P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 18
"Are you sure you don't wish to come?" I asked him one last time as he helped me to dress. "Other people are bringing their servants. We could yet improvise something for you. I heard that Lady Musgrave was going as an Arab princess and was bringing her maid as her—uh—maid, done up in gold ropes, feathers, and a long silk scarf."
"Thank you, no, sir. I should prefer a quiet evening to organize the new staff. There are also the scattered contents of Mr. Oliver's consulting room to put in order. The new girl is in something of a state about the task and will need help sorting everything. No, sir, I am really quite sure. Now hold still that I may apply your eye patch . . ."
Obediently I held still.
"Now the mask . . ." He tied it firmly in place, concealing me from forehead to nose.
"How do I look?" I asked anxiously.
"Most formidable, sir."
"Trouble is I can't see a damned thing. This patch throws off the eyeholes on the mask."
"Do you wish the patch removed or the mask?"
"The patch. I've been anticipating this gathering too much to end up missing half of it by keeping one eye shut."
He worked for a moment to adjust things. Sans patch, with the mask properly in place, I was able to see excellently and said so. A pity I could not provide myself with the satisfaction of admiring the final results in the mirror, for it seemed a very superior costume. Though the tailor's idea of pirate clothing was probably lacking in accuracy, I did feel that I cut a fine figure in my blood-red coat, gold satin cloak, and sinister black velvet mask. Once the wide baldric had been secured over one shoulder and my cutlass sheathed, Jericho finished it off by presenting me with a hat matching the coat's color, lavishly trimmed with gold lace.
"Have a very good time, Mr. Jonathan. You won't forget to keep track of the hour?"
The Bolyn's Masque would likely not conclude itself until well into the next morning. "I shall be home before dawn, I do promise you. If nothing else, Elizabeth will see to it."
Assured, he finally gave me leave to go.
Oliver's estimation of our reception had been conservative. The three of us sweeping into the entry caused a happy stirring in the crowd that had already arrived, and we were even honored with applause. Though we were indeed resplendent in our black, red, and gold colors, Elizabeth was the best of the lot. She'd found some crimson powder from an unknown source and had used it for dressing her hair, making a fiery difference between herself and the other ladies who were present. Woven into her coiffure were a number of red and black ribbons long enough to trail down to her shoulders. Her gown—and I was thinking as her protective brother in this—was short enough to reveal her legs to a shocking extent, had they not been modestly encased in high boots. The rest of her costume was a wonder in gold lace and rustling red satin. Even her mask was trimmed with lace, the gold showing off well against the black velvet.
Oliver's costume was identical to mine, but the colors were reversed, giving him a gold coat and a red cloak, and he looked very fine in them. A few people recognized him, though; his long chin, left visible below the half-mask, was unmistakable. With his identity discovered, our own was also given away, but only to those who had already met us and could guess that we would be with our cousin.
Charlotte Bolyn immediately came over to give welcome and proclaim her pleasure at the success of our apparel. She was very fetching herself as the Queen of Hearts, and dragged her brother Brinsley over, who was dressed as the Knave of Spades. Someone in the crowd called out that all the reds and blacks together were too much for his bewildered eyes, and Brinsley waved his sword at him in mock threat.
"He may have an idea in that," said Oliver. "Think we should break things up a bit?"
"Refreshments are over there," Brinsley laconically informed him, pointing to a large, well-supplied table.
"Heavens, man, are you a playing card or a reader of minds?"
Oliver excused himself, Brinsley asked Elizabeth if she would honor him with the next dance, and Charlotte had to see to the next group of guests coming in. This suited me, for I was well occupied with study of the mob, trying to guess who this one or that one was under the rainbow of disguises. I wandered from room to room and out into the garden, my eye running over each and every woman of a certain specific height and figure.
I was looking for Nora, of course.
My hope was that she might, just might be here at this, the party of the season. She had been most fond of the Bolyns, never failing to come to any of their gatherings. Brinsley had once been one of her courtiers. I had already asked the Bolyns, particularly Brinsley, if they had any idea of Nora's whereabouts, but got only the speculation that she'd gone to Italy, or so their friends the Warburtons had told them.
