Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  In an instant she was at my side, supporting me by the arm, and I didn’t try to push her away. I didn’t have the strength.

  “You’re burning up,” she said, and it was true. I felt none of the usual evening chill. Instead it was as hot as the hottest summer’s day. He was here. He was everywhere. But who was he? What was he?

  I tried to speak but my mouth was dry. It was difficult to even breathe.

  “Hurry, let’s get you inside. Just a few more steps. There we are. C’mon.”

  She opened a door beside the King George IV Gate and pushed me over the threshold. I stumbled into a wall and stood there, feeling cool plaster against my cheek.

  “Here now. Give me that.” I could feel her finger fishing inside my glove until she hooked the Faytling and pulled it out. The instant the talisman left my grasp, a weight lifted from me. His presence left me. I could breathe. The heat subsided. I looked around to see it wasn’t a dark room after all. It was a lighted corridor, a long one with plain white doors on either side. A servants’ area by the look of it.

  “There now, your color’s coming back.” I could hear the relief in her voice.

  “What happened?” I muttered, wiping perspiration from my forehead.

  She lifted Mrs. Crossey’s Faytling. “The spell, I’m sure. It doesn’t typically have such an effect. It should pass quickly, though. There’s a linen room near the end of the hall where we can rest.”

  “There’s no time. And I’m fine.” I wasn’t, not exactly, but whatever had happened, whatever I saw or thought I saw, was over now and once I had what I needed, I’d feel better. “What’s the quickest way to Lady Merrington’s room?”

  Marlie’s forehead crinkled over her nose. “Lady Merrington? Didn’t she return home?”

  “She went to see a sister, but it isn’t her I need. It’s what’s in her room.”

  “You need something from her room?” Her words shook with alarm.

  Her glance darted away, but before it did, I could see the question there. It would be foolish to think she hadn’t heard the gossip about me. The accusations, especially from Abigail. In all our months as roommates, she had never asked if they were true or mentioned them at all. I had hoped it meant she didn’t believe them.

  Now I wasn’t sure.

  “You must trust me,” I said.

  Slowly her glance returned to me. “Fine. Where is her room?”

  I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure exactly, and I was still so weak. But my energy was returning, slowly. “Near the Queen’s room.”

  “Next to it?”

  “No. Two doors away. Maybe three. I’ll know it when I see it.” I gnawed my lip. I didn’t like lying to her, but it was the only way.

  Marlie grumbled under her breath, gave me back the Faytling, and led the way up a bare staircase that opened to the western end of the Long Gallery. “After you,” she said.

  I poked my head out and saw no one along the crimson-carpeted corridor. A blessing.

  I tugged off my gloves and approached the first door, placing my bare right hand upon the porcelain knob. My shoulders pulled back and my chin lifted as if of their own accord. A sour sensation twisted my middle as the identity came to me. Lady Bassey.

  I yanked my hand away and moved to the next door and the next.

  Marlie gave me wary looks as we pressed on. I scrutinized each door, waiting for the dawn of recognition.

  Then a door down the hall opened. My stomach clenched.

  It was only a page.

  I straightened and squared my shoulders. Act like we belong. Act normal.

  When the boy closed the door, I begged silently, Go the other way!

  He walked toward us.

  My panic surged and nearly buckled my knees, but he only nodded as he passed.

  We stopped at another door, between a Chinese vase and a Roman bust. “This is it.” I leaned close and listened for sounds within. Nothing. I turned the knob and peeked through the crack.

  No one.

  Eagerly I slipped in, with Marlie close behind. She closed the door and latched the lock behind us, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. I was staring at what had to be the most glorious bedchamber I’d ever seen. A four-poster bed draped in quilted burgundy silks stood steps from a window covered in sheer curtains and a richly carved secretary with a matching chair. Along the eastern wall was a cheval glass and a wardrobe that rose nearly to the ceiling.

  I spied the box on a settee beside the fireplace.

  “What’s that?” Marlie peered over my shoulder as I lifted the lid.

