Claire Burns

Two Extracts

Extract from The Oryantal Dansi

When the maid opened the door to show me in, my ears were flooded with strange music quite unlike any I had ever heard. I turned back to the maidservant to ask her to announce me, but she was already gone. This lack of address would certainly need to be remedied before any invites were sent out.

Miss Craythorne was prancing about in steps not dissimilar to the ones she had shown me yesterday, except these were far more flamboyant and, if I cared to admit it, provocative in nature. It was not helped by the matter of her having only the bottom half of a sari skirt on and what looked like a scarf tied around her back, covering only her bosom – that daring Mundum thingy she had fashioned on me only days ago. And whilst I was relieved to see she was not in company, I was so aghast at the sight of this display, I thought I might go out again and await its conclusion. I began to back out of the doorway. Who knew my court practice would come in useful beyond my presentation? But before I could remove entirely, she caught sight of me and came prancing towards me in the steps of the dance.

I paused. 'Miss Craythorne,' I said to greet her in the reasonable expectation that she might stop and return the courtesy. She only smiled and continued right before my gaze in an even more illicit style; gyrating her hips and stretching her arms up above her head in swaying movements, leaving her torso wriggling and jerking in front of me. I had never seen such a thing before, and I knew I hid my astonishment badly, even though she seemed indifferent to it. She took a scarf from around her neck and hooked me about the waist with it in a swift move that gave me no time at all to evade it as it looped over me. Then she pulled me farther into the room by it and pushed me gently into a seat, although I only realised there was one when I landed in it.

I should have set a better example and punished her for this appalling disregard. I would be perfectly justified in my leaving, yet I did not want to go without giving her the news. Have you no regard for the pains I have taken to come here, or the time constraints set upon me by the fading light? I remained seated as she danced her way back into the centre of the room and watched her continue this impromptu demonstration.

I looked across to the place the sounds were coming from and saw, sitting on the floor, an Indian boy tapping away on some drums with the palms of his hands with extraordinary speed. Another plucking away at the string instrument that was strumming out these exotic noises that made me instantly hunger for the faraway scenes I remembered from her sketches. I may not have approved of her dancing, but I did like the music. When I looked up from my examination of these musicians, I saw her leaping her way back in my direction and braced myself. I did not know where to look or how to behave when she stared at me so boldly, shaking parts of her body so close to my face, I had to lean back in my chair to avoid being whipped by the fabric of her skirts. It was now I noticed where the jingling sound of bells was coming from: a string of them tied about her waist and around each of her ankles.

I was relieved when she turned her back to me, but I had not expected her to stay in such proximity as she shook her posterior several times and rolled her hips around in ways I knew were obscene, but found no less fascinating for its vulgarity. Why was she taught such lessons? I could not imagine there were hop merchants in Madras or even Paris who would be called upon for such learning. Indeed, what kind of father would be willing to pay tuition for his daughter to be taught such strange accomplishments? 

I watched on a little more freely now, knowing she could not see me staring, and regarded the perfect curve of her back, the small of her waist, and the taut flanks either side, as they moved with the beat of the drum. She seemed suddenly beautiful to me in a light that I had not seen her in before, for I had never thought her comely. But there was some other trick that made her charming now, and this performance (which I should have disowned her for) exacerbated my notice of the fact, and I was completely enchanted by it. 

I had never considered how wildly a woman might shake and move her body beyond the country dances I was used to, nor how compelling such a look of unashamed brazenness could seem upon her face. If there had been gentlemen present to witness such a thing, I was sure they would all be in love with her, for no other reason than this disgracefully captivating dance. 

She eventually wiggled her way back over to the other side of the room, and at last, I could breathe again. She took up a scarf and started waving and weaving it about in her routine, a swathe of shimmering colour sweeping through the air. The drumbeat shifting into a new pattern and the strings’ vibration fully diminished before another was plucked.

When she came close again, she wrapped the scarf around my neck this time, and I did not understand the invitation, nor how to escape her eyes when she held me there right in front of her. 

She let me go in the end and what she did next, I was wholly unprepared for. I watched her take the scarf between her legs and pull it from front to back as she shook her head in every direction, letting the lengths of her hair whip up around her face and sweep the ground. Her sari skirt lifted higher than her knees, revealing the clench and release of her thighs as she thrust the scarf between them. I had never seen anything like it. I knew I should have left long before this, but I could not take my eyes off her or settle the nerves in my stomach. After a vigorous repetition of this odd routine, she slowed into swaying pulls from side to side, before dwindling to her knees and collapsing into a huddled ball over them.

I had never been so astonished. Never had I witnessed anything so absurd. I waited for the music to completely decrescendo before I found the courage to applaud her dancing. It seemed a peculiar thing to do for such an outrageous demonstration, and yet I did not know what other response might answer.

