Masquerade

by Susan Carroll

  Phaedra did not like the gleam of interest that sparkled in Gilly’s eyes. “What a grand idea, sir, to get all your household out of doors, frisking in the fields.”

  “Aye, they like it well enough although it is infernally hot this year.” Weylin drew forth a handkerchief and swabbed at his sweating countenance. “But it will still be a splendid opportunity for a bit of amusement.”

  “Splendid indeed,” Gilly murmured.

  Phaedra began, "Unfortunately, Gilly cannot be-"

  But this time her cousin stepped in front of her, interrupting, "I accept your invitation with the greatest of pleasure, sir." His lips parted in a wolfish smile, and Phaedra was certain only she heard the double-edged meaning in his next words. "It is an opportunity I would not miss for worlds."

  Gilly left before Phaedra could deter him from the course she feared he meant to pursue. Her grandfather lingered in the stable until Gilly mounted his horse, thus rendering her unable to argue her cousin out of his intention to search Armande's room. When Gilly had gone, she had excused herself from her grandfather's presence as quickly as possible, unable to endure any more of his benign humor. There had been a time when she would have been more than grateful for one modicum of Sawyer Weylin's approval. But.to bask in his favor now, knowing the cause of it, made her feel ill with apprehension.

  Leaving the stable yard, she hastened toward the house, determined to find Armande. She had to make him understand about Gilly's journey to France, how the whole thing had been conceived long before she had fallen in love with him. But she could not warn him what her cousin now planned to do. She would have to find some way of stopping Gilly herself. Aye, stop him before Armande did. Phaedra shuddered, uncertain where that chilling thought had come from, but she was quick to banish it to those same dark regions.

  Much to her chagrin, she could not find Armande anywhere, neither in the house, nor upon the grounds. She even sprinted out to the man-made pond, but it was as though the man had vanished. Sweat trickling down her face, she trudged back to the stairs leading to the Palladian mansion's front door when she heard the clatter of hooves on the gravel drive behind her.

  She whirled about in time to see Nemesis flash past in a blur of white, heading for the Heath's main gates. Phaedra raced back down the steps, starting to shout Armande's name, but she stopped in midstep, never letting the cry escape her lips. It was hopeless. If she had admired the stallion's speed before, she was now stunned by the breakneck pace Nemesis set going down the drive. It was as though Armande rode to outrace the devil. An impossible task, Phaedra feared because he carried his demons within his own heart.

  She dragged herself inside the front hall only to be confronted by Hester's gloating smile. "The marquess will not be dining in this evening. I daresay he's found other interests to keep him occupied."

  Phaedra said nothing, determined not to accord her the satisfaction of a reply. She swept up her skirts and stalked on past. Only when she was within the confines of her own bedchamber did Phaedra permit her shoulders to droop with disappointment. So Armande did not mean to return for supper. How could she possibly bear it-to know what bitter thoughts he must be nourishing, and to be unable to make all right again?

  But he had to come back sometime. He had taken nothing with him, so his clothes must still be here. Her heart ached to think that he could believe she had spent nights in his arms, whispering of her love for him, all the while plotting to betray him. She would sit up all night if she had to until he returned. She would force him to listen.

  But her resolve provided cold comfort as the hours of evening dragged by. Never had she spent a more dreary evening at the Heath, dining alone with her grandfather, making halfhearted replies to his jovial teasing about Armande, watching the clock hands move as though weighted by lead.

  When she discovered he had invited Jonathan, Sir Norris Byram, and a few other gentleman over for a quiet evening of cards and a late supper, Phaedra was quick to excuse herself. Rising from the table, she said, "Your pardon, Grandfather, but I fear I've had a touch too much of the sun today. My head is aching fit to burst, so I pray you will excuse me."

  "Of course, it is not the sort of evening's entertainment I expected to appeal to you, especially with your Armande absent." Weylin gave her a broad wink, then tossed down the rest of his glass of port and heaved himself to his feet.

  When Phaedra curtsied and moved to go, she was surprised to feel his arm upon her elbow, detaining her.

  "You needn't rush off that fast, girl. There's a matter I need to speak to you about."

