The Ball [I]

«Martha!»

Martha awoke gradually from her slumber. She glanced around herself slowly as the mist cleared from her eyes. What was the time? She peered out the window. Very early.

«Get up quickly, my dear. You know I am not to be seen waking you up. I also have my duties to attend to, as you have yours.»

«Yes, Mrs Barrington,» Martha replied.

«Now out you come, my dear. You are already late as it is.» Mrs Barrington hurried out of the Third Servants Quarters, which was close to the Grand Kitchen.

Martha was an under kitchen maid in the Wellesley household. Permanently situated in Wellington Manor, she had been hired months before by Mrs Barrington, the Housekeeper. Mrs Barrington always showed an unusual fondness for her. Maybe it was because they were distantly related.

As she ran over to the Grand Kitchen, she passed some housemaids already eating in the Servant's Hall. From what Mrs Barrington had said, it looked like she wouldn't have enough time to eat. Some of the other maids eyed her suspiciously. Some muttered hurtful things about her under their breaths. Mrs Barrington's liking towards her certainly didn't go unnoticed.

Today was the big day. The day of the first ball hosted by Duchess Wellington this Season. They (the servants) had prepared for today for weeks and it was finally here. All the painting she had missed out on because of the preparations for today, would finally be over; come the evening. She didn't even notice herself grinning widely as she skipped into the kitchen.

«Oi! Oi! You's. Yes, you's. Olive. Wot's de'r ma'ar? You're late, ya are! D'you know dat?»

«I am terribly sorry sir,» Martha replied shakily. Colin Fifett was the Cook. A portly old man, he was. Looked about fifty too. He had thick, greasy swollen fingers and reddish skin. His face was covered in rough stubble which was the same colour as his messy dark hair that poked out from underneath his toque. He had despicable teeth but it didn't stop him from baring it at all times. Colin was prone to short outbursts of anger and the servants who worked in the kitchen always made sure everything was in order so as not to upset him. No one dared come late to work. Just Martha.

It wasn't that she was doing it to be rebellious. Definitely not. Martha was certainly not the type. Rather, she was often a victim of circumstance.

«Now, git to peelin' de'r potatoes or you'll be scrubbing de'r pots fer a week, ya will!» The cook bellowed.

While peeling the potatoes, Martha couldn't help but think about the things she would be illustrating that night. The itinerary for the ball had been set and announced and all kitchen servants would close for the evening at the stroke of eleven. This gave her about an hour to paint before she needed to sleep, so she would get at least five hours of rest.

Martha loved to draw. That's all she did before her father succumbed to death, the summer before. Her mother died during her birth and she had no close relatives to speak of. She had to leave the countryside and come to London in search of work so she could support herself and her passion. She planned to build a studio and exhibit her work in future. With what she was being paid at present though, that would take an awfully long time.

*****

Duchess Sarah was excited. In fact, she was beyond excited. For obvious reasons, of course. Her only son was attending his first ball this Season. Finally, a chance to introduce him to the prized ton ladies.

«Deborah!» the Duchess cried out to her lady-in-waiting. «For how long would I wait for my gown?»

«In a moment, Your Grace,» replied Deborah in a worried tone. «The darker colours are always difficult to obtain.»

«I told that silly abigail to put the darker colours out for easier access, seeing as those are the only ones I wear.»

Duchess Sarah indeed only wore darker colours out ever since the demise of the former Duke: Philip's father and her husband. Her eldest child and daughter, Susan, Duchess of St Albans always complained to her about it. Sarah couldn't care less.

Two, very long minutes later, Deborah arrived with her gown. It was a purple, muslin evening gown that was accompanied by evening gloves of a darker purple hue. Very simple, like the Duchess preferred. It wasn't common for a lady-in-waiting to handle a Lady's clothing but the Sarah favoured her cousin's judgement.

«The guests will soon start arriving. I would like to change now. On your way out, ask one of the chambermaids available to request Mr Crawford for me.»

*****

«Can you believe it...a ball? In my home! The irony!» Duke Philip spat out. «And that fool, Crawford, did not think it wise to inform me of it.» He took a huge gulp from his glass of whiskey.

His best friend, Lord Essex, sat across from him in an armchair. «Now, now. Your mother might have instructed him not to. And of course, there would be a ball at Wellington Manor! Duchess Wellington's balls are always a highlight of the Season. You know this.»

« I am the man of the household, more so, a Duke. What good is my title if I am not accorded respect...by a measly butler at that?»

«I think you have consumed enough liquor, my friend. You do not normally talk like this. It seems it has started to intoxicate you,» Lord Essex rose from his seat, took the Duke's drink from his hand and set it on a side table. «Come now, let us get you home. It would be very embarrassing if you were to disgrace yourself here at Brooks's.»

«I am quite alright, Thomas. But I will take my leave if you do not wish to be in my presence.»

Thomas rolled his eyes. As they approached the Duke's curricle, he reminded Philip not to drink further when he arrived home.

«What I do and do not do, in the confinement of my home is my business, Capel. You do not see me telling you to stop whatever it is that you do in secret. Farewell.» Philip huffed.

Thomas Capel, the Earl of Essex, could only shake his head in amused confusion. How on earth does one get drunk before hosting a ball?