'Thank you, Miss Ashlyn,’ she said, panting. ‘You are very kind and remarkably tolerant. I am pleased I judged your character well.' 

I could feel nothing but offence to that notion.

'I was not expecting an audience, I confess.'

I certainly hoped not, but it was really the least important detail after so much else. I watched her unfurl herself from the ball she had become and rise to take a bow. 

'Miss Craythorne, those were indeed interesting steps. May I ask you where you learned them?' The question seemed ridiculous to me, but I was still trying to compose myself as I watched her tame her bedraggled locks back into a bandeau, the sweat glowing upon her skin, her chest rising with her recovering breaths.

'In India.'

'Of course.'

'Although the dance is not an Indian one. It was an Ottoman girl who taught me the Oryantal Dans. There was not much diversion at my convent school, so we often had to make do with making our own entertainment. But as you might imagine, that particular style of dancing is only intended for very specific audiences.'

This much, at least, relieved me, for it suddenly occurred to me that my friends were in agreement to attend a party of her organising. Although I could not see the point in learning such a complicated dance that was too indecent to be shown to others, nor understand why I was considered a suitable audience to such a thing. 'I see,' was all I could say. Words were not forthcoming.

'Did you enjoy it, Miss Ashlyn?'

There was a suggestion in her question I did not like. 'It was most unexpected Miss Craythorne.'

'I thought you would appreciate it.' She smiled, and again I saw the suggestion beyond her words. It frustrated me that I could not rebuff them without making my interpretation of them plain. 'Perhaps you will let me teach you another time.'

I could not begin to imagine that! 'I am better suited to ordinary dancing: country dances suit my taste very well. Now, I know I am late coming, but I must tell you my delay was a profitable one.'

'Oh?' She picked up a long cloak and wrapped it around herself. I was pleased to be able to look her in the eye at last. 'Then we must go back to the house, so you can tell me all about it.'

'I cannot. I must be back before sunset.' 

She drew in close to me and lifted the cap of my bonnet a fraction to better see my eyes. 'Now, that is a disappointment.'

Extract from Stifled Sigh 

I was not able to visit Miss Craythorne that day, or the next. With the run-up to our London departure and being pushed beneath Sheldon's nose at every opportunity, I could not find a moment to visit her again for two days. I was growing increasingly concerned at what wild notions she might have planned without me to tame them, and began to question my sanity in involving myself in such a scheme that now seemed incredibly mad-brained to me. At the time, it had seemed something of an adventurous attempt at bringing something lively and exciting to Cuddington whilst throwing a lifeline out to Martha. Now it felt like an insufferable risk I had bound myself to and would have to be content to limit the damage now. 

We exchanged covert notes using our servants who rebounded back and forth each time either of us made a new discovery of attendance or had some query or suggestion to pass between. But where I took pains with mine to be clear and comprehensive, hers were brief and perfunctory, and images of her wild dancing came back to me with the dread of what she might plan in my absence. When I opened an invitation for the event, set for Saturday evening, I knew I must act quickly: So, I rose early the next morning to gain an advantage on the day. Whatever itinerary Mama had cooked up for me today would not be scheduled until after breakfast at least.

Miss Craythorne had barely risen when I arrived. 

'Well, I don't know, Miss Ashlyn: I do not see you in days, and then you stir me from my bed!' she said, when I was announced in the middle of her toilette. She was stood in her chemise over the washstand as her maid poured the jug.

'Forgive the intrusion; I have been so much detained. I came as soon as I could. Is there somewhere else I might wait while you dress?' 

'Not if you want to keep out of sight?' she looked up and took the offered cloth to pat her face dry. 

'Very well,' I agreed, taking the offered seat she gestured to. When she stepped away from the stand and offered her back to the maid, I did not know where to look when she stripped her of her shimmy and took the cloth to her. The Mehndi. I examined the embellishment of her bare flesh from the back of her thighs up to her waist, her pale buttocks seeming to hang from the mock chandelier of its design. I was sure I had never been more astonished.

'You like it?' she asked, and I looked up to see her reflection in the mirror, watching me.

'But how did you—?' 

'I had Geeta do it,' she said simply. 

I looked at the Indian maidservant who was mixing her lotions and did not know whether to feel disgust or admiration at this strange talent she seemed outwardly incapable of. But when Miss Craythorne turned around to face me, I gasped, realising that this was not the full extent of her maidservant's talents.

'Oh. You have not seen this look before?' she asked, and however much I did not want to confess to understanding her reference, I knew it would be even more humiliating to cause her to spell it out.

'I have not,' I said, turning away from the sight of the smooth, hairless mound between her legs as she was helped into a satin peignoir. She waved the maids away and came closer to me. 'It is normal practice in Asia, you know.'

'I do not think it is here.' 

