[Hope Chest 01.0] Mesmerist

by Pam McCutcheon

  “Oh, no,” Bridget said in dismay. “You can’t. Da looked long and hard for just the right costume. You have to wear the hat or you won’t be Juliet.”

  The girl looked so devastated that Gina found herself rashly promising to wear the dumb thing throughout the entire ball.

  Bridget beamed. “And I’ll come back this evening to help you with it.”

  “Weren’t you invited to the dance?” Surely some guest or local had seen the advantages of squiring sweet, pretty Bridget.

  “No, I have to serve. But Miss Sparrow said we could all come see Madame Rulanka later.”

  So Gina agreed and Bridget came back that evening to help her into the costume. It wasn’t really that difficult, since it was a simple empire-waisted gown, but Gina couldn’t deny the girl the obvious pleasure it gave her.

  Once she had it on, Bridget regarded her with delight. “You’re beautiful,” she said in awe.

  Gina smiled. Though she couldn’t see much of herself in the small mirror above the washstand, she could tell that the violet silk complemented her dark hair and skin tone, making her look better than she ever had in her life. But something was wrong. . . .

  Her hair. Piled on top of her head like this, it looked ridiculous with this costume. Ruthlessly, she pulled out all of the pins and let her hair fall to her shoulders. Sighing with relief, she scratched her head. Boy, that felt good for a change.

  She brushed it out, and Bridget’s eyes grew wide. “Never say you’re going to wear your hair down like that.”

  “Sure, I am. Why not? Don’t I look more like young, innocent Juliet this way?”

  “Yes, but the Major . . .”

  Gina gave a negligent wave of her hand. “Who cares about the Major’s antique policies tonight? This is a costume ball and I need to be in character. Besides, I won’t be in uniform, so why should he care?”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “It will be okay—trust me. Now, help me with this mask, will you?”

  Bridget tied the mask in place and Gina was glad to learn she could still see out of the silly thing. “Now the hat,” Bridget coaxed.

  Gina eyed the low ceilings doubtfully. “I don’t think there will be room for all three of us in here.”

  Bridget giggled. “Then come out into the hall.” Once in the hall downstairs, there was a lot more room to accommodate the headdress so Bridget put it on. In fact, she used so many pins to secure it that Gina was sure it wouldn’t come loose even in a gale-force wind.

  “There,” Bridget declared in satisfaction. “Now, let’s meet Romeo.”

  She and her father must have arranged this ahead of time, for Jack and Drake were waiting for them at the end of the hall, in the large space where the west wing joined the main section. Jack looked puffed-up with self-congratulation, and Drake looked . . . uncomfortable.

  His costume was almost as strange as hers. He wore dark purple stockings and some kind of puffy purple and violet striped shorts, topped with a matching short jacket and a floppy beret-style hat with a feather sticking out the side. She might not have known it was him save for those magnetic eyes glinting at her from behind his purple mask and the telltale streak in his hair.

  But by far, the most interesting part of his costume was the huge codpiece decorated in large, fake amethysts and diamonds. Talk about family jewels. . . .

  Gina suppressed a laugh. Whoever had put these costumes together had little regard for historical accuracy.

  Strangely enough, he looked great. Who knew he had such fabulous legs? “Well, hello, Romeo,” she said teasingly.

  Drake’s gaze traveled up and up, his mouth parted in astonishment as he took in the full extent of her cone head. “Juliet,” he acknowledged in an amused voice.

  Jack beamed at them. “Now, don’t ye two look marvelous.”

  Well, she had to give Jack credit, he had certainly tried to do his best. “Thank you for finding these for us,” Gina said politely.

  “Think nothin’ of it,” Jack said with a wave of his hand. “Just have a good time at the ball. Go on, now.”

  He waved them on like a fairy godfather with an invisible wand, and Drake offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  “Of course,” Gina said, taking his arm. Then, once they were out of earshot, she said, “Don’t I look ridiculous?”

