Her husband was home!
She tried not to look as though she had been waiting for him with eagerness akin to a lover in Song of Solomon. Would he notice that in anticipation of his arrival she wore his favorite dress—or at least one upon which he had commented? She agreed that the yellow frock foretold the advent of Easter, with its meaning of redemption and salvation—the new beginnings promised by spring with its blooming flowers and hospitable weather. Just donning the color made her feel warmer and cheerful.
Despite her attempts to appear indifferent, she knew her enraptured expression upon seeing his fine features must reveal her feelings. As she noticed her heart beating rapidly, she wished he would tell her he loved her. He hadn’t yet. But that was too much to expect. The closest he had ventured toward such a declaration was the day he told her she was the perfect wife. She clung to that sentiment for all it was worth.
Though he read scripture each day and conducted himself in a godly manner as far as she could see, Rolf was a man of reserve. Besides, she didn’t want him to confess to feelings he hadn’t yet developed. She knew he wouldn’t in any event. He was too honest for such duplicity.
He smiled, adding to her emotions. “There you are. I thought you would be here.”
Melodia closed her book but restrained herself from rising. To her delight, he strode over to her chair, bringing along with him the smell of outdoors—a mixture of new plant life, manure, dust from the road, and sweaty horseflesh. He bent over her for an all-too-brief kiss on the lips, then touched her cheek with manly fingertips before he moved his hand to the back of the chair. She wanted him to linger, wishing he hadn’t concluded the contact.
“How was the hunting trip?” she asked.
“Excellent.” He stood in front of her straight and proud with remembrance. “I garnered no new mountings for my study, regrettably, but our catch was good enough. We shall be feasting on game for at least a week.”
“Good.”
“That pleases you.”
“Why would it not?”
He chuckled. “Many London women would turn green in the face at the prospect of consuming wild meat even for one dinner, let alone for an extended period of time.”
“As you know, I am not a London woman.”
“Indeed. And I am glad you are not.” He grinned as he took the seat across from her. He settled into the back of the wooden chair and crossed his legs. “No doubt you recall Suffolk?”
The image of a short, stocky man just past his thirtieth birthday came to mind. “Yes.”
“He proposed an excellent idea, one I think we should pursue.”
“Oh?” She leaned forward.
“After Easter, I should like us to host a masquerade ball.”
She gulped. The welcoming soiree had been enough of a crowd for her. She had been relieved when the last guest departed. At the prospect of yet another event, a feeling of shyness overwhelmed her. “Should we be hosting another gathering so soon? Especially an event that promises to require complicated arrangements?” Her brain formed a large list of errands to be accomplished for such an affair—engaging musical entertainment, composing a menu for an exquisite dinner within Cook’s capabilities and talent. Or should they hire a caterer? And then the most important—compiling the proper guest list. Her mind whirled.
He chuckled. “Truly you jest. Did you not entertain often at your father’s? After all, as the elder daughter, would you not be his hostess by default?”
“Yes, but Father was never one for hosting parties. And I suppose though our standing would have been improved had we been known for lavish affairs, he preferred quiet evenings. I suppose if Mother had been alive….”
“Yes. Forgive me.” He leaned over and patted her on the knee. “But you have a new life here, one that promises to be engaging and even exciting if you will allow yourself to enjoy your opportunities to the fullest. I say it is high time that you turned over a new leaf and learned how to be an elegant and popular hostess. And I suggest our first major event should be, as my friend suggested, a masquerade ball.”
She tried not to let a frantic look cross her face. “Perhaps as a bachelor, you were not aware of the many preparations that such an event will require.”
“Do not worry, my dear. I am confident you are up to the task.”
“I—I—”
“Do not tell me you are too shy, because that excuse will not work with me. Especially not since you will be hiding behind a mask. Too bad, since you are such a beautiful woman.”