  I peeled back the tissue paper, layer by layer, until I came to a midnight blue bodice sparkling with glass beads sewn into the shape of peacock feathers around the neckline. Gingerly, I lifted the garment by its short, capped sleeves.

  Marlie gasped. “What are you doing?”

  When the dress was freed from the box, I pressed it against myself, the way Lady Bassey and Lady Wallingham had. A strange sensation washed over me. Excitement? Fear? Both? It felt right and wrong and everything in between.

  “I’m going to wear it,” I said. “To the ball.”

  Marlie’s usually ruddy cheeks blanched. She was afraid. For me, and for herself. Maybe she was right to be. I was stealing, after all. Even if my only intent was to protect the Queen.

  But there was no time to second-guess this plan or formulate another. “I have to,” I added, to reassure her and myself. “It’s the only way.”

  She closed her eyes, and I imagined she was wishing she were anywhere else. With anyone else. When she opened them again, she was different. Not fearful, only determined. “Then you’re lucky I’m here,” she said, “because you’ll never get into that by yourself.”

  “Of course I can.” I could manage. I’d been managing on my own my whole life.

  She waved away my words. “Don’t argue. Just let somebody help you for once.”

  I closed my mouth and handed her the bodice.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Tight enough?” Marlie gave a final tug on the bodice laces.

  I struggled to breathe but nodded.

  “You said you were the same size as Lady Merrington,” Marlie grumbled.

  “Close enough.” The garment was tight, but I managed to twist at the waist, making the midnight blue silk swish around me. I wiggled my toes in the low-heeled slippers, which looked exquisite but had certainly been intended for narrower feet. The Faytling, black cord and all, was tucked within my plain cotton corset, leaving my neck and most of my shoulders bare.

  I caught Marlie eying me. “Do I look all right?”

  “See for yourself.” She motioned to the cheval glass.

  I nearly gasped when I saw myself. The gown was snug, but draped nicely, and Marlie had taken my hair out of its usual braid and secured it atop my head with the help of a comb made of mother of pearl and peacock feathers that we’d discovered in the dress box, along with long silky blue gloves and a matching fan and mask.

  What was most appealing, however, was the way the candlelight glinted off the beads, making the gown sparkle like the crystals that hung from the castle’s chandeliers. I couldn’t help but smile at the far more elegant version of myself staring back at me in the reflection.

  Is this how Lady Merrington would feel wearing this gown? Was this how they all felt, all the noble ladies who paraded around the castle in their sumptuous attire?

  “It is a beauty.” Marlie was still watching me.

  I looked away from the glass and wished away the red-hot flush creeping over my collar and cheeks. “It certainly is, but that isn’t the point. It’s necessary, that’s all.”

  I was addressing her, but I was trying to convince myself. I had a job to do and gazing into a mirror wouldn’t get it done. I went to the door and grabbed the knob.

  “Wait,” Marlie cried. “You can’t leave.”

  I whirled around, ready to defend my plan. Ready for anything. “Why not?”

  “You need these,
” she said. From her fingers dangled the fan and blue silk mask.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I moved quickly along the Long Gallery, past the formal drawing rooms to a staircase that would lead to the eastern end of St. George’s Hall, where I could slip into the crowd.

  I paused at the end of the stairwell, Marlie at my side.

  “This is it,” she whispered, the words nearly lost beneath the strains of a minuet drifting from the ballroom.

  This was it. She could accompany me no farther without calling attention to herself. I was on my own.

  Which was fine. It was. I didn’t need her or anyone. It wasn’t difficult, what I intended to do. I would simply stroll in and act like any other guest. Just one of the legion of ladies sashaying across the floor without raising an eyebrow or drawing a second glance. I was only a lookout. That was all.

  My courage increased by degrees. I squared my shoulders and did what I imagined Lady Merrington would do, what any lady of the court would do: I raised my fan strategically to my nose to cover what the mask did not, focused on the path ahead, and strode into the hall as if I belonged there.

  I kept close—but not too close—to a cluster of masked guests lingering at the hall’s massive hearth. I gazed where they gazed. I wandered where they wandered, and slowly we made our way to the ballroom.