  He laughed down into her face. “No more so than I.”

  “I don’t know . . . that codpiece is rather impressive,” she said, grinning. “All the ladies will be envying me tonight.”

  He laughed with her. “I wanted to leave it off, but Jack was so insistent, I didn’t want to spoil his fun.”

  “Well, that’s what you get for leaving the costume choice up to someone else.”

  “Yes, I shall remember that in the future. My one consolation is that your headgear is far more absurd than mine.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’m afraid if I dip my head, I’ll impale someone or strangle them with the loop of silk at the end.”

  He bowed gallantly. “Then I shall endeavor to protect the other guests from the dangers of your chapeau.”

  With that, they entered the ballroom, laughing when Gina had to bend almost to her knees to avoid catching her headdress on the doorway. Luckily, the chandeliers appeared to be high enough to be out of range.

  And she was glad to see that their costumes weren’t the most fantastic in the room. A five-and-a-half-foot goggle-eyed fish walked by on the arm of a fishing rod, and a canary in a gilded cage stood over in the corner, talking to a six-foot peacock.

  Most of the costumes were more staid, however. She saw several Napoleons and Cleopatras, and others she was sure were supposed to represent historical or mythological characters . . . though she couldn’t figure out who. And most people were recognizable despite their costumes and masks.

  The Major was here in some sort of antique uniform, accompanied by Miss Sparrow, attired discreetly in a birdlike costume that looked nothing like her namesake. In her soft yellow dress and fluffy, feathery hat and mask, she looked like a newly hatched chick.

  Drake leaned down to whisper, “Shall we get something to drink?”

  “Sure,” Gina said. Even making their way through the crowd to the refreshments was fun as she tried to identify costumes and faces. There were the Rutledges, apparently attired as Zeus and Hera. His costume might be appropriate, but Gina couldn’t imagine Annabelle as queen of anything, especially not the gods. Even now, she seemed to hover uncertainly in Zeus’s vicinity.

  Drake procured them each a glass of champagne, and they sipped it as they people-watched, pointing out the absurd and the just plain strange costumes to each other. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, especially on the dance floor.

  “Would you like to dance?” Drake asked.

  Gina shook her head with real regret. “I don’t know how.” She had never learned ballroom dancing, but if the band struck up some rock and roll, she was ready to boogie.

  As one song ended and another began, Drake removed the glass from her hand and set it on a nearby table, saying, “For this one, you don’t need to know how. Just follow my lead.”

  He swept her onto the dance floor so fast, Gina didn’t even have time to protest. With one arm firmly around her waist and the other holding her hand, Drake led her around the floor in a waltz. She stumbled a couple of times, but soon got the hang of the rhythm, the champagne helping to loosen her up.

  “You see,” Drake murmured. “It isn’t so difficult.”

  No, it wasn’t. And now that she had relaxed, she even found herself enjoying it. Though in her time, slow dances meant being plastered against your date’s body, she rather thought she preferred the old-fashioned waltz. Drake’s strong arms made her feel safe, his gaze was warm, and the slight distance between them only added to the tingling anticipation of being so close . . . yet so far. She found it surprisingly sensual.

  Enveloped as she was in a fog of intoxicating champagne and rising desir
e, she lost all awareness of the people around her and felt the world fade away. There was nothing but the two of them, yearning toward each other, basking in the glow of heady awareness and a magical enchantment.

  He drew her closer, riveting her with those mesmerizing eyes. Lost in his gaze, she tilted her head back with a sigh and her lips parted as . . . her head was suddenly jerked down and sideways.

  Gina grabbed for the cone, which felt as if someone had just tried to wrench it from her head. “Ouch.” What a rude awakening. Leaning uncomfortably backward, she realized she was tethered to something by the silk on her hat.

  “Damn it,” she heard a man say in an exasperated voice behind her. “Let go of me.”

  Drake steadied her and spoke to the man behind her—a short Napoleon. “Wait—you’re caught in her hat.”

