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If music be the food of love
(Twelfth Night I.i)
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MORNING CAME, AND WITH it the awareness that this was the day of the Twelfth Night Ball. Between Frederick, his mother, and Matthew, Edward knew he had little chance of being caught unaware of the event. He was, indeed, looking forward to it. He was not a great dancer, but he enjoyed the activity, and he was not averse to spending some time in the presence of a pretty face whilst he and his partner executed the appropriate steps.
Frederick, Edward knew well, was an unabashed flirt. He was not an especially handsome man, but his countenance was pleasant, and his manner so cheerful and charming that any lack of Roman perfection of his features was quickly dismissed in favour of his open regard. His smile was genuine and inviting, and displayed so freely and winningly, that any lady with whom he chose to stand up must feel herself to be one of the luckiest in the room. But at the same time, Frederick was a good sort, and made his inclinations known to all. None of the ladies with whom he chose to spend a half hour dancing had the first notion of these attentions being anything other than what they were—a mere pleasant diversion—and none felt slighted when the charming Mr. Dyson moved on to the next lady on his card.
What would become of Frederick should he ever fall in love, Edward wondered. What sort of young woman might capture the attention of his friend to the point that he would happily eschew the company of others in her favour? He smiled to think on it. She must be pretty, for Fred certainly liked a pretty face, but need not be more than just pretty. Of her character, there must be a good amount of good humour. One so gregarious as his friend would never be satisfied with a wife of mean temperament. He would wish to be often in company, and so must his wife be, for she would be the one to take charge of the family’s social engagements. Edward was enjoying this diversion as he thought further. The future and imaginary Mrs. Frederick Dyson need not be particularly smart, but some common sense was a requirement, for Fred himself could be more than absent-minded and he needed somebody to keep him in line. And yes, a sense of humour was a necessity, for Fred enjoyed a laugh, and if that laugh were at another’s expense—all good-naturedly, of course—then so be it!
Later, as he dressed, Edward reviewed his musings, but now the train of his thoughts took a different direction. What sort of woman would he, himself, choose for a wife? She must be someone who could manage the household and be a good mother, of course, but as every man did, he had his preferences and ideals. Whilst he would not object to a pretty face—indeed, what man would deny that?—he knew that appearance was not his primary concern in finding a suitable wife. He thought of the women he knew and respected. His mother, for one, was not a particularly pretty woman, nor had she been in her youth. Her face was pleasant enough, he supposed, though he found it strange to think of his own mother in such a light. But beauty had not been her primary attraction. He thought further, of the young women he knew. Fred’s sisters were no great beauties either, but both shared their brother’s cheerful and friendly disposition, and he valued their friendship almost as much as their brother’s. But they were as sisters to him too, and he could never consider them with anything other than fraternal affection. Other friends’ sisters came to his mind, and one by one, he considered them, asking himself if their value lay in their physical appearance.
Conversely, he now let his thoughts move in the direction of his aunts and cousins. Louisa Phillips had been reputed as a lovely girl in her youth, although he could see little of that now. Frances, on the other hand, still carried the fine features of the beauty she had possessed as a young girl. Her girlish prettiness had transformed into a lasting beauty that time could not erase. And yet she was a foolish, preening creature, albeit not a cruel one, and Edward could not imagine spending his life with a vapid personality regardless of the outward packaging. His young nieces held more promise, the elder two at least. Jane was going to be lovely, and she already spoke more sense in a sentence than her mother could produce in a week. Her eventual husband would be a lucky man. Elizabeth, although less classically beautiful than her sister, was certainly fine enough to attract any sensible man, and her wit and personality would more than outshine her sister’s superior elegance. He soon satisfied himself that no, indeed, whilst he would certainly like a pretty face, it was far from a requirement for him to form an attachment.
Intelligence—that was more of a necessity. Whilst he was not outstanding in his intellect, Edward was a smart, sensible and pragmatic man. His God-given gifts were supplemented by the fortune of a good education, and he would not be embarrassed in conversation in any company. As such, he would most certainly wish for a wife who could match him in wit and understanding. She should be well-read, or willing to become so, in order that they might have good conversations on a variety of topics, and he knew he would value a discerning mind, one that would be able to sift through information and come up with a well-considered conclusion, even if that conclusion might not agree with his own. In short, he wanted a lady of good understanding who was not afraid to think for herself.