  Then, not a dozen paces ahead, I spotted a black tricorn with a white ostrich plume and that usually disheveled hair tied back with a burgundy ribbon in the Georgian style.

  Mr. Wyck!

  I broke from my unsuspecting colleagues and followed him like a beacon through the throng. As if he sensed my pursuit, he paused and turned back. I lifted my fan to obscure more of my face and saw that silver mask that dipped below his nose. He adjusted it and smoothed the velvet lapels of his coat and the white ruffles cascading from his collar.

  I ducked behind a large matron in a marigold gown with bright silk flowers pinned to her sleeves. She scowled at me. I curtsied. “Pardon, madame.” But I didn’t move until Mr. Wyck resumed his progress toward the ball. Then I hurried as well.

  At the double doors, he halted and turned again. I hid behind a man wearing a top hat, then a man’s hand thrust in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.

  Mr. MacDougall skewered me with his gaze.

  Even so, for the first time in my life, I was happy to see him.

  I leaned in close and positioned my fan to obscure my words. “It’s Mr. Wyck. He’s dressed as a guest. A pirate. You must stop him.”

  His eyes widened in surprise then narrowed to a scowl. “Jane, is that you? Where on earth did you get that dress?”

  Wasn’t he listening? Who cared about a dress? “It’s him, sir. The one who means to harm the Queen. I know it.”

  Why wasn’t he doing something? Why was he still standing here?

  “Did you steal that dress, Miss Shackle?”

  Why did he care so much about a dress when the Queen’s life may be in danger? I leaned closer, so close I breathed the musty smell of him. “Sir, he is the threat to the Queen.”

  Even as I uttered the words, I knew they didn’t matter. The scorn on his face told me he didn’t believe me.

  He stepped back and directed me, rather harshly, toward a quieter alcove.

  Several guests and footmen watched, their eyes wide but they didn’t dare to intervene. I was too stunned to resist—but only for a moment.

  I wouldn’t let Mr. Wyck get to the Queen. It was an instinct. New but powerful. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail our sovereign, and I wouldn’t fail Mrs. Crossey or Marlie. I pushed past Mr. MacDougall and hurried through George’s Hall.

  The tricorn was no longer visible, but Mr. Wyck couldn’t be far, and I already knew his destination. I could still stop him.

  I hurried through the crowd as swiftly as the lovely, yet dreadfully unsteady, shoes allowed. Mr. MacDougall followed, but his larger size and dignified station made it more difficult for him to get through the throng.

  By the time I reached the ballroom’s doors, I could no longer see Mr. Wyck. I slid in behind two other couples and made my way along the perimeter of the dance floor to the Throne Room, where the Queen and Prince Albert would make their appearance. The doors were still closed. The royal couple hadn’t yet arrived. I wasn’t too late.

  Encouraged, I pulled back to a bare space along the wall and was searching the room for that black tricorn when someone tapped my shoulder. I snapped up my fan and prepared to excuse myself for being in the way.

  But when I turned to offer an apology, the sight of the masked pirate stunned me into silence. Even hidden behind my blue silk mask, I trembled beneath Mr. Wyck’s startling gaze.

  He held out a gloved hand. Such a large hand. “May I have this dance, mademoiselle?” His words flowed easily yet they stole my breath.

  I stared at his hand, trying to compose my thoughts.

  Finally, I mustered the breath—and the nerve—to speak.

  “What game are you playing, Mr. Wyck?” I hardened my glare to match the steel in his own.

  His eyes flashed. “So, you’ve found me out.”

  Was that condescension in his voice? I didn’t know, but I had to admire his cool demeanor. Was he truly so comfortable among these peers of the realm? I had to wonder why that was.

  “I have,” I said, “as you have guessed me.”

  Beneath his rigid mask, amusement teased his lips. “Indeed, I have, Miss Shackle. Shall we dance?”

  He watched me for some time. Was he toying with me? Or did he intend to distract me, so he might carry out his devious plan?

