by M. C. Beaton
Suddenly, something struck her savagely on the back of the head, and she fell unconscious among the undergrowth.
The viscount was looking anxiously for Jean Morrison. The twins had told him they planned to attend his costume ball as fairies. He thought Amanda in particular with those scowling black eyebrows would look ridiculous. Why couldn’t they go as demons? That would be more in keeping with their looks and personality. Miss Morrison must dissuade them. But where was Miss Morrison? The servants said they had last seen her walking around to the back of the house. He remembered suggesting she look at the gardens, and headed that way.
He was about to follow the path down to the beach when he heard a faint moaning coming from the left. He wondered at first whether the twins were playing a trick, but faintly from behind him he heard the sound of the pianoforte as Mr. Perdu played to the girls’ dancing. He hurried along the path to the left.
He heard the moaning sounds again and then saw a neat foot and excellent ankle sticking out into the mossy path from the undergrowth. He ran along and found Jean lying moaning, her face ashen white.
He scooped her up into his arms, exclaiming, “What happened?”
“Something hit me on the back of the head,” she said faintly. He carried her along the path and out of the wilderness of the garden, laid her gently down on a patch of grass, and examined the back of her head. “A nasty blow,” he said. “We had best get the physician to have a look at you.”
He picked her up again and walked toward the house, cradling her against his chest.
Followed by an anxious Mrs. Moody and two maids, he carried her up to her bedchamber and laid her gently on her bed. “I’ll leave you to undress her,” he said to the housekeeper. “The physician will be here shortly.”
Downstairs again, he sent a footman off to St. Giles to bring the physician and then walked back to the gardens to where he had found Jean. There was a broken branch on the path. He picked it up and examined it. There were a few red hairs and some blood stuck to it. He looked up. There above him was a rotten tree and a break showing where the branch had fallen off. That should solve the mystery, he mused. And yet, surely the falling branch would have crashed into some of the tangling of branches below before falling onto Jean’s head. On the other hand, who would have reason to strike her down? He shook his head. He had been listening to too many fantastic tales in the evenings.
The physician—to Jean’s relief—said she did not need any stitches. Stitching would have meant shaving a part of her head. She was told to stay in bed and rest quietly. At first Jean was glad to comply, for she felt very weak. But after two days she felt much stronger, and it was maddening to hear all the preparations for the ball already going on—although the ball was not to be held for another month.
She roused herself, looking forward to seeing the viscount at dinner. But the lord lieutenant of the county and his lady had come to call and had been pressed by the viscount to stay for dinner. The newly refurbished morning room next to the drawing room was to be used as a dining room for Jean, the dancing master, and the twins. Jean felt the gulf between herself and the viscount widening. The more people he met socially, the less he would expect her company at table. She felt almost resentful of the presence of the dancing master, feeling had he not now been resident at the castle, perhaps she and the girls might just have been allowed to the dinner table proper.
Mr. Perdu chattered away to Amanda and Clarissa, promising them both dances at the ball. He had only a very slight French accent.
He then turned his attention to Jean. “And what will you be wearing by way of a costume, Miss Morrison?”
“I have not really thought about it. I suppose I had better decide on something before it is too late.”
He tilted his head on one side and looked at her consideringly. “With your color of hair, miss, I would suggest Queen Elizabeth.”
“A good idea, but too elaborate a costume to be made in such a short time.”
“There is such a one. There is a chest of clothes in the attics dating back to when this really was a castle, and well preserved in camphor, too.”
“And what were you doing in the attics?” Jean asked curiously.
He smiled. “The ladies and I became tired of dancing and hopping and so we went to explore. There is also a chest of costumes. The ladies have chosen two Turkish ones which the seamstress is altering.”
“You might have told me,” Jean said to Amanda.
Amanda scowled horribly. “If you hadn’t been poking your nose into the shrubbery and getting hit on the head, I might have.”
“Mind your manners,” Jean snapped, and Mr. Perdu said smoothly, “That is no way to talk to your governess.” His black eyes mocked Jean. “A governess of distinction, too.”
The twins exchanged smiles with him. Jean felt uneasy. There was an odd conspiratorial air about the dancing master and the two girls. He was young and undeniably attractive, and the girls could expect good dowries. She hoped he was not ambitious enough to try to woo one of them. The viscount had told her to take a holiday from the schoolroom and to leave the twins to their dancing lessons, but she felt she was losing her control over them. Still, the dancing master was to be employed only until the ball. Now she longed for the ball to be over and done with so she might return to those relaxed intimate evenings, dining with the viscount and reading to him and the girls after dinner.
When dinner was over she asked to be taken to the attics to inspect the costumes. In the chest she found an Elizabethan gown of green silk, heavily encrusted with gold. It should be easy to get a ruff to go with it, she thought, for ruffs had just come back into fashion. There was also a farthingale. Then the twins led her to the seamstress’s little room to examine their Turkish costumes which Jean was relieved to notice were modest enough, not being the genuine article but having obviously been designed for some earlier costume ball.
After that evening it was somehow understood that Jean should take her meals with the dancing master and the twins. The viscount was always busy. There were callers every day now. The Pembertons had not reappeared, although they, with Toad Basil, had been invited to the ball.
