“You look beautiful, Miss Helen,” Margaret said sincerely. “It is a shame you plan to wear a mask.”
“Only for the first half of the ball, remember. But thank you.” She turned this way and that in the looking glass. “I must say I hardly recognize myself.”
A knock on the door sounded, and Helen called out, “Enter.”
Nathaniel stepped in, and Margaret caught her breath. How stunningly handsome he looked in full evening attire—black tailcoat, patterned ivory waistcoat, and cravat. His dark hair swept back on the sides but for a tasseled lock across his forehead.
Nathaniel, for his part, stared at his sister. “Helen . . .” He expelled a breath of astonishment. “I don’t know what to say. You look lovely.”
Helen grinned. “Thank you. I regret you find the notion so shocking.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind, Nate. I was only teasing.”
“Ah. I came to tell you we have a few early arrivals. I am afraid I need to summon you to your hostess duties ahead of schedule. Lewis is already in the salon.”
“No matter. I am ready.” Helen pulled on long kid gloves and picked up a sandalwood fan.
“Your mask, miss,” Margaret reminded, and stepped forward to tie the narrow mask over Helen’s eyes.
“Thank you.”
Nathaniel tied on his own mask, then offered Helen his arm. When the two reached the door, Helen raised a “wait a moment” finger and hurried back to Margaret.
She whispered, “I have asked Mrs. Budgeon to excuse you from any other duties tonight. I told her I might need you to attend me later, to refresh my hair or whatnot.”
“Oh. Yes, I see,” Margaret agreed, taking her hint. Nora would remain out of sight in Helen’s bedchamber.
But Margaret Macy would not.
As soon as Helen left, Margaret put her plan into action, palms sweating and heart thumping, afraid to be caught before she even began. She put on the fine, if outdated, gown of silvery white silk—the only gown she had located in the schoolroom trunk which she could easily get into without help. She had brought it in earlier with the laundry and hidden it at the back of Miss Helen’s wardrobe. She then removed her dark wig and—having no time to properly dress her own hair—pulled on the high Cadogan wig she had also found in the attic. It was a lofty creation with long flaxen curls at the shoulders—very Marie Antoinette. The fair blond wig shone nearly white in the fashion of the previous decade, among men and women. Though somewhat lighter than her natural color, it made her look more like herself—her old self—than did the black wig.
She bundled up her usual wig, spectacles, and everyday frock and tucked these into the back of Helen’s wardrobe. It would not do for her to change in the attic. Someone might see her coming down from the servants’ quarters dressed like a lady and make the connection.
For a moment, she sat at Helen’s dressing table, feeling guilty for presuming to use it. But other emotions weighed more heavily than guilt—fear and dread. She worried that rumors and speculation of her death would go unchallenged and her inheritance fall into greedy hands that cared nothing about Gilbert’s education or her sister’s happiness, let alone her own.
This was her chance. She mustn’t waste it.
Hands trembling, she powdered her face and applied rouge to her cheeks and lips. She wiped away the dark pencil from her eyebrows, restoring them to their golden hue. Then she tied the mask she had fashioned—from scraps of material from Miss Nash’s room—over her eyes and around the back of the wig. The mask was not much wider than Helen’s and disguised her identity somewhat but not completely. If only she could disguise her trembling hands!
Margaret regarded her reflection in the glass. The mask covered her face from just beneath her eyebrows to the tops of her cheekbones. She didn’t look like Nora, but not exactly like Margaret either. Perhaps that was for the best. There were only a few in particular she wished to recognize her. She hoped none of the serving staff, the footmen, or Mr. Arnold would recognize her as Nora playing dress-up. That would never do, since she would need to slide back into that role later tonight.
Using her handkerchief, Margaret dabbed at the nervous perspiration collecting at the back of her neck. Which route should she take to descend to the long salon and adjoining drawing room where the ball was being held? She was tempted to use the back stairs. But what if one of the housemaids came upon her? Dared she use the main stairway, where she was sure to attract the notice of Mr. Arnold standing ready at the front doors, not far from the bottom of the stairs?
