“You, my darling. You’re the reason why I can now do this.” The handsome French count was no longer seated in his wheelchair. He was standing and holding out his arms to her.
“You have inspired me to new heights. My love for you has given me back my legs, my health. In return, please allow me to take you away from such unnecessary drudgery.”
Emily realized she was wearing a rag-like version of her usually spotless maid’s uniform.
“Come with me, and we will live in my mansion in France, where a legion of servants shall serve you. I’ll fill your days with beauty and culture and your nights with lavish attention and the most sensual pleasures you’ve ever dreamed of experiencing. “ He took an unwavering step toward her, arms outstretched.
“My love for you has healed my legs. But only your love for me will heal my heart.”
Emily could say nothing.
“Speechless, my dear?” His smiled was almost wicked. “Then all you have to do to answer me and signal your love is to knock on the door.”
Emily raised her hand but could find no door. Where was it? She had to knock. She had to signal her acceptance of his love and to let him know she shared his feelings.
The door! Where was the door?
“Please, my darling “ he pleaded. “Tell me you love me. Don’t let me languish here, unsure of your feelings. Tell me you love me. . . .”
She dropped to her knees and began to pound the floor, hoping it would be a worthy substitute.
Knock, knock, knock . . .
Emily woke with a start, not recognizing her grand surroundings. As her fuzzed brain cleared, she realized she was still staying in the Royal Suite and that someone was knocking on her door with great insistence and perhaps even greater impatience.
She pushed aside the book she’d been reading before she fell asleep, a rather torrid story of an injured sheikh and the woman who nursed him back to health. The book had certainly fueled her rather odd but pleasant dream, but the reality of her dilemma chased away any lingering remnants of the dream.
She stared at the door with some trepidation. As far as she knew, the Major wasn’t aware she was still in town, much less staying at The Chesterfield, surrounded by such luxurious appointments. If the rattling at the door meant she’d been discovered, then she’d need to think of a story that would prevent Miss Sparrow’s generosity from turning into a liability.
Emily pulled her robe over her nightclothes and crept toward the door.
Should she say, “Who is it?” and attempt to disguise her voice? If truth be known, she wasn’t much of a mimic. What if the Major saw through any attempt she made to sound like someone who truly belonged in such decadent quarters?
But before she could reach the knob, it began to rotate.
She caught her breath, then heard a hoarse whisper in the hallway.
“Emily, it’s me, Cornelia. Let me in before he wanders up her and sees me.”
Releasing her pent-up breath with a relieved whoosh, Emily unlocked the door, allowing her friend to tumble into the room.
Cornelia shot her a smile of theatrical disapproval as she struggled under the weight of her large parcel. “You have turned into a very deep sleeper since you’ve become M’Lady of Leisure.” She shoved the bundle in Emily’s direction as if to offer half of its weight. Emily dutifully complied, taking her end of the paper-wrapped parcel.
“So what’s in the—”
“Wait.” With her free hand, Cornelia motioned for silence. “Listen.”
They could both hear the quiet tap of the Major’s boots as he turned the corner, stepping off the thick carpet and onto the highly polished wooden floor. Then he started down the long corridor, pausing at every room, as if testing each door’s security.
Emily gestured with a furious nod at the unthrown lock. But how could they lock it in time? Surely he’d hear the noise and be alerted that an unwanted resident had taken roost in The Chesterfield’s finest suite. How would they avoid being discovered? Certainly if he heard them lock the door, he would fling it open right then and there and discover their subterfuge.
Cornelia could explain her presence. As a maid, she could simply say she was doing a little maintenance cleaning, having traded duties with the maid under whose responsibilities the suite fell. But Emily would have no such convenient excuse. She wasn’t supposed to be in the hotel, much less in its finest suite.
She tried to shove the parcel back toward Cornelia so she’d be free to hide, but at the exact same time, Cornelia tried to force the parcel into her arms. Bigger and stronger, Cornelia won the battle, and Emily staggered under the item’s unwieldy bulk.
Cornelia shifted toward the door and began to nod in rhythm to the Major’s boots. The taps paused and Emily entertained a vivid image of the Major checking another door or perhaps examining the hall table for errant dust.
Lord protect any hall maid who left a speck of dust on a single piece of furniture.
Then the taps started again, indicating his approach.
How many doors were there between the hall table and this room? She racked her brain, but couldn’t remember.
Step, step, step . . .
The taps grew louder.
Step, step—click.