'No, that was the very thought that crossed my mind when we were costume-trying, the other day.'

I felt the embarrassment of her words instantly as I thought of her noticing the thick curling mound of hair I was used to – and had been perfectly happy with, until now. It had never occurred to me before that one would take pains to consider its style, and from such consideration, make efforts to remove it. 'You trust your maid to take a razor blade to your—?'

She laughed. 'No, silly. It is done with a paste made from sugar that sticks to the hair and is pulled away to remove it. There is no risk of being nipped! Perish the thought. I can have Geeta school your maid if you wish to try it.'

'Thank you, no,' I said flatly. I could not begin to imagine the look on Molly's face at such a request and I did not wish to find it out. I had heard of maidservants tutoring each other in some new hairstyle at the bequest of their lady, but this...

'As you prefer. It is not without its benefits you know.'

'Benefits? I am not a scarlet woman, Miss Craythorne, what possible benefit could such a practice possibly—?'

She put down the towel she had been patting her face dry with and crossed the room to where I was sitting until she was stood right before me. 'I simply meant it is far cleaner and smoother, see for yourself,' she moved aside the satin of her robe. A faint scent of lavender soap drifting.

'Forgive me, I did not mean to suggest—'

'No offense taken. Give me your hand,' she said holding hers out in front of me.

They were glued to my reticule, wrapped neatly around it in my lap. My instinct warned me I should refuse, but it was caught up in a debate with my curiosity that failed as soon as she peered at me so darkly. I lifted one – now slightly trembling – hand and gave it to her. 

'See,' she said triumphantly as she brushed my fingertips over that pale patch of skin at the corner of her thigh.

I jumped at the sensation and withdrew my hand so fast I could barely test the smoothness.

'It is just skin, there is nothing to fear,' she said and pulled it back.

How did she always manage to make me feel the fool? I circled an inch of the area cautiously – smooth velvet beneath my touch – and I was surprised at how different it seemed from the wiry tangle of my own. 

'Do you approve now?' she asked, and I did not appreciate her choice of words.

I withdrew my hand and buried it beneath my thigh. 'It is very neat. But Miss Craythorne, you will grow cold, you really must get dressed. We have so much to arrange and I do not have much time.' 

She withdrew from me, walked away and sat down on the chaise in front of the window and peered out of it. 'Neither I, so let us go over things now. I can dress after.'

This was a surprise. I wondered what engagements called her away. I surely did not expect her at the Dowager's this afternoon.

'So, let us get to business,' she said, turning back to look at me. Her robe remained un-drawn and I wished she would tie its ribbons. 'I have made all the arrangements, I think; the invitations are sent, the servants have their instructions.'

'I thought we might go over the plans more carefully. What exactly is the schedule?'

She smiled incredulously and bit her bottom lip. 'You are worried aren't you, Miss Ashlyn, that I am not capable of making the proper arrangements?'

'Of course not,' I held up my hand in protest.

'It is quite alright. I understand. You have put your reputation on the line for me, it is only right you wish to be certain of me.'

'I do not doubt your intentions, Miss Craythorne, but you see, things are done differently here, and I would be failing in my duty to you if I did not check that your entertainments will be suitable for society's constitution. I do not say it for my own sake, but the truth is; the rest of Cuddington will not share my sympathy in the more extraordinary things you have shown to me. And I fear that perhaps I have done you a disservice in permitting you to think it acceptable, when I assure you, it would prove quite the shock for them to witness the things I have, and they will not welcome it at all.'

'And yet it does not seem to disconcert you, Miss Ashlyn. I wonder why that is?' she smiled a wide cunning smile at me. 'You know, Miss Ashlyn, we are a very good fit. With all that you know of good society and all I can teach you of other types of society, we might learn a great deal in the exchange and be much the wiser for it?'

'Perhaps, Miss Craythorne. But for now, I think we might just concentrate on this one.' 

'Of course,' she rose and went over to her writing desk and pulled a notebook from it. 'Let me run the format by you, and if there is anything you do not consider appropriate, it must go!'

'Thank you,' I said, pretending not to notice the flashes of her naked flesh as she strode past me with her still undone robe. A small pale breast bobbed from beneath it as she sat back down and opened the book in her lap.

'Seven-o-clock arrival. Drinks and canapés in the drawing room before we take our seats at the table, this is the menu I have planned.'

I took it from her and scanned it quickly, seeing nothing amiss.

'Then after dinner, I will have card tables set up in the drawing room, mainly as a guise and to keep the chaperones entertained whilst the men keep to the dining room. This will be our opportunity for our smaller party to disappear...'

I quickly grew bored and distracted from the list she ran off as she detailed every sequence of events, and it pleased me, for I had heard nothing worthy of concern. Perhaps I had allowed myself to be unduly anxious after all. 

