Pas De Deux

Part 10

Before it became a scandal, it was a piece of news.

Miss Natasha Romanoff, daughter of Baron Alexei Romanoff, had been a dancer in a small Edinburgh theatre for the past year.

And the news broke out on a warm and sunny Tuesday afternoon, released nonchalantly like a hummingbird out of a cage, setting the tongues of every member of the Ton wagging. It stood in the air for a moment, wings flapping, before it set forward in every direction. As the implications of such news gathered and gained momentum, it morphed into something far uglier. In pernicious delight, it travelled across London, along the arteries into the heart of the city, slithered into the shops beyond the counter and between the stalls of the Covent Garden market, crawled under the tables of every bakery terrace and gentleman's club until it finally nestled into the living room of every aristocratic family.

This was where after it was dissected, commented on, gasped at, laughed about, or preached upon that the piece of news became a scandal. And a scandal was not easy to stifle.

The reactions were varied. There were the self-proclaimed judges of character who said they had always perceived the mischievous side of the Baron's daughter despite her otherwise commendable manners; there were the more honest ones who nonetheless exhibited utter shock and a well-gauged measure of horror upon hearing the news as a pledge of their own virtue.

A scandal was like a stain of red wine on silk — beyond the immaculate white being forever sullied by the maroon shade, the thousands of threads of the fabric bloated and altered the flawless shape of them, distorting the overall structure of the intricate weaving beyond repair. It was mostly the latter, and its unforgivable breach of a rigorous and ancestral composition, that truly made the piece of fabric repulsive to the eye and stripped of its silk title.

A scandal worked just like that. And although there was no doubt left that Natasha Romanoff was to be seen and treated a pariah, the next discussion was whether it should be extended to all of her family as well. There were those who argued that the Baron and the Baroness certainly would not have wittingly approved of such improper arrangements for their daughter and that, certainly, they ought to have been duped as much as anyone else; then there were the ones who were fast to invoke the old, and therefore wise, maxim that the apple did not fall far from the tree, and that Natasha Romanoff's uncovered secret was a testament for her family's faults.

Yelena Romanoff was brought up a fair amount of time and, often used as evidence to come to the defence of the family. She was painted like a paragon of honour, having in grace and virtue what her elder sister criminally lacked. She was described as kind where Natasha was seen as cunning, commended for her natural beauty where Natasha's attributes were deemed beguiling and deceitful, respected for her unfaltering manners where her sister's, minimal or satisfactory at most, betrayed her nature.

And because Yelena Romanoff was the Court's favourite debutante this season and undoubtedly destined for an advantageous marriage, it seemed greatly unfair, but most importantly socially hazardous, to risk making an enemy of the Romanoff family.

Therefore, in order to avoid a public discord whilst also preserving the honour of the Ton and its long-lasting future, a consensus was found.

Melina had been pacing the room for several minutes, wearing out the new Persian carpet spread on the floor of the living room, a piece of paper partly creased in her tight grip.

"I cannot believe Lady Hamilton would do this," she commented, nostrils flaring.

Yelena was sitting quietly at the end of the sofa, arms folded with a stern expression. Natasha was in the armchair on the other side of the room with a cushion nestled against her, looking as unruffled as she was resigned.