She felt her cheeks blush. Was everyone here in the habit of calling women beautiful? The idea of herself being considered lovely still left her feeling uncomfortable. She had never visualized herself as magnificent, and wondered how others could.
“You have my permission to order an exquisite costume to be sewn for yourself,” he continued. “Eustacia’s seamstress is sure to take you on as a client. I understand she called upon you while I was away?”
“Yes.” A thought occurred to her. “Upon your urging?”
“Not at all. Eustacia never has to be urged to do anything, and if such a thought had crossed my mind and I mentioned it to her, she would have stayed home out of spite.”
“Really, now, spitefulness does not seem to be the right word to describe her.”
“Perhaps not. High-spirited is more like it. Which is why she has not yet found a husband. For who could tame her?” He winked.
“Despite your levity, you seem to think high-spiritedness is a fine quality.”
“In her, yes. But I like my wife demure, as you are, my lovely.” His voice softened on the word lovely. A warm flush filled her as she recalled their intimate moments, moments that as a maiden she never dreamed she would come to anticipate for their sweetness. She shook thoughts of his hot kisses out of her head. Married though she was, lingering on matters of the flesh could lead to vulgarity.
Such thoughts served to soften her attitude to any idea he might suggest. “I have to say, a masquerade ball might have its advantages. You spoke of a mask. I have one I can wear. It was given to me by a French woman long ago. So it is an heirloom of sorts.”
“I am not so lucky. I shall need to have one made.”
“I can sew one for you.”
“You would do that for me?”
“Of course. You are my husband.” The word caused her to look down at her skirt.
“So I have been successful in persuading you to host a ball, then.”
“Yes, you have.” She gazed into his eyes, knowing he could convince her of almost anything.
Chapter 5
The night of the ball arrived sooner than Melodia could believe. As she watched the partygoers feast on the food, she recalled how for weeks she had immersed herself in preparations, wanting to please Rolf by making a good impression. Over time she had become more comfortable around his friends and neighbors. The soiree they hosted had broken the proverbial ice, and Melodia had formed light bonds with several of the women living nearby. As tradition warranted, Melodia called upon her neighbors, and they returned the favor. She knew the guests on their list would be giving the anticipation of an evening full of lively entertainment priority over criticizing the music, food, drink, and conversation. That fact helped to ease her anxiety.
Still, the ball was only the second event she was hosting as Rolf’s wife. The winter soiree had been informal, so this was her first foray into entertaining on a grand scale, and she didn’t want anything to go awry. Thankfully the household staff knew how to procure the best ingredients for dishes such as roast beef, stuffed quail, sugary confections, buttery fruit tarts with flavored icing, and other delicacies sure to impress. Melodia was all too aware that a poorly executed party could result in ruin for her reputation as a hostess. The restrictions of the day—the importance of impressions, connections, social rankings, appearances, and style—were some of the reasons why life as a secluded religious had seemed appealing. Until she met Rolf. The temptation to t
hank her father for making the match crossed her mind.
She stood near the fire that warded off evening’s chill. Spring had arrived dressed in her usual array of greens, reds, pinks, yellows, and blues, so the fire’s task of keeping the partygoers warm was less arduous than it had been at the soiree only weeks ago during winter’s gray pall. A crackle from the fire almost made her jump, reminding her that she wore white silk that would not fare well should it make contact with dark ashes and especially not a stray ember. She moved a step away from the heat and regretted her decision to wear white yet again. Amid vibrant hues of the other ball gowns, she felt colorless. Even worse, would people guess her identity before the unveiling at midnight, perhaps guessing—wrongly—that she had chosen white since she was yet a bride. Instead, she had chosen a color befitting the heat of July because the material went well with her heirloom mask.