Cornelia threw the bolt in perfect rhythm with the Major’s boots, thus disguising her actions in the cadence of his footsteps. However, the danger wasn’t over yet. Emily began to teeter under the overwhelming weight of the parcel, unable to say anything to alert Cornelia to her dilemma. Any sound that would warn Cornelia might still draw the Major’s unwanted attention. Emily bit her lip as the package grew heavier and her knees weaker.
Luckily, Cornelia turned to share a silent look of triumph and recognized what dangers of discovery still faced them. Reaching down, she snagged the end of the parcel, which was dipping precariously to the floor. Emily regained the balance she had been losing.
They made faces at each other and waited in pained silence until the Major’s heel taps stopped at their door, tested the knob, found it sufficiently secure, then moved on. They listened to his footsteps fade away. A few moments later, they both heard him hit the telltale creaky tread of the first step of the staircase.
Once she determined they were safe, Cornelia said a word that proper Southern girls simply didn’t say in public or private.
“Cornelia!” Emily chided.
Cornelia made a gesture to the door. “I can’t help it. That man vexes me to all ends. I have a mind to bring a curse on him.”
“He’s not a mean man,” Emily offered in weak defense. “Just a strict one.”
“A strict one who needs to learn a lesson or two.” Cornelia and Emily shifted together and dropped the bundle onto the bed. Her friend continued with a rather evil laugh. “And I know just the right curse for a man like him. My Nanny May taught it to me.” She made an elaborate swirling gesture with both hands toward the door.
Emily cringed in anticipation of a hex filled with a forecast of doom, gloom, and general mayhem. Cornelia was a very good friend, but her continuous need to hex people made Emily quite uncomfortable.
Then again, Cornelia’s hexes never seemed to work very well.
Her friend spoke in a dramatic, solemn voice “Major Payne—”
Emily tried not to giggle at the hotel’s oldest joke concerning The Chesterfield’s most major pain.
“—may you fall in love with a woman who will make your life as miserable as you have made ours.”
It seemed a suitable curse, perhaps even a justified one, containing none of the usual elements of rampant warts, excessive hair loss, or uncontrollable flatulence. Emily had no problem adding a quiet, “So be it,” to Cornelia’s proclamation.
After a moment of silence, they both released nervous giggles.
“Banish him from your mind.” Cornelia brushed away the memory with a sweep of her hand. “I’ve brought you a present from Maria.” She turned to the bundle wrapped in muslin and tied with string.
Emily scanned the package, trying to determine its contents from its lumpy outline. “Another dress. But I have so many already, thanks to her.”
“And Lady Arkling,” Cornelia prompted.
“Even her.” Emily released a sigh. “But don’t you see? I’m afraid to go out and wear any of them because I’m afraid I’ll run into the Major.”
“He’s a man.” Cornelia made a rude noise. “He wouldn’t notice. They never do. But what’s even worse”—she made a face—“is that he’s more than a man. He’s an overbearing manager who sees you only as a servant. He’s never been interested in your face, only the perfection of your uniform and the thoroughness of your dusting. That’s why he tends to address us by title rather than name.”
She cleared her throat and barked, “Maid!” in a perfect imitation of the man. “‘One of the Cat twins has made a mess on the second floor east landing. Clean it up. Now.’”
They both laughed, remembering the two small terrors, a set of four-year-old twins, whom the staff had christened “Cat-astrophe” and “Cat-aclismic.”
“The Major calls us ‘Maid’ because he doesn’t know, nor does he wish to learn, our names,” Cornelia proclaimed.
“He knows mine,” Emily said darkly.
“But only associated with a maid’s uniform. Take away the uniform, and you’re a perfect stranger to him.”
“I don’t believe that. He recognized me in town once when I wasn’t wearing a uniform. He was no more cordial then.”
Cornelia shrugged. “Then perhaps a bit more of a change is in order.” She reached up and pulled at one of Emily’s combs that helped keep the sides of her hair tucked into a neat bun. “If we make a change in your hair and add a bit of makeup, he’d never mistake you for the ‘lowly’ hotel maid who was supposed to go home after reaching the end of her contract.”
Emily shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s little you can do to change my looks. I look like myself and no other.”
Cornelia’s eyes twinkled. “When I’m through with you, you won’t recognize your own reflection.” Emily eyed the large bundle. “If it takes that many hair implements and pots of rouge to make me look like a different person, then I’m afraid we’ll be trying to complete a fool’s errand.”
Cornelia dismissed Emily’s fears with a careless wave, then reached into her own apron pocket and pulled out a small drawstring bag which she dropped to the bed. “This will handle your cosmetic needs And this”—she turned to the larger bundle—“is a present from Maria and from me.” She untied the string and the paper opened to reveal layers of pink netting and shimmery white material.
