Beneath the Mask

by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

  “Why would she care?” Grace muttered, sounding nothing like her name in an uncharacteristic moment.

  Lady Scarborough stared at her older daughter, drawing in a breath to give a flaming lecture, but something in her earlier words teased Daphne’s mind.

  In an effort to rescue Grace as her sister had done for her, Daphne said, “You could always tell Willem to drop me after you.”

  Her words provoked an angry glare from her mother that softened as Lady Scarborough considered the idea. Though she hadn’t known what she was going to say before she said it, Daphne now held her breath in hope of a much better answer to her dilemma. If only her mother agreed, they could continue on in their normal pattern, though she’d be even later. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the thought of just how Monsieur Henre would react.

  Lady Scarborough made an irritated sound and Daphne turned to look, praying her mother had decided to agree. Hope vanished with a shake of her mother’s head.

  “No, I can’t let you keep the carriage and there’s no sense in Willem going back and forth when we’ll pass by on our way.” Lady Scarborough settled back into her seat as if declaring the conversation over.

  Daphne clenched her hands around her bag, struggling to come up with some other solution.

  “It won’t take that long to drop her off anyway, if we don’t stay to see her to the door,” Grace offered, straightening her skirt next to Daphne.

  For a moment, Daphne thought her sister knew and her heart almost stopped from fear. Grace avoided her gaze, and a blush showed on her sister’s cheeks when the carriage lamp swung near. That color more than anything let Daphne relax. Her sister only offered assistance because of the other trip. She couldn’t know what Daphne did instead of visiting with Penelope. If she knew, even she would have tried to dissuade Daphne.

  Daphne accepted the gift, adding her voice to her sister’s. “She’s right, Mother. I can easily run up the steps on my own. I don’t need Willem’s escort and you will save a little time at least. It’s not like I can get lost on Penelope’s doorstep.”

  Lady Scarborough waved a hand in front of her face as if to cool her agitation. “There’s no point in it, Daphne. How much is the difference in a few minutes when we’re sure to be unfashionably late? No need to strain yourself now that the harm is already done.”

  Daphne didn’t need to pretend the guilt she felt as she glanced from her mother to her sister. What if this did harm her sister’s chances? Grace deserved the best of everything. She’d always been the perfect daughter, unlike Daphne. “I truly am sorry,” Daphne said, her voice filled with remorse. “If I’d known, I would have asked a maid to wake me.”

  Her mother reached out and patted her on the knee. “Now don’t let it strain you, dear. What’s done is done and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

  Feeling the guilt tighten around her heart, Daphne laid one more mark against herself as she said, “It really would make me feel better if you didn’t waste the time to wait on me. I know it’s not much, but maybe, just maybe, it’ll make a difference. There is a fine line between fashionable and unfashionable as you are wont to say.”

  Lady Scarborough shook her head, but the smile she wore gave Daphne renewed hope. “At least you listen some of the time. Well then, if it means that much, I suppose we can just this once. I wouldn’t want guilt to make your evening painful.” She laughed a short bark of humor. “After all we’ve paid for this, you better have the best time ever.”

  A broad smile curved her lips at hearing her mother’s words. “Oh, it will be, Mother. I promise. The best time ever,” she echoed, knowing her statement to be pure truth. If nothing else, this close call reminded her just what she sacrificed for her dream and how tenuous her hold on that dream might be. She’d enjoy every moment, because it very well might be her last.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The carriage jerked to a halt and Willem rapped sharply on the roof, startling Daphne from an exhausted doze.

  Grace nudged her with a foot. “Wake up now. We’re here. You’re sure to be the life of the party. Just try not to snore.”

  Daphne looked up to glare at her sister and met Lady Scarborough’s concerned gaze instead.

  “Are you sure you’re up to a visit? It would be quite out of his way, but Willem could run you home after dropping us if you’ve misjudged your stamina.”

  Smothering a yawn behind her hand, Daphne said, “I’m fine. No need to put Willem out.”

  As if called by her mention, the carriage door swung open and Willem lowered the step for her.

  “Enjoy yourself,” Grace said, laughing as Daphne pushed past her to get out.

  “Yourselves as well,” Daphne muttered, focused more on slipping past her mother without revealing what she carried in the bag. Grace gave the large bundle an odd look, but said nothing, releasing Daphne to step out of the carriage.

  Willem took her arm, moving away and pulling her after.

  “I’ll walk myself up,” Daphne said, loud enough for her voice to carry back to her mother.

  “What are you going to do?” Willem whispered, leaning his head close to hers.

  Daphne smiled, trying for confidence even as her knees quaked. “I’ll catch a hackney to take me down there. It’ll work.” She held back the thought that it would have to. Willem had enough worries without adding to them. “I’ll get another hire coach back as well, so you needn’t worry.”

  Willem resisted her effort to pull free, staring at her. “It’s not the bother I’m worried about. You shouldn’t be on your own.”

  “There’s no choice,” she whispered back. “And I have to learn to fend for myself sometime. It’s not like we’re on the West End. The driver will think me a maid servant.”

  He laughed. “No one will mistake you for a maid, Lady Daphne, not even in the dark and if blind.”