An orchestra was to play in the long gallery and carts were arriving with rout chairs to be put along the walls of the hall where the dance was to be held.
Then the viscount’s friends arrived back from London to stay, and their presence as guests in the house put a further social barrier between Jean and the viscount. And then, just before the ball more friends of the viscount’s descended, lords and ladies and their entourages and their hopeful daughters. Jean found herself being squeezed more and more into the background.
She was about to pass the time by putting some final stitches in the Elizabethan costume she was altering, but as she made her way up the main staircase, a Lady Conham and her daughter, Eliza, walked past her as if she were invisible, talking animatedly. “Are you sure you want to go to this ball as Queen Elizabeth, Mama?” the daughter said. “I have heard that Lady Pemberton has chosen just that costume.”
“There may be many duplicates,” Lady Conham said placidly, “and there is no time now to change.”
Jean bit her lip. She did not want to be just another Elizabeth at that ball. She ran up to the attics and feverishly began to search through the chests of costumes. She took out a pretty blue silk ball gown in the style of 1750. It had been wrapped in tissue paper and was still in good condition, and hanging on the wall of the attic was a hoop that could go under it. She could powder her dreadful red hair and go as who? Marie Antoinette? Well, that might be in bad taste. Just as a gentlewoman. She carried the costume to her room and tried it on. It fitted perfectly, although the low square neckline cried out for some jewelry.
She dressed in her own clothes again and walked down the stairs. All the guests present knew Jean Morrison was nothing other than a governess despite her fashionable gown, and they walked past her as if she did not exist.
“Miss
Morrison!” She turned and looked up at the viscount. “I have not seen much of you of late. You are looking thoughtful. Have your charges tried to murder you again?”
Jean smiled. “No, my lord. I was thinking about my costume. I was going to go as Queen Elizabeth but I overheard Lady Conham saying she was going as Queen Elizabeth, and Lady Pemberton, too. I found a costume in the attics of about sixty years ago which is vastly pretty. But I do not have any jewelry and the ladies of that period wore such a lot.”
“There is a box of the stuff in my room,” he said. “The Courtney jewelry. It may be rather dirty, as I don’t think any of it has been worn for some considerable time. But come and look at it.”
He walked up the stairs beside her, talking companionably, and once more Jean passed Lady Conham and her daughter, but this time they did not ignore her but stared at her with hard, speculative eyes.
Once in his dressing room next to his bedchamber, the viscount lifted down a heavy metal box from the top of the wardrobe. He fished a small key out of a drawer on a table and unlocked the box. “What color is your gown?” he asked.
“Blue—blue silk,” Jean said, looking wonderingly down at the sparkling jewels.
“Pity. With eyes like yours it should have been green. Here we are! Is this not magnificent? I have never really looked closely at these jewels before.” He held up a heavy sapphire necklace, sapphires set in circles of tiny diamonds.
Jean looked at it longingly. “It is too fine for a governess.”
“Not governess, companion, and no one will know who you are, for you will be masked. Turn around and let’s try it on.”
Jean did as she was bid, trembling slightly as his hands brushed against the back of her neck. “Now look in the mirror!”
He turned her toward a long pier glass. Her gown was a modest one of pure white muslin, but the neck was fairly low and the sapphires gleamed like blue fire against the whiteness of her neck.
He was holding her lightly by the shoulders, standing behind her as she faced the glass.
“Why,” he said in a voice tinged with wonder, “you are beautiful!”
And he bent his head and kissed her gently on the side of the neck.
She shivered and took a step forward. “My lord!”
“I am sorry,” he said quickly. “But for a moment I forgot who you were. Do not look so pale and frightened, Miss Morrison. Do I look the kind of man who would seduce a governess?”
Jean dumbly shook her head.
“And will you forgive me and make use of this necklace?”
Jean nodded.
“Then off with you, Miss Morrison, and do forget my lapse from good taste.”
Jean undid the heavy catch of the necklace and then went quickly from the room, clutching it in her hand. She wanted to cry. She wanted to break things. Above all, she wanted to be a rich young lady who could stand a chance with the beautiful viscount.
She firmly reminded herself of her duties and went to the drawing room. The piano had been carried back there and the carpet rolled up. But the dancing master and the twins were sitting by the window, their heads together, whispering fiercely.
“You will never learn to dance at this rate,” Jean exclaimed.
Mr. Perdu immediately leapt to his feet. “Sure, and weren’t we just having a well-earned rest,” he said merrily. “Now, young ladies, let us show Miss Morrison how well you waltz! Miss Morrison, play for us.”
Jean sat down at the piano, mechanically selected a piece of waltz music, and started to play. She had been sure that Mr. Perdu’s first sentence had been spoken in an Irish accent, although when he had asked her to play, his voice had reverted to his usual French one.
She twisted around as she played, saying, “It is very hard to play and see what you are doing.”
“Then stop,” Mr. Perdu said gaily, “and we’ll move the piano.”
Jean stood aside while he manhandled it around to face the room. He was, she noticed, despite his small stature, extremely strong. She began to play again. Amanda and Clarissa danced beautifully, their short, squat bodies actually achieving a certain grace.
