Vampyre Bride ✔️

XI⎮An Almack's Bluestocking

A Cit - in Regency slang was a derogatory term for a member of the merchant class.

A Bluestocking - an intellectual woman (maybe the first feminists?)

"How is it possible that Miss Winterly was able to procure our vouchers for tonight?" Emma turned the cardboard square over in her gloved hand, catching glimpses of the elegant writing as the carriage flooded with intervals of light each time the coach rattled past a gaslit lamp.

"Does it matter?" Her sister sat opposite her, staring out of the window eagerly.

"I suppose not," she conceded.

It was curious, however, because Almack's was notoriously exclusive and, though the vouchers would go on sale periodically at Bond Street, if one's name was not on The List, one would not be permitted admission. Only a very honored few, amongst the fashionable, titled, and highborn of the beau monde were vouchsafed entry into the hallowed rooms. Not even a Duchess could purchase a voucher for a friend if they were not approved by one of the formidable Almack's Patronesses.

Neither Milli nor she had ever met with any of the Lady Tyrants and could, therefore, not have been on the The List to begin with. Yet here they were: dressed like princesses on the way to a ball that not even one in one hundred ladies might ever gain admittance to; it was inconceivable. Emma was already resigning herself to the fact that they would be turned away at the door. Surely not even Victoria was omnipotent enough as to safeguard their entrée into Almack's.

Poor Milli will be terribly disappointed and mortified. She shook her head as she watched her sister's face illuminate briefly with yellow light as they passed another lamp at the edge of the thoroughfare.

"Oh, Lord!" said Milli, turning to study her sister's attire critically, now that they were nearing their destination, "you shan't wear that shawl, will you, Emma dear?"

Emma peered down at the silk shawl draped across her pale shoulders as it peeked out from beneath her mantle, a velvet creation of Sardinian blue that her sister had made for her. "Why ever not?" she asked. "It's deuced cold outside!" With admirable control, she forbore smiling, which occasioned Milli's uncertainty as to whether or not she was only teasing. How easy it was to rile her sister.

She was perfectly sensible to the fact that it was far better that a lady should freeze than wear a shawl out to a social gathering, and Emma had completely forgotten that she was still wearing hers when she'd put her cloak on over it.

In due course they arrived at their destination on King Street, St. James's. "Be quick and take it off!" Milli cried as the coach finally rolled to halt before an ordinary-looking, rectangular, brick building with mullioned windows and a set of painted double doors.

Leaving the Indian shawl in their uncle's coach, both girls alighted and, surprisingly, entered the building without difficulty, and though the man at the door had stared down his aquiline nose at them, he nonetheless allowed them to pass unmolested.

Once they had doffed their mantles, handing the items to a tall, supercilious footman with a ridiculous, white wig, the girls hurried towards the ballroom, Milli giggling excitedly as their satin slippers padded noiselessly along the hardwood floor. 

One would have thought I'd given him a hodden cloak instead of a velvet cape, Emma thought, rolling her eyes as she followed her sister.

The ballroom was large indeed — about one hundred feet long and forty feet wide — and decorated with Grecian pilasters, gilded white pillars, medallions, and beautiful, gaslit lusters. There were mirrors everywhere, no doubt as a means to make the room appear larger and more crowded, or perhaps to refract the light around the space a little better.