  Gina twisted slightly to see and sure enough, the silk had managed to wind itself around Napoleon’s neck. It wound even tighter when she turned her head to say, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  A titter of laughter followed, but Gina didn’t find it at all funny. It hurt.

  “You stupid fool,” Napoleon muttered, and Gina recognized his voice this time—it was Shorty Callahan. And, as usual, he had his friends in tow. Though she thought if she had friends like that, she’d find a new set. Like the last time, they laughed and jeered at his predicament.

  She felt Drake stiffen. “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”

  “Then get her offa me,” Shorty insisted vehemently and tugged on the silk, nearly ripping the hat from her head.

  Gina winced and Drake commanded, “Hold still.”

  As he freed Shorty from the length of violet silk, Shorty glared at Drake and muttered, “You! I shoulda known. It wasn’t enough for you to humiliate me once, but twice?”

  Drake ignored him as he helped Gina straighten her hat. Gina felt only relief, but Shorty was still ticked. “I’ll get you for this,” he threatened, but allowed himself to be pulled away by his friends. “You’ll be sorry,” he shouted.

  Now that the incident was over, the rubberneckers turned away and Drake held out his arm to escort her from the dance floor.

  Esme hurried up with a concerned expression. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “I don’t know. Do I have any hair left?” It felt like most of it had been pulled out by the roots.

  “It looks intact to me,” Drake said.

  “Good—then I need to take this torture device off.”

  Esme led her to the ladies’ room and helped her pull out the umpteen pins Bridget had used. Finally, Gina took the offending headgear off with a sigh. “There, that feels better.” But jeez, talk about hat hair. . . .

  Esme clucked. “I don’t know how you get yourself into these predicaments.”

  As Gina tried to restore some semblance of order to her hair, she said, “I don’t, either. But this one was Bridget and Jack’s idea.”

  “I see,” Esme said, eyeing the hat with a disgruntled expression. “Well, you go back to the ball and I’ll get rid of . . . this.”

  “You won’t damage it?” Jack and Bridget had meant well, and she didn’t want them to get in trouble for a ruined costume.

  “No, I’ll just have one of the girls return it to your room.”

  Gina smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Now, run along and enjoy your dance with Mr. Manton. And Gina,” she said in a bemused tone, “do try not to get into any more trouble, won’t you?”

  “I’ll try not to,” Gina said, but she couldn’t guarantee anything. It wasn’t something she seemed to have any control over.

  Drake was waiting for her, and led her back into the ballroom. They danced a few more waltzes, but it wasn’t quite the same since Shorty had ruined the mood. Then, at midnight, the band played a flourish and everyone unmasked. There were exclamations throughout the room, but Gina, for one, had figured out who nearly everyone was anyway and was just glad to get the mask off.

  Then the Major called for everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present, at popular request, the famed Madame Rulanka. Those who wish to see the spiritualist contact the dearly departed, please make your way to the theater now. Those of you who wish to keep on dancing, please do so. The band will be more than happy to accommodate you.”

  About three-quarters of the crowd headed off toward the doors but when Gina tried to follow them, Drake stopped her. “Let’s stay,” he said softly.

  “But I want to see Madame Rulanka. I’ve heard so much about her.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather dance?”

  She would, but she’d put so much time and effort into convincing the spiritualist to set up this little demonstration that she didn’t want to go back on it now. And, with Rupert’s help, she’d been able to glean the sort of gossip the woman seemed to want without hurting anyone. “Oh, no, I really want to see her. Besides, I promised Letty and Chloe I would tell them all about it, remember?”

  He frowned, but before he could say anything else, she fumbled for another excuse. “And I can’t go without an escort, or the Major will be furious.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but she had to find some way to get him to the performance. “Please, won’t you come with me?”

  Though his expression showed he wanted nothing to do with it, Drake, ever gallant, agreed. He once more offered her his arm and Gina exulted inside. This time, her scheme would work. It had to.