  "I am very tired, Grandfather. Could it not wait until the morrow?" But her protestations were ignored. Weylin insisted she accompany him as he stumped from the dining room, leading her to that one area of the house where he rarely permitted anyone, his private study.

  All dark oak and leather, the chamber was the only room at the Heath that did not reflect Sawyer Weylin's love of ostentation. The room was reminiscent of his days as a simple tradesman, with its scarred desk more designed for work than show, and straight-backed, austere chairs.

  Phaedra hesitated on the threshold of this forbidden sanctum, but her grandfather impatiently motioned her onward, setting down a multi-branched candlestick atop the desk. Phaedra followed, searching her mind for some reason for the unexplained invitation. Could he be meaning to scold her about Gilly's visit, after all? Or perhaps, she thought, drawing her breath with a sharp intake of apprehension, he had gleaned some hint of the Robin Goodfellow business, after all.

  No, if that were the case, her grandfather would hardly seem so- She could not determine what he seemed. If it had been any man other than the blustery Sawyer Weylin, she would have described his manner as almost shy and uncertain. He slid open the desk's center drawer, groping for something.

  "What is amiss, Grandfather?" she asked, unable to endure the suspense any longer. "Have the bills from the mantua-maker been too high? It was you who insisted I have that last gown."

  "Certainly I insisted. Couldn't hope to have you net a marquis dressed in rags. Nay, it is nothing to do with bills." He found what he had been searching for, but secreted it so quickly behind his back, she caught no glimpse. He faced her, his round countenance flushing a dull red. "I wanted to make you a small present, that's all."

  All? Phaedra's mouth hung open. Her grandfather had always paid the reckonings for any expenses, both hers and her late husband's. But the gowns, the jewels, the fripperies were things she had been required to purchase for herself. Never had her grandfather troubled himself to visit the shops, select something, and present it as a gift.

  "A present?" she faltered. "But why?"

  Her question restored some of his bluster. "Why? You silly chit! Because I chose to-that's why. Here, take it."

  He held out a velvet-covered jewel case. When she continued to stare, he thrust it at her. "Take it! Take it, I said!"

  Her fingers closed over the rectangular box. Knowing her grandfather's tastes, she imagined some gaudy jewel, flashy and too expensive. But when she opened the box, it revealed a strand of pearls, each bead a perfect circle of milky-white translucence.

  "They’re beautiful," she stammered.

  "Your grandmother's," he said.

  She gaped at him again, overcome with astonishment.

  "You did have a grandmother, you know." His bushy brows drew together in a fierce glower. "I didn't produce your father all on my own."

  "It is only that you've never mentioned her," Phaedra said. "I don't believe I even know her name."

  "Corinda. She died young-too young."

  "Father never told me anything about her, either."

  "Didn't know anything to tell. He was but a lad of three at the time." Weylin lapsed into a frowning silence, and Phaedra thought that was all he meant to offer on the subject. The candlelight played harsh tricks with his face, making the fleshy pockets about his eyes and jowls appear to droop, adding years to his already age-lined face, his shrewd
eyes dulled by an expression of remembered pain.

  Phaedra longed to know more about the young wife he had lost, but doubted that he would tell her. He rarely spoke about his past, except to boast of his financial achievements. She was surprised when he continued.

  "Your grandmother and I-we didn't live in a house like this one-nothing even approaching it." He glanced about him as though half-expecting the Heath's magnificence to disappear at any moment. "Two rooms are what Corie and I shared, but we made do. I was but a journeyman brewer then. My wages didn't stretch to even an adequate supply of coal to heat the place."

  Weylin crossed his arms, rubbing them as he stared into the candle flame. "Those dratted rooms were never warm enough for Corie. I always had to keep telling the foolish wench not to huddle so close to the fire. 'Mind your petticoats, Corie, afore you scorch them. A chit of her age should have had more sense."

  He emitted a heavy sigh. "It was powerful cold that winter. Corie had been suffering from a chill, and she was always bundling up the boy in her own cloak. She was alone that day, no one else with her but the lad. I supposed she just couldn't get warm enough, and I wasn't there to warn her." He swallowed thickly.

