No I’m not talking about the pastimes I’d have been statistically most likely to have engaged in - legging it up and down freezing cold stairs with cans of hot water, sweating over the cook stove to prepare meals for the middle class family that employs me for little beyond bed and boards, and a few pounds a year, or going blind sewing at piece work for the gentry.
No I’m imagining the fascinating pasttime of (gasp!) high stakes card play. Drifting back to courtly western European society of the eighteenth (think King George III, Marie Antoinette, and Allessandro Scarlattti) and nineteenth century, there’s little other entertainment for a more dashing type of woman. It in’t as though I’d go to work each day or need to devote time to my children or household. Over time, balls loose their luster. A woman who’s been on the town for some time, particularly a matron of certain standing, is likely to disappear into a discrete little card room once she becomes ennuyé with the same partners and conversation.
Beyond the shops, what is a lady to do with her pin money if she doesn’t bet? Of course ones vowels from play, must be paid. Those are debts of honor, of course, and certainly nothing like paying your milliner, mantua maker or sempstress. Those bills from tradesmen and women can be so provoking! But of course, a lady can also always stake her jewels. And if she pawns a family heirloom there’s a good chance her husband will redeem it for her, even if she has outrun her allowance, just a bit.
In a world of extremely limited transportation without television, radio, movies, raves, adventure travel or public restaurants what is a lady to do? Languid tea at a friends over the same old gossip, or a cosy little card party with stakea of a-pound-a-point? And if you and your husband practice looking the other way, maybe your current cicisbeo will even stake you at whist, piquet or quadrille.
With so many forms of entertainment available nowadays, I don’t actually play cards in the modern era. Gambling meccas like Las Vegas and Reno have little appeal for me. But, just for one evening, I’d adore to shrug into my hoops, tie on my coliquot ribbons, spread just a touch of that rouge my sister brought me back from Paris, on my cheekbones, place the patch called ‘lover’s kiss’ just so at the edge of my mouth, and sit patiently while my woman sculpts and powders my hair in the latest chiene couchantestyle.
Those diamond encrusted heels were a little dear, but they make all the difference when it comes to the confidence with which I approach the tables.
Tonight, I’m sure my luck will be in.
