. Sitting in a tavern? Drinking spirits?” She lifted her cup. “These are all things I’ve never done.” The evening was off to a good start. She took another drink.
“Shall we eat here then?” Olympia asked. “Or explore some of the vendors along the row?”