  "They reckoned afterwards that the hem of her dress must've caught fire, and she pure panicked-just ran and ran. They found her facedown in the snow-" Weylin broke off, blinking hard. "Damned foolish girl." Abruptly he turned his back on Phaedra.

  Her hands clenched about the jewel box, and as she stared down at the pearls, it was almost as though she could see a reflection caught in each tiny lustrous bead, that of a sweet-faced young girl, with her father's gentle eyes and delicate features and her hair. Phaedra hardly knew why, but without ever having set eyes upon Corinda Weylin, she felt certain her grandmother had had flowing masses of red hair.

  Phaedra longed to go to her grandfather and wrap her arms about him in a comforting gesture. But she had been thrust aside too many times to risk it. Weylin stood, with his hands clasped behind his back.

  He said gruffly, "I always told Corie one day I'd be able to give her whatever she wanted, furs, fine carriages, jewels. But there was only one bit of finery she ever hankered after, and that was a rope of pearls. I was never able to buy them for her-so now I'm giving them to you."

  "Thank you, Grandpapa," Phaedra said. She at last dared to plant a quick kiss upon his rough cheek. He did not push her away, but he squirmed with obvious discomfort.

  "No need to make a fuss. You've turned out a good, obedient wench, so you have-far more sensible than your father. I could have made a grand gentleman of him if he had had the wit to let me. But you're going to surpass any hope I ever had of him."

  A smile played about Weylin's lips. "The Marchioness de Varnais. Not bad for a brewer's granddaughter."

  Phaedra set the pearls back on the desk, the pleasure she had taken in the gift fading. "The marquis has not favored me with a proposal, Grandfather."

  "He will." Weylin nodded confidently. "I've seen the look in his eyes when he gazes upon you."

  Not lately you haven't, she thought. Her heart ached with the wish that it all could be exactly as her grandfather fancied-that Armande could be who he claimed to be, and so much in love with her that he would sweep her off to his chateau, there to live happily ever after. Impossible. They were bound up in such a fog of lies and deceit that there appeared no hope of lasting love or happiness.

  She was startled from her melancholy reflection when Sawyer clapped his hands together. He rubbed them almost as though the brisk gesture could cleanse him of the tender emotion he had not liked to reveal.

  "You'd best hie yourself off to an early bed. We shall have a busy day on the morrow, with all the young lads frisking about." "Aye, the apprentices' fete," she said without much enthusiasm.

  But Weylin's eyes sparkled with boyish eagerness. "I vow the boys will be in high spirits, glad of a holiday. I would have myself all those years I slaved beneath old Master Hutchin's lash."

  Her grandfather was a man of so many odd contrasts. Phaedra wondered if she would ever understand him. "It was a most hard road, was it not, Grandfather?" she asked. "The road that led you to all of this."

  "Indeed it was, girl."

  "Then I don't understand why you bear so little sympathy for other unfortunate men-men such as that Tom Wilkins."

  Weylin gave a disdainful sniff. "I've no pity for any paupers, save perhaps the children. If I could make my way alone, so can other men. I daresay you think me a ruthless old man, but I always worked hard, never begged, never did aught I'd regret."

  He scowled, a shade of uneasiness clouding his eyes. "Except once-" He broke off and shuffled away from her, snatching up the branch of candles.

  "We can't be talking here all night. My guests will be arriving.

  Come along, girl, and don't forget your pearls."

  Phaedra would as soon have left the pearls, grieved as she was by the feeling that she accepted them under false pretenses. She knew quite well she would never be the Marchioness de Varnais. But at Weylin's insistence, she tucked the box under her arm. At the foot of the stairs stretching above them, her grandfather bid her a curt good night.

  Too hard to feel sympathy for others, Weylin might have been astonished to realize how much pity Phaedra felt for him, as he watched her retreat up the steps. Despite his satin-clad bulk, he appeared quite small, swallowed up in the vastness of his great hall, a lonely old man clutching his silver candlestick.

  Phaedra returned to her chamber, where Lucy helped her undress for bed. When the girl had gone, Phaedra sprawled out on her mattress, leaving the silken bed-curtains flung wide. For what seemed like hours, she tensed, listening for any sound that Armande had returned to the room next to hers.