Emily’s heart took an extra beat at the whimsical beauty of the fabric alone. “What is it?”
Cornelia smiled. “Maria suggested that if we were to fully play out the Cinderella aspects of your transition from lowly maid tending the hearth to the princess of the kingdom of Chesterfield, then you needed a suitable costume for the Christmas ball.”
“C-Christmas ball? But I’m not going to that. I couldn’t.”
Cornelia’s eyes sparkled as she dumped out the contents of her drawstring bag onto the bed. “Oh yes, you can. And you shall.”
Delgatto waited until Franz closed the door before jumping out of the wheelchair. He rubbed his aching rear and tried to massage back some feeling into one of his legs that had fallen asleep. Whoever had designed this contraption had spared no thought for the poor patient’s comfort.
Talk about lousy suspension and the lack of arm cushioning.
As he stretched, trying to work out the kink in his back, he noticed the invitation propped on the bedside table. Ah, yes, the infamous Chesterfield Christmas ball.
His mind wandered back to the news story he’d memorized as a part of his royal education. Although he’d taken his life’s mission quite seriously—to recover the Heart and help his family regain its rightful honor—in some ways, the stories had been just history to him. The theft of the Heart was a mystery that time had somewhat obscured. Some of what he knew about the Heart of Saharanpur was family hearsay, which he knew was sometimes tainted by time or faulty memory. He’d learned firsthand from his Great Uncle Benedicto how wishfulness sometimes unseated accuracy as memories aged.
Of course, Delgatto listened and acknowledged the stories of old, but he dedicated most of his attention to more accurate accounts of the necklace, like those found in the old yellowed newspaper clippings his grandmother had provided him.
They were words he knew by heart.
He picked up the invitation and ran a finger along its deckled edge. History would try to repeat itself at the ball. The Heart of Saharanpur would decorate the neck of some lovely lady in costume. That much would be the same. But instead of it disappearing into the ether, never to be seen again, Delgatto would find it, take it, and use it to restore his family’s honor and perhaps even a bit of their glory as well.
He stared at the word masquerade.
But there was one small problem. How did he come up with a suitable costume without any of the staff knowing and therefore being able to identify the man in it? He allowed himself a rather satisfied smile.
Where there’s a will . . .
It took a full day for Delgatto to gather what he needed. He stole bits and pieces from here and there across the resort. He appropriated a brocade pillow from the billiard room, slipping it beneath his seat. In case anyone saw him, he could explain away his theft as temporary because of the wooden seat’s discomfort. Anyone who had spent more than a moment sitting in one would concur wholeheartedly.
He entertained a group of children by doing a bit of sleight of hand with a deck of cards someone had left in the lobby. His big finale was to demonstrate his ability to pull a tablecloth from the table in the Great Hall without disturbing a vase of flowers. The children and even some of their parents all oohed and aahed over his success, and no one noticed that the tablecloth wasn’t returned to the table but slipped under his lap blanket instead.
Once he deposited his ill-gotten gains back in his room, he called for Franz and asked to be taken to the bathhouse for a bath and massage.
Rather than use the wheelchair, Franz enlisted the help of yet another burly man, whom Delgatto felt compelled to name Hans, and the two of them used an “invalid chair”—not much more than a chair suspended between two horizontal poles—to manage the many sets of stairs that formed the pathway from the resort to the bathhouse. Delgatto felt like an Eastern potentate as the two men lifted the chair and trotted to the bathhouse via an outdoor footpath.
He shivered as he glanced back at the hotel, whole and intact here in the past, but nothing more than a broken, burned shell in his own time. He’d never thought about what the building might have looked like before tragedy struck. He glanced at the imposing brick building and tried not to sigh.
What a grand lady to have been lost.
As they continued to the bathhouse, he searched his memories, trying to recall exactly what had finally happened to the building.
Fire? Lightning?
General neglect?
Or had modern technology simply rendered the old girl useless in comparison to twenty-first century hotels complete with glass elevators, WiFi in every room, and built-in Jacuzzis?
Had she ended her life in a bang, or did her whimper include a slow steady slide to oblivion via Magic Fingers vibrating beds and hourly rates?
God, he hoped not.
She’d deserved a more stately ending, more of a bang than a wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
His thoughts slammed back to the past as Franz and Hans deposited him in a dressing room. There he was given a long black swimsuit that almost made him laugh out loud.