True to Rolf’s promise, Eustacia had introduced Melodia to her seamstress, who proved more than competent in fashioning a flattering cut for the gown. In matching the mask, she had wisely omitted feathers but had sewn pearls around the neckline and cuffs. The buttons were also fashioned of pearl. Rachel had needed an inordinate amount of time, and no doubt much expenditure of frustration, to dress Melodia in a fashion containing a long row of buttons on the back of the dress and then four on each cuff. Yet the effect had been worth the effort. She touched a dark curl just to be sure it remained in its strategic place peeking out from underneath her pearl-embossed bandeau, the motion leaving her confident she still appeared unruffled.
As she ran an indifferent forefinger over the edge of her saucer, her gaze set itself upon the refreshment table. Several dishes were becoming sparse, a good sign attesting to their popularity but a worry considering she wanted to make sure everyone had enough of the precise offerings they wished to eat. She nodded to a maid and, once she garnered her attention, nodded toward the table to indicate the need for attention. The graying woman bobbed her head and scurried into the kitchen. Melodia had instructed the caterer not to be sparse with the amount of food he prepared for the evening. She was determined not to run out of any delicacies at her affairs—a development that would lead to the most catty gossip the next day and set her reputation as a stingy and disorganized hostess for as long as she remained at the Tims estate.
As she waited for the maid to obey her order, Melodia watched the partygoers flit, chat, and flirt among each other, satisfied that her evening was proving to be a success. She eyed Rolf. Even wearing the black mask she had made him, complete with feathers from a peacock she had retrieved from the grounds, the fine shape of his countenance was unmistakable. Pride in the fact that he was hers and hers alone swelled through her chest even though she didn’t beckon such an emotion.
At that moment a tall woman wearing a bold red dress slid through the crowd. Watching her, Melodia admired her mysterious guest’s head covering, an elaborate concoction set so closely to her head that Melodia almost wondered if the woman could have been bald. Shaking the ridiculous idea from her mind, she set her admiring gaze on three elaborate feathers that stood from the crest of the headdress. Melodia noted that if she were as tall as the mystery guest, she would have omitted the placement of anything that would add even more height to such a statuesque frame. But since the woman, who even in costume appeared striking, wore red, Melodia could only guess she didn’t mind garnering more than her share of attention.
She felt amused until she noticed that the woman drew near to Rolf and reached toward the top layer of a three-tiered sterling silver tray for an egg with creamed filling. Melodia thought the woman’s only objective was to acquire the food until she noticed that the woman’s skirt touched the thigh of Rolf’s velvet pant leg. Before Melodia could react to the close contact the woman’s leg made with her husband’s, the female turned toward him and laughed in the counterfeit manner of a coquette. Melodia’s stomach lurched as she witnessed her whisper in his ear. He chuckled in return. Was he putting on a polite front, or did he find the woman amusing?
Her heart thumped.
Who was the woman in red?
And what had she said to her husband?
She watched for Rolf to move away, hoping he would make a hasty retreat. Just then her view was blocked by a gentleman. Gray curls peeked out from underneath a tricorn hat, and he wore a distinguished costume. She surmised him to be Lord Harrington but resisted calling him by name lest she be wrong—or right.
“I must say, I am having quite the extraordinary time this evening,” he observed. “And what of you, my lovely? Are you finding the ball to your liking?”
An instant before, such a compliment—especially given to her by a man who probably didn’t realize she was his hostess—would have offered her sufficient pleasure to float for a week. But now, his words seemed inconsequential. Nevertheless, she put on a smile and waved her fan. “Yes, it is. I am having a wonderful time. Have you tried the quail?”
He eyed the table. “Is it good?”
“Splendid.”
“As a general rule, quail is not to my liking, but you have convinced me to give it a try.” He wagged his finger. “I hope this is not your way of getting rid of me.”
She tittered. “Indeed not.”
A squat woman wearing a multicolored frock made of silk and decorated with random blue, white, and green oval beads made of glass approached Melodia and shared a few inane but pleasant observations. She guessed her to be Mrs. Snidow, but she couldn’t be sure since she wore a blue and green mask with white piping. Melodia tried not to fix her gaze on Rolf, but in her jealousy, keeping her eyes averted from him proved difficult. She did notice that he had moved away from the woman as she had hoped he would and was at that moment conversing with a man wearing a plain black mask and an equally severe black costume. She watched Rolf off and on throughout the evening, but the woman didn’t reappear. She felt relief.