Several times during my search my dormant heart gave a sharp upward leap as I spied a woman who matched my memory of Nora. But each closer investigation proved me to be mistaken. As the evening passed, I became frustrated and morose with the constant failure. The worst part was going through the garden when I braved the twistings of its shrubbery maze, for it was here that we'd shared our first kisses. It was here that I had once and for all time fallen in love. Now this magical place with its paper lanterns shedding their fairy lights over other couples seemed a bleak and blasted vanity to my disappointed soul.
I doggedly found the center of the thing, which was a large courtyard decorated by marble statues set 'round a large marble fountain. Its water had been drained from the supply pipes, lest the winter weather freeze and crack them. Without the splashing from the fountain, this was now a strangely desolate spot. No one was here at the moment, probably because of the wind. Outside the shelter of the maze's living walls, it was very bad, a feature that would certainly drive any sightseers to more temperate areas. The cold air was tolerable, but not when combined with so fresh a breeze. The ends of my light satin cloak snapped like flags, and a gust threatened to send my hat flying. I gladly quit the place and hurried back to the house.
The noise, costumes, and lights dazzled me, but there was really no quiet retreat to hide in. Not that I wanted to conceal myself, but I did long for a few moments of solitude. None were to be had, though. A group of the younger men, friends from my previous visit, recognized and hailed me. It proved to be something of a blessing since they took my mind off my inner sorrows for a time.
As ever, the talk was on politics, and I was closely questioned about the war. There was dismay amongst them about General Burgoyne's unfortunate surrender at Saratoga. The first dispatches of the disaster had arrived that week, and though the news was supposed to remain secret, it had escaped, causing no end of speculation on how England might recover her honor from such a setback.
"Mind you, the Frenchies will start pouring themselves across the sea after this," said a short Harlequin. "Once they're in we'll be set for a real war right here and now. We won't have to go to America to fight, just hop across the Channel."
"They wouldn't dare," opined another, taller Harlequin.
"They would, sir. We gave them a thrashing the last time about Canada and they want revenge. You mark me."
This reminded me of all the things Father had said on my last night at home. It had been only a couple of weeks since I'd seen him—at least how I reckoned the time in light of my singular hibernation—but I missed him terribly just then and had to leave or make a fool of myself.
"But you're a fool already, Johnny Boy," I muttered. To be at so fabulous a celebration and in such a dark mood was ridiculous. I was here for distraction from my woes, to sample and enjoy the myriad delights whirling and laughing about me, not to impersonate a waker at a funeral.
As if to help draw me out of the depths, some sprightly music started up nearby, drowning out the nearby conversations. I followed the sounds to the great ballroom, where all the dancers had gathered to indulge themselves in festive exercise. The combinations of partners were astonishing and amusing as I spied a lion dancing with Columbine and a Roman soldier bowing over the hand of an Indian maiden. One lady's costume, what there was of it, caught my eye for some goodly time, for the short skirt was so transparent one could see the supporting panniers, not to mention her very shapely legs and the flash of the silver garters holding up her stockings. Her silver mask covered too much of her face for me to readily identify her, but she was not Nora and that was all that really mattered in the end.
The only thing to distract me from her was a fellow in deep black stalking past holding a skull. His Hamlet might have been more striking had he not been drunk and trying to get the skull to share a sip from his glass. Still, he seemed to be having a fine time providing entertainment for others. He also reminded me that I had not yet bought any plays to send to Cousin Ann as I'd promised. Tomorrow I'd see about making an expedition to Paternoster Row and explore its bookstalls. Surely some of them would still be open after dark.
Familiar laughter, slightly breathless, came to me over the music, and I saw Elizabeth dancing past, partnered by a big fellow in a Russian coat and tall fur hat. He grinned back at her from behind a vast false beard. For all that covering, he seemed familiar. Probably one of my old schoolmates. If so, then I'd better stay handy to make sure he behaved himself with her.