She waited until the ball was in full swing, hoping the hosts and servants would be too busy to notice one more guest slipping down the stairs to join the fray. Pulse pounding in her ears, hands and knees trembling, she lifted her hem daintily and stepped as regally as she could down the main stairway. She could hear the swell of music, laughter, and conversation below. Joyous sounds. Why then did she feel as though she were on her way to her own execution? Suddenly the Marie Antoinette wig seemed a very poor choice indeed.
When she neared the bottom of the staircase, Mr. Arnold looked up from his post beside the door, but if he was surprised to see her descending, his impassive face revealed nothing.
She said in a voice of great hauteur, “I seek the ladies’ dressing room.”
“The morning room is reserved for ladies this evening.” He gestured across the hall. “First door on the left.”
She inclined her head but did not reply, keeping her chin high and not looking directly at the servant, as had been her habit in the past.
There was no flicker of recognition in Mr. Arnold’s eyes. But would she even know if he did recognize her? The man was a consummate professional. She might have come down in her shift and he would have reacted to her with the same impassive demeanor.
To avoid rousing his suspicion, she made her way to the morning room. Inside she found two giggling debutantes and an older woman being fussed over by her lady’s maid, trying to straighten a wig very like Margaret’s, which threatened to topple. Then Margaret faltered at the sight of Barbara Lyons, standing before one of three cheval looking glasses, deep in conversation with another woman Margaret did not recognize.
“He didn’t!” the woman hissed. “He broke it off with you?” Her voice rose in incredulity.
Barbara nodded.
Margaret stepped to another looking glass, placed there that afternoon for this purpose and polished by her own hand, and made a pretense of checking her own reflection.
“But why?” the woman whispered. “Because of you know who?”
Barbara shrugged, adjusting the silk flower in her hair. “I told Piers I was only flirting with Lewis and didn’t mean anything by it. But nothing I said would sway him.”
Interesting, Margaret thought. Did that mean Miss Lyons was not the woman Lewis had been out with all night?
Margaret adjusted her mask once more, tugged her gloves a bit higher, took a deep breath, and let herself back into the hall. She crossed the marble floor, keeping her face averted from Mr. Arnold, and followed the rise and fall of music to the salon.
A damp muzzle nudged her hand. Startled, Margaret looked down, surprised to see Jester in the hall, gazing up at her with adoring eyes. “No. Shoo,” she whispered. Would the dog follow her into the ball? That was no way to enter unobtrusively.
“Go away,” she urged. But Jester only wagged his tail.
Craig appeared, in full livery and powdered wig, and grabbed the dog’s collar. “Beg pardon, madam.” As he led the dog away, she heard him grumble, “You’re to be kept belowstairs tonight. When I find that Fred . . .”
Relieved at Craig’s interference, Margaret made a mental note to be nicer to the young man in future and continued to the salon. At one of its double doors, she lingered, getting a lay of the land. Two older gentlemen stood in front of her, taking turns speaking loudly into one another’s ears to be heard over the music. She hovered a few feet behind them, using the men as a sort of shield as she took in her surroundings. At one end of the room, a five-piece orchestra played. At the other, a punch table stood ready to offer refreshment. In the center of the room, twelve couples danced. She spied her sister, Caroline, among the dancers. Her partner: Marcus Benton.
Her heart soured to see sweet Caroline in his arms. Caroline smiled as she reached her hands forward to Marcus, who caught them with a grin of his own as the ladies and gentlemen changed sides in the dance. Obviously Caroline did not know what sort of man Marcus really was. She saw only his good looks and charm. As had Margaret, initially. Thank goodness her little sister had no fortune to tempt the man—at least, not into marriage. Would Caroline even heed a warning if Margaret managed to get close enough to impart the words?
She had to try.
She waited until the set ended and Marcus escorted Caroline back to their mother. Oh! Margaret’s heart pricked with a sudden needle of homesickness at seeing her mother’s graceful form. But then Sterling Benton appeared at her mother’s side, handing her a glass of punch, and Margaret’s heart dulled. She would never have the courage to approach Caroline or her mother while they were standing with him. She wished Caroline might excuse herself in search of the ladies’ dressing room, where Margaret might speak to her in private, but for several minutes her sister just stood there, smiling and talking with the Bentons and her mother.