No Speedos need apply, he thought as he tugged on the outfit. A minute or two later, the huge attendant—they didn’t seem to come in any other size—entered the room and picked Delgatto up as if he were a small child and carried him through a back door and into a small bath.
There, the man plunged him into water so hot it could have cooked a lobster in three minutes. After two and a half minutes, the burning sensation had either subsided or his pain sensors had been cooked.
The bath attendant reappeared, dragged him out of the water, and then deposited him back into the dressing room. There he was stretched out on a thin mattress placed on what looked like an old army cot. The attendant covered him in blankets and said in stilted English that he’d be staying there for a while to sweat the impurities out of his body.
“I check you in one hour, sir,” the man said, his stilted language and jungle man muscles reminding Delgatto of Tarzan on a bad day. “You need anything, you call out.”
“Ungawa,” Delgatto replied. The man gave him an odd look, then left.
Evidently he didn’t speak Ape Man .
After the door closed, Delgatto counted to twenty before struggling out from beneath the six layers of flannel blankets that the man had piled on him. He crept toward the door leading to the bath. Earlier, he’d noticed that one bath area served two dressing rooms. Listening intently, he heard a familiar, reassuring sound in the other room.
He stuck his head around the corner and spotted a huge mound of blankets that were rising and falling in rhythm to the loud snores emanating from within.
Delgatto tiptoed around the sleeping man and examined the clothing neatly hung on hooks on the wall.
Buckskins.
McKinney.
Delgatto smiled to himself and plucked the large black cowboy hat from the wall where it hung next to the clothes.
He examined the material, then tried on the hat.
Perfect fit. He took it off and spun it around his forefinger.
It’d be the perfect cap to a perfect disguise.
Emily continued to hide in her room for the rest of the day, refusing Cornelia’s offer to disguise her sufficiently to enter polite society as something other than a misplaced maid. She had a duty to protect Miss Sparrow’s faith in her and not jeopardize the woman’s position by being careless with her generosity.
But going to the ball . . . that was a different situation.
Any mask she’d wear would afford her a true sense of freedom, allowing her to be whoever she wanted for one magical night.
But until the ball, Emily was happy feasting on the treats that Rupert, Cornelia, and a host of other closemouthed friends sneaked up to her suite. Best of all, the suite included an entire bookcase, which provided sufficient entertainment to keep Emily happy as she lounged in the bed, eating grapes and reading tales of impossible feats, fantastical exploits, improbable wars and, of course, storybook romances to last a lifetime.
She was deep into her third book of the day when she heard Cornelia’s special knock. Bounding from the bed, Emily left behind the tale of adventure to let her friend into the room.
Cornelia looked at the rumpled cover and the stack of books at the foot of the bed. “Reading again?”
Emily picked up her current tale. “It’s been heavenly.” She spun in a circle, indicating the room. “Is this how the rich people live? Lying around in bed, eating what they want, reading what they want?”
Cornelia sniffed. “Before Daddy lost his money, I don’t recall reading being my favorite entertainment.” She examined the bookcase. “In fact, I seriously doubt any of those books have been read in years.” She ran a critical finger across their spines, then stared at the invisible grime on her finger. “Judging by how often I have to dust them, I doubt anyone ever touches them, much less reads them.”
“Well, if I were rich, that’s all I’d do.” Emily clutched her book to her chest. “Read, read, read.”
Cornelia picked up one of the books Emily had left in a stack on the bedside table. “Fairy tales?” She offered Emily a sly grin. “Those are for children. Why read about them when you can live one?” She nodded to the costume which hung in prominence in the open wardrobe. “Shall we start getting you ready for your adventure, Cinderella?”
Emily glanced at the pink and white outfit and swallowed hard. “I suppose so.”
“Then let the magic begin!”
Cornelia primped and curled, painted and powdered, but doggedly refused to allow Emily to see the results in the hand mirror.
“Not until I’m through,” she exclaimed, moving the mirror out of Emily’s reach.
Even after she stepped back and pronounced Emily “a living work of art,” Cornelia still refused to let her see herself, going as far as throwing a sheet over the mirror standing in the corner of the bedroom.
“Not yet,” she ordered. “Not until we’re completely through with everything.”
With Cornelia’s help, Emily began to dress, starting with the specially designed petticoat. She stepped into the garment, which consisted of multiple rows of fine netting that cinched at her waist. The costume’s skirt fit over the petticoat and was made of pink silk embroidered with small white roses and tiny green leaves. The top part of the costume consisted of a white silk overblouse with large flowing sleeves and a high ruffled collar.