Until she realized that perhaps that was their plan. If Rolf were seen talking to the same woman too much—and wearing red made her easy to spot—they might attract suspicion. Melodia wallowed in self-inflicted doubt. The fact that the woman seemed to have vanished left her with little comfort.
Midnight drew near. At that hour, the guests were destined to strip their faces of the masks that concealed their all-important eyes, presenting an unencumbered view of their identities for all to see. Melodia decided to watch for her rival.
“Are you quite ready for the masks to come off?” someone asked.
“I am ready.” Her voice reflected the determination she felt. “More than ready.”
The grandfather clock bonged the hour. Amid happy music played by the five-piece orchestra that had added much to the atmosphere all evening, the masks were taken off to reveal an array of faces amid gasps of delight, chuckles, and exclamations, Melodia kept her features fixed into a pleasant expression as she scanned the horizon for the unknown woman. Yet no tall woman was to be found. Instead of offering comfort, her absence left Melodia feeling more unsettled.
The brief moments that comprised the rest of the evening seemed inconsequential to Melodia. She remembered people flattering her person and her party, but alarm kept her from basking in well-earned praise. All she cared about was getting Rolf alone so she could question him.
After what seemed like an eternity, the last guest departed, and the butler shut the front door. Amid the last utterances of farewells, whinnying of horses, hooves clomping against gravel, and the occasional squeak of a turning wheel, Melodia watched the Harrisons board their carriage, the vehicle tilting inches to one side and back again as each person encountered the steps and then disappeared inside.
Rolf turned to face Melodia. He let out a triumphant sigh. “The ball was a complete success. I am very, very proud of you, Melodia, my dear.” He ventured toward her. Melodia could see from the expression on his face that a kiss occupied his mind. She forced herself to ignore how handsome he appeared and how, at any other time, she would have received th
e gesture eagerly.
She stepped back. “May I see you in the library, Rolf?”
“The library? After such a successful night, I would think that you might want to enjoy your triumph with me—elsewhere.” A mischievous grin played upon his lips. “No.” The word sounded sharp. She decided to soften the blow. “Not until we talk.”
“Ah. You want to relive the night by sharing a bit of gossip. Very well. Shall I have tea brought in?”
Her stomach felt so sour with emotion that the thought of eating tempted her not in the least. “None for me.”
He shrugged. “Then none for me, either.”
As he followed her down the hall, Melodia almost felt guilty that she had allowed him to think he would be enjoying a rundown of the evening’s events with her when the conversation instead promised to be unpleasant. Still, she had to know the identity of the scarlet-clad woman. The touch against the thigh, obviously staged by the woman to appear accidental, was not. Melodia knew. She just knew.
Melodia shut the door behind them in the library and held on to the doorknob as though it contained some life-sustaining fluid that would help her keep her balance. She watched Rolf settle into a seat with the ease of a man anticipating an evening with a fine book. She wanted to sit, wanted to appear casual, but no amount of good breeding could keep her from displaying the tip of the poison arrow of jealousy. “Who was that woman, Rolf?”
“Woman?” He clutched the chair’s arms. His eyes widened, and his head shook in such a slight manner it almost seemed to jerk. “The question seems absurd when one considers that every woman in the parish was in attendance tonight. With the exception of Mrs. Deal. You were aware that a sudden bout of illness kept her from attending?”
“Yes, and I sent my good wishes for this evening and have every intention of having Peter deliver her a pot of chicken soup tomorrow for luncheon as a sign of our goodwill.”
“An excellent idea. She is sure to appreciate the gesture. She’s a lonely old woman, and no doubt she was quite distressed upon missing the ball.”
British Brides Collection Page 10