  Drake didn’t know what scheme Gina had up her sleeve, but it was obvious she was up to something. He just regretted that they had to leave the ball. It had been a long time since he’d attended anything so frivolous, and he’d enjoyed it—especially with Gina. Holding her in his arms, chatting with her about inconsequential things, and sharing her simple pleasure in the dance had been sheer joy. So why did she have to cut it short to listen to some crackpot with a crystal ball?

  Once everyone had been seated, the strains of a violin filled the theater. They all hushed as a tall, thin man walked onstage playing blood-stirring gypsy music. The curtains opened with a dramatic whoosh upon a middle-aged woman dressed in gold and scarlet with a colorful scarf wound around her head. She threw her arms wide in recognition of the applause that filled the room, then seated herself at a small table onstage.

  Drake guessed she was supposed to represent a gypsy, and she certainly seemed to have most of the audience convinced—or at least willing to suspend disbelief—as they murmured with satisfaction at her appearance.

  The man brought the music to an aching finality, then lowered his violin to say in a deep, resonant voice that filled the small space, “You have a rare treat in store for you this evening. Madame Rulanka, Queen of the Gypsies, famed spiritualist and medium, has deigned to grace these premises with her presence.”

  Drake snorted. Queen of the Gypsies, indeed. But Gina elbowed him in the side, saying, “Shh.”

  Other murmurs broke out, as well as a few giggles, at his announcement, and the man boomed, “Silence! We must have silence if the spirits are to appear.”

  He went on to explain that the veil to the spirit world was at its most tenuous tonight on All Hallow’s Eve, and that the audience would be most likely to experience an appearance . . . but only if there was complete quiet.

  A hush fell over the room and the man gestured dramatically toward Madame Rulanka who had placed her hands flat on the table and thrown her head back. The lights dimmed to complete blackness, and the only thing visible was the spiritualist.

  She went through some rigmarole about calling to the spirit world and asking them to answer. Drake suppressed another snort. He doubted if the “spirits” would disappoint her—she had too big an audience.

  Sure enough, the vague form of a man appeared onstage to the wonderment of the audience—a man draped in white flowing draperies who seemed to float in midair. He moaned in blood-chilling accents as a trumpet appeared and floated nearby.

  “Is that you, old friend?” Madame asked.<
br />
  The so-called spirit moaned again.

  “The former Tsar of Russia,” she announced, and Drake heard an exclamation from the back of the room.

  “S—Sire?” a man called out in quavering tones.

  Drake craned his neck and was surprised to see the speaker was the hotel chef.

  Madame threw her head back and said, “He wishes to speak to a favored servant . . . Sasha?”

  Sasha made a sound that sounded almost like a sob, his gaze riveted on the stage and the glowing apparition.

  “He says . . . He says you are not to grieve for him. He is in a better place now, though he sorely misses the feasts you used to prepare for him.”

  Sasha exclaimed volubly in Russian, then turned and left the theater, sobbing with joy. Well, there was one satisfied customer, anyway.

  Murmurs spread throughout the audience, but quickly ceased as the man boomed, “Silence!” once again.

  Then, after a short period of time, a small apparition appeared, close to the ground.

  “Who is this?” Madame asked.

  Then, apparently receiving an answer, she said, “Poopsie? Does anyone here know a Poopsie?”

  The woman in front of Drake gasped audibly and cried out, “My little doggie?”

  Apparently satisfied, Madame said, “He wants you to know that he misses you and he loves you . . . and he will be waiting to join you on the other side.”

  The woman sobbed out, “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” as she buried her face in her handkerchief.

  Drake glanced around. Didn’t anyone else see this as ridiculous as he did? Apparently not—they all seemed completely enthralled as Madame continued to interpret for dead people. Oh, she was definitely a fraud, but at least she wasn’t a mean one. Each message from the other side reassured those left behind or gave them hope for the future.

  But he’d heard enough. “Let’s go,” he whispered to Gina.