by Ella Edon
It seemed that many of those attending had chosen to disguise themselves as birds, just as Merope and Sally had done. She saw masks that had been made of all black and all white feathers, no doubt ravens and swans; some that were colorful, exotic creatures like Merope's pink flamingo; and others that looked to be natural brown English residents, such as sparrows and wrens. Many of the masks had bright glass jewels or pieces of enameled metal in various colors to set them off.
Beside them, she felt very plain indeed, but at the moment, did not care. She seemed to be the only one not masked as some sort of bird, and her face was better covered than anyone else's. No one could say that she hadn’t worn a mask to this masked ball!
Grace went on with her pleasant wandering, listening as the orchestra unpacked its instruments and began to tune them for the dancing to come. Soon, she reached the far corner of the grounds, very near to the shadows, beneath a thick stand of trees that extended along the river.
"Halt where you are."
The voice came from behind her, very close at her ear. It was deep and commanding.
There was a touch at her arm.
"I demand you hand over all of your jewels. All of your valuables. Do not think you can escape me."
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Primrose And The Highwayman
Grace couldn’t imagine what this was. Just part of the ball? A game? A joke? Surely, it wasn’t anything real.
She raised her chin and continued to walk, as though nothing had happened.
"Stand and deliver!"
The voice was growling and insistent. Finally, Grace turned around – and stood staring at what she saw before her.
The man was tall and dressed all in black and grey. He had the high black boots and long coat of a coachman, but there was a three-corner hat on his head and a piece of black silk cloth tied around his face.
Only his hazel eyes and soft brown eyebrows were visible in the torchlight.
She caught her breath. Never had she seen anything that threatened to overwhelm her senses to this extent.
The man stood there, staring down at her, towering above her head, and then extended his hand as though expecting her to hand over her reticule. His shoulders were so broad under the greatcoat that she seemed to be entirely in his shadow. His legs were braced apart and he looked to be as immovable as a mountain.
Grace couldn’t speak. He stood there like a vision that had just walked out of some novel, like a man of fantasy, suddenly come to life on a magical night.
Finally, he sighed, and withdrew his hand. "Miss Miller," he whispered, shaking his head. "What sort of highwayman can I be if I cannot rob even an unarmed young lady?"
At last, she began to smile. "I'm afraid I have nothing to give you. I didn’t bring my fortune to the ball."
"But you did bring that brass pin that holds your veil to your hair. Take it down and show me who you are."
She raised her chin, remembering that he could not see her face – though he had called her by name and obviously knew who she was. "I will not, sir. This is a masked ball and I intend to remain so."
"I see. Then I, too, shall remain masked, simply to spite you. Though I do intend to dance as many dances as I can with you as my partner. Therefore – "
"Well, now. Have we robbers afoot at our little assembly ball?"
Grace turned to see one of the strangest – or most ridiculous – sights she had ever witnessed. The man who had just spoken was Simon Clarke, the master of Feathering Park. She had been introduced to him at the first ball, of course, and to his wife. Grace remembered to curtsey to them, but it was hard to take her eyes off of the pair.
Mr. Clarke seemed dressed normally enough, though his brown coat appeared to have red feathers attached to it here and there. His mask, too, was all small red and brown feathers haphazardly attached to it.
But his wife – Mrs. Clarke – wore a white dress with a huge shawl made entirely of black feathers and white feathers. She must have taken the last of Uncle Leonard's supply, for she was covered with them, and so was her mask. The tall, white plumes attached to one corner of the mask were waving all about and constantly brushing and tickling anyone who got too near.
Quickly, Grace covered her mouth with her hand before she began giggling.
"Robbers afoot?" squeaked Mrs. Clarke, throwing her hands up. Beatrice, Grace seemed to remember. Her name is Beatrice. "Oh, my! What a fine fancy dress that makes. Ooh, I hope he does not rob me! I am for the refreshment table, where I might be safe! Mr. Clarke, I will see you when the dancing begins. I’m sure you will not leave me standing alone!"
"No, my dear, I will – " But she was already gone, darting off to display her bizarre, feathered mask and shawl to everyone else at the ball.
Mr. Clarke just sighed. "Well, then, masked highwayman – would you care to go with me and see that the music is started? I have a few more introductions to make, since there are more folk in attendance tonight. I always prefer menacing company for such a task."
Though she couldn’t see his face beneath the black silk, it very much seemed to Grace that Adam was grinning. There was no doubt that his eyes sparkled, and he gave her a final glance before departing. "I'm at yer service, Mr. Clarke. Lead on."
Adam and Mr. Clarke walked away, and Grace watched them for as long as she could see them in the crowd. She’d known that it was Adam beneath that black mask – those eyes were unmistakable, as was the mere strength of his presence – but she thought she'd never seen, or imagined, any man so handsome as he was in that hat and black silk mask.