"Enjoying yourself, Coz?" asked Oliver, who suddenly bumped into me from pushing his way through the press at the edge of the dancing.
"I am. I can see that you are, too."
He had a wineglass in hand. Not his first, to judge by his flushed face and wandering eyes. "Indeed, indeed. Having a marvelous good time in spite of the old hag."
"What do you mean?"
He jerked his head back the way he'd come. "Mother's here, don't you know. Saw her in one of the rooms with some of her cronies, the lot of 'em passing sentence against every pretty girl who happened to walk through. She's not in costume, just has a mask on a stick to hide behind, like the others. Ask me and I tell you I think they need 'em. Nothing like a bit of papier-meche and paint to improve their sour old faces, the harpies. Hie! 'Scuse me, I'm sure."
"It doesn't seem to have soured you, though."
"Not a bit of it. I'm too drunk to care. In fact, I made a point to stagger right through the room so she could see that her cast-off son is alive, well, and having a devil of a good time."
"You think that was wise?"
"'Course not, but then I'm too drunk for wisdom. Besides, all her friends saw me, too. Probably embarrassed her to no end, especially when I gave such a loud hail to Cousins Clarinda and Edmond."
"My God, they're here, too?"
"I just said so, din' I? Amazing, ain't it, that Clarinda got Edmond-the-stick out of the house for this. He was even in costume, a Harlequin, no less. Should say more, rather. There must be a dozen of 'em drifting around here tonight. Just shows he hasn't much imagination. Cheap, too. Looked as if it'd been made for someone else and he inherited it. Clarinda is very jaunty, though. Came as a Gypsy. You should see her. Very lively!"
No doubt, I thought, looking around but noticing no Gypsies, lively or otherwise, and feeling absurdly thankful about it. Though my one encounter with her was enchanting, I had no desire to try for a second, particularly in a strange house with her husband lurking about. He'd seemed the jealous type, or so I'd convinced myself from the single look I'd had of him across the dim hallway of Fonteyn House.
The dance ended and the couples bowed to one another. A different fellow came up to claim Elizabeth's attention, smaller than the Russian, but not lacking in verve.
"Hallo," I said, giving Oliver a nudge. "Is that Lord Harvey trying to partner Elizabeth for the next one?"
He gave a wobbly stare, "I think so. No one else has such spindles for legs that I know of."
"Did he ever take care of his creditors?"
"No, had to fly the country to avoid 'em. Heard he got into a card game in France, won a fortune, and returned in triumph to pay off everything. Still, I understand he's not given up looking for a rich wife. Bad luck for Elizabeth if he—no . . . she's too smart for him, and after that bad business she's been through, she won't be much impressed by a title."
"Maybe I should go out and interrupt him before—"
"Too late, the music's already started. Don't worry, old lad, it's just one dance. She can take care of herself."
On that I could only tentatively agree; but once they're stirred up, it's hard to put one's protective instincts aside.
The dancers fell into the patterns required of them and the stragglers cleared themselves from the floor. The Russian, who was heading in another direction, changed course when he spotted Oliver and apparently recognized him. He sauntered over to us.
"Is that you, Marling? Thought so. Grand party, what?"
"Very grand. Ridley, isn't it? Can't mistake you, two yards tall and then some, you great giant. You need to meet my cousin from America, Jonathan Barrett. Jonathan, this is Thomas Ridley."
We bowed to each other. Ridley, red from the dance and sweating, untied his beard and stuffed it into a pocket.
"He was a couple of years ahead of us at Cambridge, weren't you?"
"At Oxford, Marling," he said in a near-patronizing drawl.
"Yes, of course. Haven't seen you in ages. Back from the Tour?" Oliver asked, referring to the popular fashion the gentry followed of exploring the Continent.
"Something like that. London gets too small for me, y'see." He grandly stretched his arms wide as if to illustrate.
