Masquerade balls were sometimes set as a
game among the guests. The masked guests were
supposedly dressed so as to be unidentifiable.
This would create a type of game to see if a
guest could determine each other’s identities.

—The Jane Austen Centre

Chapter 24

As the date of the masquerade ball approached, Margaret’s nerves and fears escalated. Not only would Sterling Benton again be under the same roof, but also Marcus, as well as her mother and sister. She prayed everything would go according to plan.

Helen had actually ordered a new evening gown for the occasion—light blue with a low round neckline edged in gathered white lace. This, plus a high belt of white ribbon, accentuated Helen’s figure admirably. Puffed white lace sleeves peeked out from slashed cap oversleeves of blue. The gown was simple yet elegant, and both Helen and Margaret liked it immensely.

On the night of the masquerade, Margaret helped Helen dress and arranged her hair. She had rolled Helen’s hair with pomade and paper curls the night before and now she piled Helen’s curly hair high, leaving tendrils loose at her temples to soften her face and downplay her ears. She then decorated the coif with a white ostrich feather. Margaret applied a light dusting of powder, a hint of rouge to Helen’s cheeks and lips, and the slightest bit of kohl around her eyes. It was after all, a masquerade. She also helped Helen on with a pearl necklace and earrings.

“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.

Glancing about nervously, Margaret saw Piers Saxby and Lewis Upchurch talking with Miss Lyons. Margaret had been surprised to hear Saxby had broken things off with the beautiful brunette. He and Lewis were once again costumed as pirates, while most of the other guests had settled for dominos, or simple masks with traditional evening clothes.

Margaret fidgeted. How long dared she stand there, lurking?

Finally, she had her chance. Caroline walked across the room to speak to a girl near her own age, perhaps a school friend. When the music started and that girl’s partner came to claim her, Caroline was left alone. Margaret walked quickly over to her, doing her best to keep her face averted and her back to the side of the room where Sterling stood. She did not wish him to recognize her. Not yet, at any rate.

“Hello, my dear,” she began in an affected voice, should anyone be listening. “Will you not join me in the ladies’ dressing room? I have not seen you in an age!”

Caroline’s mouth dropped open. “Margaret?”

“Not here, my dear,” she said breezily, taking her arm. “Let us speak in private.”

She managed to lead her sister toward one of the doors before Caroline pulled her to a stop and faced her. “Margaret! I knew it. I knew you could not be dead.”

“Hush, Caroline.” Margaret looked about, but no one seemed to be paying them any heed. “I cannot stay long. I only wanted you to know I was well and to warn you. I—”

“But Mother and Sterling are here!” Caroline began pulling her arm, in the direction they had come. “We must tell them. How relieved they shall be.”

Margaret resisted, grasping her sister by both arms. Everything within Margaret warned her that if Sterling got her alone, it would all be over. He and Marcus would take her arms in a steely grip and escort her from the house before she knew what had happened. “You may tell them later. Caroline, listen to me. You must be on your guard with Marcus Benton.”

Her sister’s face clouded. “We were only dancing. I thought you didn’t like him, so I didn’t see the harm in—”

“I know he seems charming, Caroline,” Margaret interrupted. “I thought so too at first, but he pressured me to marry him in a most ungentlemanlike manner. For the inheritance. That is why I left.”

Caroline shook her head. “But I have no inheritance.”

Margaret closed her eyes and asked for patience. “Money isn’t the only thing men want.” Suddenly she sensed someone watching her from the side of the room.

She glanced over and saw Nathaniel Upchurch staring at her from behind his mask, looking as though he had seen a ghost. Did he see a woman he once knew? Or was he stunned for another reason—did he see “Nora” masquerading as a lady in a blond wig?

———

Were his eyes playing tricks on him—was this a figment of his imagination? For there stood Margaret Macy in all her fair glory. A mass of white-gold hair crowning her head, curls on delicate bare shoulders. Her gown shimmered white and seemed somehow familiar. The small mask she wore did little to disguise the blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the arch of golden brows, the sensible nose, the wide, shapely mouth he had memorized and dreamt about.

How could he be certain? She was wearing a mask, after all. Was it wishful thinking on his part? He knew himself fallible in recognizing women who’d changed their hair color. But, no. It was her. He knew it.

A rush of emotions swamped him. Curiosity. Concern. Why was she revealing herself here and now, when the men she had ostensibly been hiding from were in attendance that very moment? Did she not know? Should he warn her?

Nathaniel watched surreptitiously as Margaret spoke earnestly with a younger girl—her sister, he believed. When she turned and would have hailed the Bentons, Margaret gripped her arms and stayed the gesture. Clearly Margaret wanted to talk to her sister alone, likely to assure her she was all right.

Margaret glanced over her shoulder, and Nathaniel followed the direction of her gaze. Sterling Benton suddenly straightened, eyes alert. Nathaniel straightened as well.

He could stand back and watch or he could do something to help her. He did not know exactly what she was after or what she was up against, but he knew she was eager to avoid Sterling Benton. The look of fear on her face made his decision for him.