She was noticing that every woman present turned her head to follow that tall figure in the tri-corner hat – suddenly, there was a nudge at her elbow.
"Grace!" whispered Merope. "We saw you talking to that tall man dressed like a highway robber! Do you know who he is?"
"Why, yes, I do. He is a coachman up at Worthington. Temporary, I believe. But that’s where he’s from."
Sally and Merope looked at each other. "Grace Miller," whispered Merope. "Have you ever met Earl Worthington?"
"Why, no. No, I have not." Grace frowned a bit. "I’ve not been in Birdwell very long, and the earl didn’t attend the last assembly ball. It isn't likely that I would meet him anywhere else," she finished, with a laugh.
The music started to play, though most of the gathering remained talking in small groups and exclaiming over each other's masks and fancy dress. They were especially looking at Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, and at the handsome highwayman with them.
"Grace," Merope said firmly. "Sally and I are convinced that the 'highwayman' over there is really Earl Worthington!"
"The – earl? Here?" Grace frowned a bit, and glanced around the torchlit grounds of the marketplace-turned-ballroom. "Where? You can't mean the highwayman. I know that man, for I met him in town not long after I arrived. I was – working in my aunt and uncle's shop."
She glanced across the gathering again, watching as Adam stood talking and laughing with Mr. Clarke. "He sometimes works for the Clarkes and for the earl. His name is Adam Wheeler."
The two other girls looked at each other, clearly not believing it. "We've both met the earl before. We grew up here, in Birdwell. He comes into town some of the time, and sometimes drives his mother in her pony cart. That man with the black silk mask looks exactly like him!"
They all watched as the tall highwayman walked around the outside of the dance area, following Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. "There," said Grace, whispering to Merope. "Do you see that he walks with a limp? Does the earl walk like that?"
Sally watched very carefully, though the highwayman and the Clarkes were still some distance away. "Hmm. Yes, he does seem to be limping on his left foot. I've never heard of the earl having any infirmity such as that."
Merope watched, too, and then shrugged. "That might happen to anyone. The earl is an avid horseman. Perhaps one of his new pair stepped on his foot!"
Grace watched as Mr. Clarke introduced Adam to first
one couple and then another. "Merope," she said, still watching. "Would the earl need Mr. Clarke to introduce him to people here at the ball? Surely, your mother would take care of any introductions that needed to be made, and mostly to young women. The 'highwayman' is being introduced to people that surely the Earl Worthington would already know!"
Merope studied the activity closely, and then sighed. "I suppose you are right . . . but, oh, what if that is all part of the game? All part of being masked and trying to hide his identity for as long as he can!"
Sally giggled at Merope's clever deduction, but it was clear that neither of them was convinced. "I’ll wait until I can get a closer look," said Merope. "I still think that is the earl, disguised and playing a little trick on everyone here!"
Just then, Mr. Clarke – who still had his red-and-brown feather mask in place – began walking back towards Grace, Merope, and Sally. The three girls fell silent and simply watched. To Grace's delight, Mr. Clarke formally introduced his part-time coachman, Adam Wheeler, to all three of them.
"Mr. Wheeler is new to the region and has not yet been introduced to many of the residents," said Mr. Clarke. "I know him for a fine man who would be very happy to make the acquaintance of some of our very fine country girls."
Adam bowed to all three of them, still wearing his black mask. "Mr. Clarke is quite right. Three lovely country girls. I’ve already met Miss Miller, and I'm pleased now to meet Miss Henson and Miss Robbins. And now, if ye will excuse me again, I've a few more introductions to go before the dancing begins."
He caught Grace's eye when he said dancing, and then made them all a bow as he stepped away – still limping on his left foot.
Again, Merope and Sally looked at each other. "I suppose you were right, Grace," said Merope. "Mr. Clarke seems quite convinced. I suppose we have to admit that you are – "
"Miss Robbins! Miss Robbins!"
They looked up to see Beatrice Clarke, bustling over to them in a rustling mass of feathers, leaving a scattering of black and white bits of down in the grass behind her.
"Here's where we can get our answer," whispered Sally. "Ask her!"
"Merope Robbins!" cried Beatrice Clarke, hurrying up to them. "You must tell me. What on earth is going on here? Why is everyone whispering about that man my husband is introducing all around the ball, and looking at him like he was the Prince of Wales? What am I missing?"
"Oh, Mrs. Clarke," said Merope, as calm and diplomatic as her mother, "we’re wondering the same thing! It seems that – " She leaned down close to Beatrice. "It seems that some think that tall man over there – with the black silk covering his face – some think that man is actually the earl in disguise!"
"Isn't that a wonderfully scandalous idea?" added Sally.
Beatrice's eyes were huge. "Why, yes, it would be most wonderfully scandalous!" She turned around to look at the tall highwayman again. "But I cannot believe it. That man? Earl Worthington? Look at him! Of course not."