Enjoying his game, Edward mused upon what else he might require in a wife. He was not as outgoing as his friend Frederick, but he certainly enjoyed his friends, and would want a wife who was as comfortable in company as he was himself. She should be friendly and engaging, and should she desire to spend time at his workplace, she should be happy conversing with his employees and customers alike, and flexible in her manner so as to appeal to all ranks of society. She must be pleasant company, of course, but Edward did not desire someone who would always take the easy path. He wished for an interesting, interested partner in life, one who would engage him and challenge him, and make him strive to be the best man he could be. And, of course, she should be a writer of amusing and well-crafted letters. Now where did that thought come from? Begone! He berated himself as he stopped musing and turned to examine his progress in dressing for the ball.
“I’m spending a lot of time creating my perfect woman,” he told his reflection as he gazed at himself in the mirror of his dressing room. “First, I’ve created the elusive Miss Grant in the image of my ideal, and now I’m embellishing her with more accomplishments and charms from the depths of my imaginations. With this impossible ideal before me, I shall never find a mere human woman that might please me.”
He surveyed himself critically once more. The golden silk of his waistcoat shone dully against the ruby red velvet frock coat he wore in his guise as Duke Orsino. Black breeches complemented the other shades, and a gold cravat flashed against his throat. At his feet, white stockings disappeared into black dancing slippers, each adorned with a large faux-gold buckle. He was an Italianate nobleman in his red and gold splendour. He scrutinised the cravat again, retying it in what he hoped was a suitably ancient aspect, and then he sought out his mask.
He was rightfully pleased, nay, proud, with the mask he had chosen for the evening. He had requested it from his Italian business envoy, and it had arrived several months before, along with a shipment of fine brocades and tapestries. The mask was a Venetian Carnival half mask, in white plaster heavily decorated with black enamel, gold gilt, and ruby red piping, matching his costume. The long nose of the mask evoked images of the Commedia dell'arte, but once fully dressed, Edward saw that he was no Punchinello. No, he looked every inch the proud nobleman of story, and he hoped that he would be able to erase the impossible images of his created siren with the very real presence of a multitude of lovely and charming young women this evening, all eager to dance and talk and enjoy a night of innocent pleasures. He dearly wished for the evening’s entertainment to return his thoughts to women mortal, and away from the phantasm of his imagination.
Before many more minutes had passed, he pronounced himself satisfied and went to await his parents in the salon before their departure for the ball. He amused himself with a volume of Shakespeare whilst he waited. Twelfth Night, how fitting! He chuckled at his choice. “If music be the food of love, play on,” he intoned as he anticipated the strains of the orchestra as they provided the sounds for dancing. His parents soon descended from their own rooms. Neither was in costume, but both looked stately and elegant in matching shades of black and forest green, as was suitable for the social event of the season. His father and Old Mr. Dyson had been partners in business and cards for many years, and his mother had grown to both like Mrs. Dyson and respect her for her great common sense and witty humour. All anticipated a fine event this cold January evening.
James Gardiner called for the carriage, and within minutes the three were on their way to the ball. “Young Matthew is not joining us, I see,” Edward’s mother pronounced as the carriage began to move. “He is, after all too young for such events.”
“Yes, Mother,” Edward nodded his head, his mask still resting in his hands, “but he has been strangely fascinated by the preparations for the ball. I suspect Mrs. Dyson has seen more of him these past seven days than we have, for all that he works in our offices!”
“You’ve been happy with him, then son?” his father asked. “He works well enough, but we hardly know the lad.”
Edward chuckled. “That, too, is true. He is as much a mystery now as when I found him all those weeks ago. And yet, as you say, Father, he is a good and hard worker and has proven his value to me and our business every day. Unless he gives us cause to mistrust him, I shall have to remain satisfied with matters as they stand.” He looked out of the carriage window to ascertain their location. “Still, I should be glad for more knowledge of his background. I suspect there is more of a tale there than he wishes us to know.”
“Have you asked him directly?” his mother wondered.
“I did, once, Mother, but he prevaricated and replied with such vague responses that I soon knew I would not get the story from him.”
“So that is where matters must lie, then son?”
“Almost, Father. I have one more avenue to pursue. I believe the boy is from near Lambton, in Derbyshire. That is the one town we visited where he refused to exit the carriage, and insisted on hiding beneath the blankets throughout our entire stay in the town. I have sent my regular business agent in the area to make inquiries in the district. I believe the estate where the boy lived was owned by a Mr. Grant. It is not an uncommon name and there may well be several such estates in Derbyshire, but we may still find some information. I should be interested to see what arises.” He looked out of the window one more time, then exclaimed, “Aha, we have arrived. I am anticipating a fine evening. Mother, may I assist you?”