That was when the now nagging familiarity I felt about him changed instantly to utter certainty. Ridley was the leader of the Mohocks that I'd bedeviled on my first night in London.
Good God.
"And how is America, these days?" he asked me, again with that almost, but not quite, patronizing tone. It was finely balanced, just enough so that he was unpleasant, but not to the point where anyone could take exception to it.
"Fine, very fine," I answered, not really thinking.
"Fine? You're not one of those damned rebels, are you?"
"Absolutely not!" cried Oliver. "My God, but Jonathan's done his share of the fighting for our king. How many have you killed, Coz? Half a dozen?"
"You exaggerate, Oliver." I had no wish to dwell on that part of my past.
"Blazed away at a roomful of 'em, at least, only this summer."
"How interesting," said Ridley, giving me a narrow stare.
Damnation. Had he recognized me as the victim he and his gang had tried to sweat? Hard to tell if it was that or his reaction to Oliver's tipsy boasting.
"Not very," I countered. "Just defending my family. Any man would do the same. Are you enjoying the Masque? That coat must be very warm." God, but I was babbling, too. Really, now, there was nothing to fear. It was unlikely that he'd remember me; it had been dark and he very drunk. Besides, half my face was obscured by my mask. The music and the great press of people were simply making me nervous.
"Rather," he said, a lazy amusement creeping over his heavy features. Neither handsome nor ugly, but possessing distinct enough looks to make him stand out, he seemed to know how to use them to his best advantage. But moments ago he'd almost seemed dashing as he squired Elizabeth 'round the dance floor. Now he was decidedly base as he spoke more loudly than necessary to be heard over the music and other speakers. "There's plenty of other things here to make a man warm, though."
"Yes, all the dancing. I may try a turn or two myself, later."
"It'd be well worth the trying, I can guarantee you, Barrett. The ladies here tonight are of superior stock. Very lively."
"I have noticed."
"Now," he said, pointing out at the couples on the floor. "See that pirate wench with the red hair? There's a pretty slut who knows what's best for a man. It's the way she walks and moves is how you can tell. I'll give you seven to five that I'll be pounding her backside into the floor within the hour. What do you say?" He grinned down at me.
Oliver, for all the wine he'd taken, was just quick enough to get between us. I heard him shouting my name, trying to get through the blast of white-hot rage roaring between my ears. I fought to push him to one side to strike at Ridley, but our violent activity seized the instant attention of some of the other men present who had overheard, and they all leaped in to hold me back.
"Have a care, sir!"
"Calm yourself, sir!"
"For God's sake, Jonathan, don't!"
Through it all, Ridley stood with his hands on his hips, grinning. I wanted to smash his face to a pulp and knew perfectly well that I could do it with ease if only these fools would just let go my arms.
"You heard the bastard!" I shouted. "You heard him!"
"Aye, we did, an' there're ways for gentlemen to settle such things," said an older man with an Irish accent.
"Let them be settled, then. I'm issuing challenge here and now."
"First cool yourself, young sir."
I stopped fighting them, falling back on my heels, but still searing inside and ready to tear Ridley in two at his next word. But he said nothing and just walked away with that ass's grin fixed in place.
"That was a rare harsh insult to you, sir," said the older man with dark sympathy.
"To my sister, sir," I corrected. "And thus making it a greater offense."
"Then you're familiar with the Clonmel Summer Assizes?"
"I am." Oliver had acquired a copy of the Irish Code Duello that autumn, and I'd studied it with interest, hardly dreaming I'd find so quick a use for its rules.
"Are you cooled enough to properly deal with it?"
I could not take my eyes from Ridley's retreating back. "Jonathan?" Oliver, looking sober, yet held my arm.
"Yes," I snarled. "You heard him? You all heard?" Some three or four of them said they had. All looked grim.
"I need a second," I heard myself saying. "Oliver, would you—?"
"Need you ask? Of course I will."
"Hold now," said the Irishman. "'Tis contrary to the rules to deliver a challenge at night. No need for being a hothead. It can wait till the morrow."