Pulling off his mask, Nathaniel strode over to her, reaching Margaret just ahead of Sterling. Margaret whirled, prepared to take flight, but Nathaniel blocked her way.

Jaw clenched, he offered his arm. “My waltz, I believe.”

She stared up at him, mouth slack. He was oddly tempted to strum his thumb over her protruding lower lip.

Instead Nathaniel took her hand, tucked it beneath his arm, and all but pulled her onto the dance floor. Behind him he heard the low rumble of Benton’s voice, peppering the sister with terse questions.

What am I doing? Nathaniel berated himself. How did asking Margaret Macy to dance jibe with his determination to avoid her? How would feeling the warmth of her hand spread up his arm and into his chest help him forget her?

He bowed to her, and she, belatedly, curtsied. For a moment he feared the tall wig would topple from her head.

“Mr. Upchurch?” she whispered, breathless before the dance had even begun.

“Yes, Miss . . . ?” He lifted his brows expectedly.

She frowned. “Miss Macy. Margaret Macy.”

He lifted his chin. “Ah. I thought so, but I was not certain I was supposed to recognize you.”

Her brow furrowed.

“With your mask, I mean.”

“Oh!” She blushed and reached up to touch her mask, as though she had forgotten she wore one.

The music passed the introductory notes and swelled into tempo. Nathaniel grew increasingly disquieted by the direct stare of her blue eyes. He looked instead down at her waist, more disquieting yet, and placed his hands there. Oh, not helping at all.

She reached up and placed her hands on his forearms.

Quite the opposite. One tug and she would be in his arms, snug against him. He grimaced, attempting to banish the thought.

Her eyes widened. “Did I step on your foot? I am sorry if I did.”

“Not at all.”

She lifted her chin. “You needn’t dance with me if you don’t wish to.”

He glanced over and glimpsed the Benton party gaping at them. Lewis and Saxby as well. “I thought you might appreciate the . . . diversion.”

He tightened his grip on her waist and whirled her around, too preoccupied to recall the various positions of the German and French waltz. She seemed preoccupied as well, craning her neck to look over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the Bentons as she spun past.

“All of London speaks of you. Of your disappearance,” he said, as they repeated the basic step and turns.

“Do they?”

“Is that why you came? To prove you are alive and well?”

A worry line appeared between her brows above the mask. “In part, yes.”

“Then why not remove your mask and show the world who you really are?”

“It is a masquerade, Mr. Upchurch.”

“Ah. I see. And you are the queen of disguises.”

She darted a look up at him, unsure of his meaning.

Lewis appeared beside them, roguish grin on his handsome face. “Miss Macy, as I live and breathe! How I have longed to see you again. Do say you’ll dance with me. Nate won’t mind if I cut in. Will you, ol’ boy?”

Nathaniel felt the old stab of jealousy. He glanced from his brother’s face—perfectly confident she would agree—to Margaret’s.

She looked at Lewis squarely and said, “Actually, I would prefer to dance with your brother.”

Lewis’s mouth parted in disbelief.

Heart lifting, Nathaniel whirled Margaret away from his stunned brother. It was likely the first time a woman had turned him down for anything.

His fleeting feeling of victory faded, for Margaret suddenly looked quite distressed.

“Mr. Upchurch,” she fumbled. “I . . . I must take my leave directly. But before I go, allow me to say how sorry I am for the callous way I treated you in the past. I regret it most keenly.”

His heart squeezed even as he felt his brows rise. “Do you?”

She swallowed. “I was wrong about you. I was wrong about a great many things.”

He stared at her. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Sterling Benton striding purposely around the perimeter of the room in their direction. Their time was nearly up.

“I fear Mr. Benton may try to cut in next,” he said. Lewis had likely put the idea into his head.

She paled.

Nathaniel looked toward the main doors, where Hudson hovered. When their eyes met he lifted his chin. His steward instantly straightened to attention. Nathaniel nodded toward Benton with a pointed look, then lifted one finger at half mast and tapped his lips—a signal devised after working many auctions together, buying supplies and selling sugar.

Hudson followed his gaze and nodded.

As the music ended, Nathaniel whirled Margaret toward the second pair of doors and bowed over her hand. “I think, Miss Macy, you had better go the way you came and quickly.”

“Oh . . .” she murmured, breathless. “Thank you.” She held his gaze a moment longer, the emphasis on the you plucking a taut chord in his chest, pleasure and pain. It seemed clear she was thanking him for more than the dance.

She turned and hurried from the room.

Nathaniel glanced over and saw Sterling Benton making a beeline for the main doors. Hudson stepped directly into his path, and the two men collided shoulder to chest. Hudson was broader than elegant Sterling Benton, and the impact stunned the slender man momentarily.

He snarled, “I say, have a care.”

———

Margaret rushed from the room, Cendrillon fleeing the ball, the clock striking midnight and her ruse nearly up. Shivering in icy anticipation, she expected any moment for Sterling to grip her shoulder from behind. But, miraculously, she entered the hall alone.