  Exhausted by the events of the day, she felt more tired than she would admit, her eyes stinging beneath her stubborn determination to keep them open. The chamber felt overly warm, despite the fact her windows were flung wide. She kicked away the clingy satin sheet and tossed fretfully upon her pillow. In an effort to stay awake, she tried staring out the window at the moon, a golden disk set amidst a diamond scattering of stars. It was a beautiful summer night.

  "Far too beautiful to waste in such a foolish misunderstanding, Armande,” she spoke aloud, wanting to be angry. But her words, as they echoed in the empty bedchamber, sounded unbearably sad. A melancholy thought washed over her; this was all her relationship with Armande had ever been, one long, wretched misunderstanding.

  She drifted away, not into a peaceful slumber, but a twilight land of tormenting dreams, haunting night visions. She was skating, wearing a gown that shimmered about her like spun silver, gliding upon endless reaches of a lake layered with crystalline ice set beneath a steel-gray sky. She was soaring in the arms of a stranger garbed for a masquerade.

  Again and again, she tried to draw away from him, the ice beneath her feet so thin. But she could not resist the warm strength of the hand closing over hers. Then she heard a far away voice calling her name,

  "Phaedra."

  She could see Gilly on the edge of the lake shore, struggling to reach her. No! No, go back, she wanted to cry. The ice would never bear his weight. But try as she would to shout, when her lips parted, no sound would come. Gilly loomed closer and closer to where she linked hands with the stranger. He swirled between them, breaking their hands apart, trying to rip the stranger's mask away.

  The mask tore, coming away in his hands, and she found she was gazing at Armande, his eyes clouded with despair, his arms stretching out to her. She tried to run to him, but the ice was breaking beneath her feet. As she plunged downward into the dark, chilling waters, she saw shards of the ice driving into the depths of Armande's eyes, leaving a crimson trickle of blood.

  "No!" Phaedra whimpered, flailing her arms, forcing herself awake. The dream clung to her while she stared into the darkness of her bedchamber, still feeling herself lost beneath the icy waters of the lake. She lay panting for a few moments, her body c
overed with a fine sheen of cold sweat. With a low groan, she sat up, rubbing her temples as though to chase away the last fragments of the nightmare. The clock upon her mantel chimed twice. Was it really two o'clock? She didn't think she could have slept that long, had not wanted to. Feeling groggy, she staggered toward the connecting door and placed her ear to the panel. All was silent within Armande's room. She turned the handle and pushed, but the door did not yield. She tried again, but she realized Armande had bolted it from his side.

  Had he returned? She raised her fist to risk a light knock when she was startled by the sound of a high-pitched laugh that raised the hairs along the back of her neck. Her heart racing, she glanced fearfully over her shoulder, half-dreading to find some mocking specter risen up behind her.

  That laugh, though, had been far too real, far too like one she had heard before, Hester Searle's laughter.

  Phaedra froze, waiting for the sound to be repeated, but she heard nothing but the distant hum of voices drifting through her bedchamber window. She stole over to the open casement, keeping well back into the shelter of the sheer white curtains.

  Peering toward the ground below, she saw no one in the moonlit stretch of lawn or the graveled walk that led to the rose gardens behind the kitchen. The gardens themselves were a shadowy outline of rustling shrubs, but above the whispers of the leaves, Hester's voice cut through the night again.

  Her words carried up to Phaedra in indistinguishable snippets. “Handsomely, sir ... wouldn't want to ... "

  Someone answered her, the second voice, a man’s, low and deep. Abandoning caution, Phaedra leaned out the window, straining to hear, but she could not decipher a word being said.

  Hester spoke again. "Won’t wait longer. Tomorrow, ye hear me?"

  Her companion rumbled a reply, but was cut off by Hester's shriek. "Tomorrow!"

  Phaedra heard the crunch of a boot, then the rustling of the garden hedges. She craned her neck, but minutes ticked by and no one emerged from the opening between the shrubs. The night resumed its silence, and Phaedra could only assume that Hester and her companion had gone out by the other side.