They descended from the carriage and dismissed the driver, requesting his return at a much later hour. As they walked up the short staircase to the main doors, they were impressed by the blaze of a multitude of candles, the light reflecting from crystals hanging from a bewildering number of fine chandeliers. Lights shone from every window, welcoming the guests and promising that no expense had been spared for this night of elegance when the burghers of the middle class could aspire to the joys of the landed gentry.
The Gardiners were greeted in the foyer by an efficient army of footmen. One of these handsome bewigged servants assisted Edward off with his outerwear, and guided him to an antechamber where he could adjust his costume and secure his magnificent mask. His parents, having already spied friends in the crowds, made their leave of him, abandoning their son for the joys of the card table, the smoking room, and the quieter realms of the house where they could sit and talk, somewhat removed from the inevitable din of the dancing masses.
Edward promised to find his parents at supper to discuss an appropriate hour to depart and returned to his mask in the mirror. He adjusted the creation over his face, ensuring that he could see clearly, and then proceeded to secure it to his head, certain that it would withstand the rigours of a gavotte or country dance. No sooner was he satisfied that his identity was well disguised behind his Venetian facade, did he hear his name bellowed from the door to the antechamber.
“Edward, my friend, welcome!”
“Hush, Fred! I am in disguise, remember? How will I ever maintain my air of mystery and remain incognito if you insist on broadcasting my identity to everybody in the house?” His smile shone from his eyes despite his stern words.
Frederick Dyson smiled back. “I should know you anywhere, old friend. And do not you forget, I saw that marvelous mask when first you received it in that shipment from Venice. It was magnificent then, and it remains magnificent now. I do believe I shall lock you in the library all night, so I might have some chance with the ladies. Otherwise, I am certain all shall look upon you and decide to neglect me, their host, in favour of the Mysterious and Magnificent Duke Orsino of Illyria!” He put an arm around his friend’s shoulders and added, “In truth, Edward, you look very well tonight indeed!”
Edward now regarded his own friend. Frederick’s costume was evocative of the fashions of France from before the Revolution, with an excess of lace and frippery, in pale shades of gold and linen. He wore a powdered wig on his head, although this was indeed still worn by some from the older generation, and sported only a simple eye mask, which failed to fully hide his countenance. None could mistake his wide, friendly smile, regardless of maskery and attempts at disguise.
“Et vous vous semblez aussi tres magnifique, mon ami,” Edward returned. “Louis Quatorze? Le roi soleil? You outshine us all.”
Frederick performed an elaborate bow. “Your servant, milord.” He straightened and moved closer to his friend. “But I must talk to you, Edward, or rather, I must show you something. Someone. Come with me.” He ushered Edward out of a side door and down some quiet corridors. “Mother has an old friend, from her childhood, who now lives in Town, and whom she thought to invite this evening. The friend, a Mrs. Lancaster, has only recently come to London, from somewhere North, after her husband died some fifteen months ago. He left her rather well-to-do, and she thought to establish herself here. Well,” he continued, guiding his friend through a series of closed off rooms that flanked the large ballroom in the centre of the house, “Mrs. Lancaster has a daughter. Oh, Edward, I have been struck by Cupid’s arrow. She is everything I dreamed of in a woman.”
Edward stopped walking and turned to face his friend. “What, Fred? You? In love? I cannot believe this.”
“No, my friend, you must see her. She is loveliness itself.”
“But Fred, this is a masquerade. I cannot believe you have even seen her face. And I cannot believe you would fall in love with someone you have only seen once.”
“Edward, you misunderstand. She was here earlier, this morning. Her mother has come often for tea, and today she brought Miss Lancaster, recently arrived from visiting friends, to join us. She wished to introduce her to Mother, and I was home. I saw her. I talked to her. I discovered that I needed a third and fourth cup of tea, just so I could remain in the room to be with her. She is graceful and elegant and beautiful, and her manners sweet and pleasing, and oh, when she smiles at me and laughs at my stupid jokes, I am lost. Oh, Edward, she transports me!”
“Fred, you’re serious!”
“I am!”
“Then I must meet this creature. Lead on, Your Majesty.”
Fred flashed his bright smile at his friend and opened a door, leading directly onto the ballroom. “Lead on, I shall!” And he strode boldly into the fray, with Edward following in his wake.