Once Emily donned the blouse, Cornelia buttoned the row of tiny rosebud-shaped buttons.
“You know that Maria’s husband carved all these himself.”
“I’ll feel terrible if I lose one.”
Cornelia grinned. “If you’re going to lose something, try a slipper instead of a button. That’s the way Cinderella found her prince.” She held out the most stunning piece of the costume. “And here’s the best for last.”
Emily held her breath as she examined the vest, mesmerized by both its intricate design and its practical structure. For all intents and purposes, the embroidered vest appeared to have sprouted a pair of white fairy wings that sparkled with gold flecks when they caught the light.
Upon closer examination, Emily realized Maria had caught up bits of gold glitter between the layers of gauzy material that made up the wings.
“It’s . . . unbelievable,” Emily said, running her forefinger down the edge of one wing.
Cornelia nodded. “Makes you believe in fairies, it does. Especially Christmas ones.”
“I need a Christmas fairy. Or at least an angel.” Emily gently pulled on the winged vest Cornelia held up for her. The tight-fitting bodice helped keep the wings in place so they didn’t sag from the top.
Cornelia stepped back to admire the outfit. “You do look quite fairy-like.” She pursed her lips and tapped her cheek in critical contemplation. “But you’re missing one thing.” She continued to tap. “And I’m not sure what it is.”
Emily performed a small pirouette, letting the generous skirt swirl around her legs. “Can’t you let me see what I look like? I have a feeling I know what this looks like.”
“Not yet,” Cornelia replied.
“But I have everything a fairy princess needs,” Emily pleaded. She fingered a curl by her face. “Beautiful hair, an expertly painted face, a truly enchanting outfit . . .”
Cornelia’s look of furrowed concentration melted into a smile. She snapped her fingers. “I know exactly what we’re missing.” She turned to the discarded paper that had protected the costume and searched through its folds. Finally, Cornelia discovered an overlooked package which she took entirely too much time to open.
“What is it?” Emily craned to see over her friend’s shoulder.
“Have patience! It’s tangled.” Cornelia gestured toward the covered mirror. “Take down the sheet. You have my permission to admire yourself. I think you’re going to be pleased.”
Emily pulled down the fabric that covered the mirror and was taken aback by the fanciful reflection she saw there.
Her heart wedged in her throat as she stared at the unfamiliar image; one that, in her estimation, bore little if any resemblance to her.
The woman in the mirror was a magical creature, beautiful, ethereal . . . everything Emily wasn’t. She rubbed her eyes as if they were deceiving her.
That’s me?
The concept seemed as foreign and exotic as the person who preened in the mirror. When she smiled at the figure in the mirror, the figure smiled back. But when she spoke, her voice sounded far from beautiful.
“I look like . . . that?” she croaked.
Cornelia looked up and smiled. “Stunning, aren’t you?” She abandoned her task and turned her attention to Emily’s wings, fluffing them out and giving them minute adjustments.
Emily stared at her own image for almost a full minute until acute embarrassment set in and she turned away. No one should have that much depth or breadth of interest in herself.
But that was the point. She didn’t feel as if she was looking at herself.
“And here are the finishing touches, Your Royal Highness.” Cornelia nestled a golden crown in the curls at the top of Emily’s head, then handed her a long stick which ended in a gilt star. “Or should I say Your Royal Fairy Highness.”
Emily surrendered, allowing herself to gaze at her own reflection for as long as she wanted. “I can’t believe it’s me.” She turned slowly, trying to catch a better view of the wings.
Cornelia shifted next to her and studied the reflection with far less rapture. She balanced her fists on her hips. “I still think there’s something missing.”
Emily released a sigh to reflect her utter satisfaction. “No, it’s perfect! I look nothing like myself.”
Her friend folded her arms and shook her head. “Don’t be so sure. I still see my friend Emily when I look in the mirror at you.” Cornelia’s sigh reflected far less satisfaction and much more resignation. “Maria was right. She said I couldn’t make you look different enough.” Cornelia rustled through the discarded wrappings and then turned around, holding something made of feathers. “So she made a mask for you.”
The feathered mask was white with gold along the edges and had been formed to look like a miniature set of wings, similar to those of her costume.
Emily held the mask in place as her friend tied the gold-colored ribbons behind her head.
“That’s better, but it still needs something. Some jewelry, perhaps. I have Grandmama’s cameo, but it’s blue. You need something gold.”
“Or green?” A shiver danced up Emily’s spine. “I have the perfect necklace. . . .”