When they had finished their demonstration, she said warmly, “Excellent. You have done wonders, sir.”
“Miss Morrison is going to the ball as Queen Elizabeth,” Amanda said.
Jean opened her mouth to tell them about her change of plans and then closed it again. She felt strangely guilty about that necklace. It was not correct that the viscount should lend such precious gems to a mere governess.
The night of the ball rushed upon them. The days leading up to it seem to have moved slowly, but suddenly here it was. Mrs. Moody, the housekeeper, resplendent in a new black silk gown, bustled about, seeing that all the bedchambers were aired and ready for any who wished to change into their costumes after arrival. A little-used anteroom off the hall had been furnished with a dressing table and boxes of powder and pins. Betty was to sit there in attendance, collecting the cloaks of the arriving ladies, and ready to help with torn hems or other disasters.
Jean put on her costume, spreading the blue silk skirts over the wide hoop. She back-combed her hair and arranged it up on her head before powdering it with some scented powder she had found in the attics. She placed a black patch high on one cheekbone and then put the heavy necklace around her neck. A stranger looked back at her from the glass, an elegant, poised stranger. She picked up a blue silk mask she had made and tied it on. Just this one evening she was going to pretend to be a lady. Would he remember to dance with her? There were so many pretty ladies present, marriageable ladies. He should not have kissed her. But, oh, what would it be liked if he kissed her on the mouth? Jean shivered and tried to banish that wicked dream from her head. But it persisted, and she gave herself up to it, finally realizing with a start that the ball had started and that she should collect her charges and take them downstairs.
She went to the twins’ room and found it empty. They had gone downstairs without her. She retreated to her own room, suddenly shy. To go down to the ball with the twins was one thing, but to go down on her own was another. She had never been to a ball before.
The sounds of a waltz filtered upstairs. She should be there, in his arms, dancing the waltz, but she seemed frozen with fright, unable to move.
“But if you don’t move,” said a jeering voice in her head, “you will have nothing to remember when you are a tired old maid.”
She picked up a painted fan and hung it over one wrist, edged her wide skirts through the bedroom door, and made for the stairs.
The waltz had finished and the cotillion was about to begin. The viscount was talking to several costumed guests. He was dressed as a gentleman of the last century; pink silk coat embroidered with gold, white silk kneebreeches, white silk stockings with gold clocks, and a ruffled shirt. His hair was powdered. Someone next to him gave an exclamation and looked up. Then everyone seemed to be staring up at the newcomer descending the staircase.
The viscount let out a low whistle of appreciation. Jean Morrison was walking down the stairs, her head held high and the necklace blazing at her throat. He walked forward, bowed low, and held out his hand. “My dance, princess,” he said.
There was a buzz of speculation. Princess! He had said princess!
Basil Devenham in a Puritan costume sourly watched his rival. “Who is that lady who is partnering Hunterdon in the cotillion?” he asked Lady Pemberton.
Lady Pemberton, dressed as Queen Elizabeth, looked at him in a dazed way and then slid off her rout chair and fell onto the floor. Her red wig toppled from her head. Basil bent over her and then exclaimed, “She is dead drunk, I think!”
Lord Pemberton tried to rouse his wife by gently slapping her wrists, but she slept on. He was still eager to try to secure Hunterdon for one of his daughters and knew they would never forgive him if he took them from the ball. So he solved the situation by having his wife put in his carriage and borne off home with her maid to accompany her while h
e and his daughters stayed.
Then Lady Conham, also a Queen Elizabeth, collapsed in the middle of the ballroom. The dancing was brought to a halt while the unfortunate lady was carried upstairs to a bedchamber.
The viscount’s eyes ranged over the ballroom. Amanda and Clarissa were both there, a pair of small, squat Turks, but behaving quite prettily.
“Walk with me,” he said to Jean. When they had moved a little way away from the guests, he asked, “Did the girls know of your change of costume?”
“No.”
“And so two Queen Elizabeths in red wigs promptly fall unconscious. We will see what the physician has to say about Lady Conham when he arrives, but it is my belief that the two ladies were drugged, and it is also my belief that the twins were trying to get you out of the way for the evening.”
“But why?”
“I do not know. But keep a close eye on them. They have not yet recognized you with your powdered hair and mask, so introduce yourself to them but do not drink anything at all.”
The twins looked at Jean in a fury when she revealed who she was. “You was supposed to be Queen Elizabeth?” Amanda said hotly.
“And is that why two Queen Elizabeths have been taken ill?” Jean studied them, wishing their faces were not masked.
“Nothing to do with us. Here’s your next partner.”
Jean found a young man at her elbow soliciting her to dance. Amanda and Clarissa were claimed by their partners. Jean made sure she was in the same set for a country dance as the twins. She watched them closely as she danced and knew they were aware of it, for they had lost their grace of movement and their hot, angry little black eyes stared at her resentfully.
When everyone went in at last to supper, Jean made sure she was sitting next to the girls. There was no sign of the dancing master, and she asked them where Mr. Perdu was. “Upstairs,” Amanda said, and added nastily, “He knows his place.”