She looked right and left and, seeing no one about, rushed across the hall and down the far corridor to the back stairs. She prayed she would not be turned away by one of the servants. As she reached the stairs, she nearly collided with Craig coming down, but he leapt aside, murmuring, “Pardon me, madam.”

Hurrying up the steps, she hoped Sterling would not ask Craig if he’d seen a lady matching her description.

In the upstairs corridor, she looked ahead and saw Betty—Betty!—scurrying along carrying an extra blanket. Betty would recognize her if anyone would. Margaret ducked her head, feigning an interest in her sleeve, but when she risked a glance, she saw Betty with her nose pressed to the wall.

How strange to see Betty become “invisible” in her presence. Years of practice and exhortations had made the action second nature, like a turtle retreating into its shell at the first sign of danger. Margaret felt amusement mixed with chagrin that Betty should face the wall for her. How she would chafe if she knew. But there was no time to waste now. She needed to slip into Miss Helen’s bedchamber and change back into her customary attire.

Margaret decided that enough people had seen and recognized her to quash the rumors of her death. Dancing around the room in full view of everyone had been brazen but effective. She wouldn’t have risked it had Nathaniel not all but pulled her onto the floor. Now she was glad he had. She was glad, too, to have that chance, though brief, to speak to Nathaniel as herself. She had very much wished to say something to melt the icy wall between them—her fault. But with Sterling Benton breathing down her neck, she had fumbled to find the words.

She hoped he’d understood.

“A thousand pardons, sir,” Hudson said to Sterling Benton, all meekness as he made a show of straightening the man’s coat. “I am terribly sorry. Please excuse me.”

Nathaniel stepped out into the hall, in time to hear retreating footfalls hurry not to the outside doors, nor up the main stairs, but rather down an interior passage—one that led to the servants’ stairs. He walked casually toward the front doors.

She had been right not to take the formal stairway that rose from the hall, for she never would have ascended from sight in time.

Sterling Benton rushed into the hall, looking this way and that. Seeing him, Sterling said, “Upchurch. The lady you were dancing with, is she . . . ?”

“Gone. You just missed her. Her carriage was ready and waiting.”

“What? Where was she going? Do you know?”

“I don’t.” He glanced at his steward behind Sterling. “Do you, Hudson?”

“I am afraid not, sir.”

Sterling fidgeted. “Did you . . . recognize her?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“I . . . did not have the opportunity to speak with her. Caroline said it was Margaret. I wanted to believe her, but I thought perhaps she was mistaken—wishful thinking, you know.”

Nathaniel placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, ostensibly in comfort, but in reality, to make sure he did not rush upstairs and begin searching the house. “What a relief it must be to know Miss Macy is alive and well. Those rumors put to bed.”

“Yes,” Sterling murmured. “Yes, of course.”

“She did seem determined to avoid you tonight. Any idea why?”

The man’s blue eyes glinted, ice cold. “No. None at all.”

———

The Bentons took their leave soon after, perhaps to ride off in search of the fleeing Margaret, or possibly to avoid the resulting questions and rumors her appearance had caused. They were a grim-faced lot, each for his or her own reason, no doubt. Nathaniel was not sorry to see them go.

He returned to the ball. He had been so distracted by the unexpected appearance of Margaret Macy that he had nearly forgotten the reason for the ball in the first place—to reintroduce Helen to society and society to Helen. He was glad the near-confrontation between Margaret and the Bentons had not marred the occasion for her. He hoped his sister was enjoying herself. He knew she was realistic enough about her age and moderate beauty not to expect to cause a stir among the single gentlemen or anything as fancifully romantic as that. But he did hope she was becoming reacquainted with her female friends and their husbands.

He had seen Helen dance with Lewis earlier—an act which had raised Nathaniel’s esteem and affection for his sometimes thoughtless brother. Now Nathaniel planned to claim Helen for a second dance. There was no reason she should sit along the sidelines of her very own ball.

He looked for her among the chattering clutch of matrons seated together beyond the punch table, fanning themselves, but did not find her. He looked through to the adjoining drawing room, where gentlemen congregated around card tables, but saw no sign of her there either. Was she off in the dining room, overseeing final preparations for the midnight supper? She ought to leave that to Mrs. Budgeon.

Couples dancing a reel gave a vigorous “Hey!” as they spun and stepped lively to the jaunty tune. Surveying the dancers, he saw several couples he knew well and a few less familiar or masked.

He stopped midstride. There she was. Good gracious. He had almost not recognized his own sister. What a ninny he was. But with her fashionable gown, flushed, smiling face, energetic steps, and youthful partner, he had mistaken her for a much younger woman. A younger, beautiful woman. What sort of magic had Margaret worked on his sister?

He glanced around, and there against the wall stood Robert Hudson. Apparently, the magic had worked on him as well. For the man’s face held a sorrowful longing Nathaniel easily recognized as unrequited love. It was a look—and a feeling—he remembered far too well.