  Again, a desire—no, a need—to protect the Queen surged through me. I would keep him from his plan, whatever it took. Placing my own gloved hand in his, I said, “Yes, I would very much like a dance.”

  His arrogance faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly and led me to the center of the floor. Without another word, he placed his right hand on my waist and held my hand with his left. When I looked up, he was staring at me with startling intensity. Then, he dipped his chin and picked up the waltz.

  To be fair, he was a passable dancer. Good, actually. I had prepared myself for a degree of fumbling, but there was none of that. In fact, I wondered if my own skill held up, honed as it was in Chadwick Hollow’s main room on holidays and occasions when the headmistress felt festive and played the pianoforte for our enjoyment.

  When I missed a cue and stepped on his foot, I knew instantly the error was my own. “Terribly sorry,” I muttered, mortified.

  “For what? I didn’t feel a thing.”

  He was lying, but I smiled despite myself. If he was simply biding his time, he was at least being amiable as he did so. A twinge of guilt twisted within me. I knew I shouldn’t be enjoying this. I was only distracting him to keep him from the Queen. That’s what I told myself as we twirled on the polished stone floor like a scene from a fairy tale, so much opulence swirling around us, the candlelight making every gilded surface glow.

  He took in the crowd. So many people, but no one took note of us. Each was lost in his or her own world as we were lost in ours.

  “Blue suits you,” he said.

  I looked up. “Pardon?”

  “The color. The dress brings out the color of your eyes. I suppose it would be indelicate of me to ask how you came by such a costume or how you came to be here.”

  And then I remembered myself. We weren’t dance partners, and we certainly weren’t friends. We were adversaries.

  “Yes, I suppose it would,” I said, cautiously. “As it would be indelicate if I were to ask the same of you. I’m sure your mother taught you better manners than that.”

  A shadow darkened his expression. “She didn’t have the chance. She passed when I was young.”

  The confession struck me like a slap across the face. Despite my dislike of him, he didn’t deserve my cruelty. His pain reminded me of my own. My own loss.

  Don’t be fooled. It’s what he wants you
to think.

  But could he be so devious? If he knew my past, he could easily use it against me.

  Then I saw Mr. MacDougall prowling the edge of the room, watching Mr. Wyck and me. My anxiety eased. He may not be the ally I would have chosen, but he was Fayte, which meant he would help me if it meant helping the Queen.

  Mr. Wyck must have seen the House Steward as well because he tightened his hold on my waist, a sensation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant but made me glad to know Mr. MacDougall was near.

  Finally, when our waltz ended, I stepped back and curtsied, thanking him for the dance.

  He didn’t release my hand. He tightened his grip instead. “You wouldn’t leave me after just one dance, would you?”

  I glanced up into his dark eyes, disarmed but curious.

  “It’s just that if you don’t have anyone else on your dance card,” he continued, “I should like to keep your company. Unless you object to mine.”

  Again, he was playing with me.

  Again, my mind reeled and I wished my thoughts didn’t fixate on the spot where his fingers touched my glove. I wasn’t flirting. I was protecting the Queen. As long as we danced, he could do her no harm.

  The fact that part of me enjoyed the dancing was of no consequence at all.

  “As it happens,” I said, “I don’t object.”

  The musicians struck up a lively polonaise. Before I could say another word, he guided me across the floor. In the middle of the dance, the music dwindled to a slow and muddled stop.

  Across the floor, the Throne Room doors glided open. Two heralds appeared, one lifting a polished brass trumpet to his lips to sound the announcement of Her Majesty’s arrival.

  At its conclusion, the musicians launched into the opening measures of Homage to Queen Victoria.

  From my vantage point, I could see a uniformed Prince Albert but not the Queen, though I knew she must be there as well, only too diminutive to be seen.

  Beside me, Mr. Wyck watched, too. I had to wonder at the diabolical plans that must be grinding behind that determined expression. If ever there was a time I wished I could read his mind, now was it. You scoundrel! You may be able to block your thoughts, but I already know your intentions.