As she continued in these details though, I found the words blurring and evading me: my eyes searching over the details of her instead. The fine sculpting of her jawline as it jutted with the words she spoke. The shape of her lips as they mouthed sounds I seemed no longer able to hear or decipher. The line that formed and quivered in her cheek as she spoke. The pale skin that stretched across the length of her neck, the ridges in her gullet and the dip in her clavicle...

I was quite aware that this was entirely the wrong direction for my attention to be fixed, and yet I could not seem to persuade it back to the task. What was happening? Perhaps I had risen a little too early and I was a little dozy still? The trim of her robe, Lavender stitching, finely crocheted lace at the sleeves, embellished with little sprigs of Lavender thread over the palest shade of lilac. I followed the line of trim from where it gaped at the neck, rose over the shape of her bosom and fell slack at her navel.

'Eleanor?'

'Yes?' I said, almost jumping at the sudden audibility of her voice and lifting my gaze to her face. 

One brow was raised and her expression waiting. 'Are you quite well?' she asked.

'Yes.' 

'You seem distracted.'

'Do I? I – I was just admiring the style of your dress robe. It is unusual and quite beautiful, what is the shade?

'Thank you,' she said unconvinced. 'The shade is: Stifled Sigh.'

I nodded and smiled, feeling somehow diminished by the gaze she cast over me.

'There will be maids and changing curtains set up for the costume trying,' she said then, consulting her list, and I realised we were back to the topic of the party and made a marked effort to show my notice now.'

'Very good, with shifts on though, Miss Craythorne; you must instruct your servants that it is to be done this way for the guests.'

'Of course. We will dance a while—'

'Modest dances, very modest, Miss Craythorne. No Oryantal Dans!'

'I assure you,' she said with a grin in her eyes I didn't like. 

'Then some simple Indian snacks to try.'

'Not too fiery, mind.'

'The cook has already been instructed to keep the flavours mild.'

'Excellent. You have done very well, Miss Craythorne. I congratulate you.'

She looked up from the pages and smiled. 'There is one small matter.'

'Oh?'

'I have not the slightest idea of how to game.'

I frowned. Could it be true? That with all her many (albeit often bizarre) accomplishments, she could not sit out a quick round at the card table?

'Don't look so surprised, Miss Ashlyn. I have never had the time or need for such pursuits.'

I supposed a life as colourful as hers had provided enough distraction not to require the learning.

'But I have the matter in hand; my stepbrother is taking care of those arrangements and will try to give me a lesson beforehand. What game shall I tell him to teach me?'

'So, he is definitely coming?'

'Of course.'

'And your other brothers?'

She nodded. 

'A game of whist will suit.'

'Very well.' She scribbled down a note in her book. 'Now, I really must get dressed.' She rang the bell for her maidservant. 'Unless of course you wish to stay? And she pulled her robe from her shoulders and I watched the satin slip down the length of her back, land upon the chaise then slide off and gather in a pile by my feet. 

I swallowed hard. I was not sure how I could answer this without lending insult to her or suspicion of myself. 'Like you said, we are both in a hurry.' I reached down to the floor to pick up her robe which I could not otherwise avoid stepping on in getting out of my seat. She was already walking away from me as I held it out to her. 'Your robe, Miss Craythorne.'

She turned around and we were suddenly colliding rather close to each other. 

'Thank you,' she said, taking it from me, her small eyes wide, something bold about them, as if challenging me to something I'd failed to fathom out. 'Where did you get such an unusual peignoir?' I asked then, hoping it would cause her to break her stare and let me pass.

'Why, Paris, of course,' her eyes glazed over with what I imagined to be some fond reminiscence from the past, before they cleared and she came back to me. 

'Of course.'

'Perhaps you might like it as a gift, Miss Ashlyn. I have a sense that it would suit you better.'

'You are very good, but I could not.'

'Whyever not?'

'Well, for a start, I would have no occasion for it,' I answered without thinking. 'I mean—'

'Suit yourself,' she said, returning to the washstand where her maids had started mixing her lotions, letting off a scent of rosewater into the room.

'Well, thank you, Miss Craythorne. I shall be on my way.'

'Anytime.'

Almost everything that came past her lips seemed tainted with the dangerous hint of some innuendo. Whereas, at first, I had considered them no more than a cultural misunderstanding, a lack of being socially adroit, and just about any other rational excuse I could find to explain it away, now I was beginning to wonder if she enjoyed being so inflammatory. 'Good day,' I said, slipping back through the jib door and letting out a sigh. 

Her plans at least did seem safe – on paper anyway – and she'd made no protest to my restrictions... and yet, despite this, I still felt a great deal of dread at the prospect she might let some erratic behaviour or detail slip that would be enough to plunge us both into disrepute. My character was as much on the line for this as hers. If I was found lacking in my judgment, they would all turn on me.