"But – " Merope did not look convinced. "He looks so very familiar – "
"Miss Robbins! I would know the earl anywhere. All I would need is to be within calling distance of him! He is a very close friend of my husband and so I have seen him many times."
Beatrice laughed again. "No, my dears. The earl might fool others, but he could never fool me. That man is what my husband says he is: an everyday coachman. Nothing more."
Grace relaxed a bit more, though it was clear to her now that both the earl and Adam Wheeler must have a similar appearance – with or without a black silk mask. "I suppose that, by chance, the earl and Mr. Wheeler share a resemblance."
Beatrice glanced at her for just an instant. "Perhaps so. That might explain things. And it is also true," she went on, "that the earl sent word days ago that he did not wish to attend the ball tonight. In fact, I know without a single doubt that he is passing a quiet evening at Feathering Park right at this moment! I know because he brought us his carriage tonight – drove it to us himself – which is how we happen to be using his landau and matched pair again this evening!"
All of the women took a step back as Mr. Clarke and the highwayman approached them again. "Mrs. Clarke," said her husband, "allow me to introduce one of the Earl Worthington's coachmen, Mr. Wheeler."
Adam bowed deeply and took Beatrice's her hand to kiss it. Grace noted that his hand looked a little roughened and dirty, like that of any working man. He was certainly very handsome, but how could anyone believe that this man was an earl?
"Honored to meet ye, Mrs. Clarke."
"Can you believe it, Mr. Wheeler?" said Beatrice, preening happily. "There are folk here who think you are Earl Worthington! As if I would not know the earl myself!"
"Well, then," Adam said. "I can only say that the earl must be a handsome man indeed. And now, if you will excuse me, I promised Mrs. Robbins that I would make sure the orchestra keeps playing and does not take too many pauses for the excellent apple wine."
He bowed again, glancing once more at Grace, and then he and Mr. Clarke were gone again.
Beatrice looked at both of them very closely as they walked away. "Now, I will say that there is something of a resemblance to the earl," she whispered. "It could even be that perhaps the last earl had been out and about the countryside from time to time, and had another son he never knew about!"
The other two girls giggled with delight at such as shocking statement, though Grace was appalled that a woman of Beatrice's social standing would actually say such a thing.
Although, with the way everyone here was behaving at the sight of Adam, Grace couldn’t help but wonder, for a moment, if it could be true. Beatrice's thought, however vulgar, would explain any resemblance . . . and even if it were true, there was nothing to be done about it now.
She decided to give it no more thought, and instead wondered if Adam Wheeler really would make good on his promise to dance with her here tonight. There were so many other beautiful young women here and almost all of them were much calmer and more confident than she was.
It was one thing for Adam to want her when they were alone on a riverbank. It was quite another, when he was at a very merry gathering, filled with pretty girls all vying for his attention.
There would be no greater test of his true feelings for her, she thought, than an evening like this one.
Chapter Twenty-Three
An Imposter Is Revealed; A Battle In The Streets
Elam sat on the driver's box, while the pair of black horses stood quietly. He'd watched Reuben uncheck them, and then sit down on a wooden crate at the edge of the street, near the horses' heads.
Now, Elam had little more to look forward to, other than another long evening spent simply waiting until his passengers were ready to leave. He didn’t enjoy it, but it was all part of being a coachman . . . and at least, he was employed and receiving payment in coin and had a tiny room to live in over the stables at Feathering Park.
The music was pleasant enough to hear. It was an advantage of the outdoor ball that anyone could see and hear what happened, even if they did not have the price of a ticket to admit them or anyone who could make introductions for them once they did.
So, to pass the time, Elam sat back and watched the women as they stood about gossiping, or helping themselves to refreshments, or allowing themselves to be led out to the open space for dancing.
Most of all, he watched Grace Miller.
This was supposed to be a party where everyone wore a mask. Apparently, she didn’t have one, and had simply draped a piece of yellow cloth over her head. It looked ridiculous, but the men who watched her didn’t seem to mind. Maybe the disguise had made her bold, for she seemed to be talking and flirting with any man there who looked as though he had more than a few thousand a year.
He found that the longer he watched, the more his anger grew. This girl was nothing but a very lowly servant and her father had ruined himself, his family, and not a few other men – including Elam – through his drunken ineptitud
e. It was not at all fair that she should misrepresent herself and gain a rich husband and a life of ease in exchange for her lies.
It was not fair at all.
Abruptly, he jumped down from the box, startling the horses a little with the sound of his boots hitting the cobblestones. "I'm going over to the pub," he growled to Reuben. "It'll be hours yet before this is over. Stay here. Get them some water."
Reuben just nodded. He had seen the coachman get angry before and was not about to object to him leaving for a time.
Elam just turned and stalked away, sick to death of watching lying girls and enraptured farm boys make fools of themselves over each other at their leisure, while honest men had to make do with very little. Perhaps a pint or two would drown his anger before this ball was over.