  “A shop girl then. I’ll pretend to be from one of the dress shops, wearing a cast off gown.”

  The sound of knuckles rapped against the carriage cut through the air. “What’s keeping you, Willem? You could have escorted her up the stairs by now.”

  Willem tensed at Lady Scarborough’s comment, turning back toward the carriage as if divided between his responsibilities.

  “Go,” Daphne urged. “I’ve done enough to upset my mother this night. Don’t let yourself become the whipping boy.”

  He hesitated only a heartbeat longer before releasing her arm. “Take care now, my lady. Keep yourself safe.”

  She didn’t have time to respond as he strode toward the carriage and leapt onto the seat with surprising athleticism. Daphne wondered for a moment what he’d be like as a dancer, then dismissed the thought, focusing instead on what to do next.

  Once the carriage moved around the corner, Daphne set off in the opposite direction, her steps awkward. She fumbled with the pins holding her hair, finally getting it down around her shoulders and falling into her face. The ribbon solved that problem, securing her strands so they fell down the middle of her back.

  Daphne tugged the shawl tight around her shoulders, attempting to hide the dress as best she could while thinking hard about the young woman in the dress shop. How had she carried herself? It took a while to school her features into the stoic boredom she’d seen on the shop girl’s face, but it didn’t need to be perfect, just good enough to fool a driver in poor light.

  Her disguise in place, she looked around for a hackney, only then realizing she’d noticed none while she organized herself. A thrill of fear raced up her back. What would she do if no cart came? Could she arrive unexpected and unannounced at Penelope’s home, her hair down like a maid’s and her dress covered in a tatty shawl? And what would Monsieur Henre say?

  Daphne curled her shoulders inward, despair negating her training in posture. Nothing had gone right today. She stamped her foot, temper getting the better of her. She’d planned everything so carefully and her mother just had to spoil it all. First taking away her teac
her and now taking away this chance.

  She turned sharply, marching back toward Penelope’s home with a determined step. If she couldn’t find a hackney here, she’d make Penelope’s butler get her one and darn anyone who tried to get in her way.

  Her temper sustained Daphne until she’d almost reached the stairs, but then her pace slowed. Could she really go up there and ask a servant to run after a carriage when she wasn’t even expected?

  The sound of reins slapped against a horse’s broad back could not have been more welcome, though Daphne shrank against the stone pillar marking the step, hiding in its shadow in case the noise signaled the arrival of another guest.

  The carriage didn’t stop and Daphne could see no coat of arms on the door as it passed her. She grabbed her skirt in one hand and ran after it, waving her bag to attract the driver’s attention.

  He kept going, apparently unaware of her frantic signaling.

  “Wait,” Daphne shouted, ignoring all convention. What had she left to lose if anyone saw her like this?

  She thought all was lost, but then the hire coach slowed and stopped, waiting for her to catch up, breathless and panting.

  “Where to, miss?” the driver called down, apparently taken in by her disguise or behavior enough that he didn’t come to help her inside.

  Pushing down her annoyance, Daphne tried to mimic the dressmaker’s attempt at a learned accent. “Take me to Drury Lane. Monsieur Henre’s theater.”

  The man pushed back his hat and stared down at her with a smile she found uncomfortable.

  “An actress are you?” he asked, still staring.

  Daphne shook her head, mute with embarrassment. She reached up and opened the door, pulling herself into the carriage without even lowering the step.

  He clucked to his horse, then leaned sideways to peer through the window as they started moving forward. “What are you then?” he asked, his tone impertinent by any standards.

  She shuddered, suddenly feeling as vulnerable as Willem seemed to think she would be. “I’m a shop girl,” she stammered. Her fingers tightened around the bag as if it provided some protection. It might not keep her safe, but the crinkle of cloth within gave her an idea. “I have to find his lordship,” she murmured. “Lord Pendleton. He ordered something from my master and he needs it tonight.”

  The driver laughed, a bark of sound that held a world of contempt for her kind. “They got you running their errands even this late at night? A decent girl like you should be safe at home, not out here where any stranger could catch you.”

  She mumbled something in response, unsure even what she’d meant to say, grateful only that her reason struck a chord with him. The driver showed no more interest in her activities, keeping to a smart pace and delivering her as promised.

  Daphne dug in her bag for the coin to pay him, surprised when he opened her door and lowered the step.

  “I’ve a sister about your age,” the driver said in a gruff voice when she raised questioning eyes to his face.

  He ran a finger along his cap as thanks for her payment and waved goodbye as though they’d become friends on the trip, a bond formed in serving those of noble blood, one she deserved only because of the entertainment her dance provided.

  Daphne tried for a smile, but facing the dark, empty entrance, she could hear her heart beat out the words “you’re late, you’re late,” over and over until sweat broke out on her palms. Still clutching her bag, she scrambled toward the back entrance, only remembering to put her mask on when her hand touched the doorknob. She risked too much to be revealed now.

  THE WARNING BELL RANG THROUGH the hall as soon as she closed the door behind her. Clutching her bag, Daphne ran to the costume area on feet driven by panic. The sounds of laughter reached her, and she spared a grateful thought for flexibility as she fought to undo the back ties, almost tearing her dress in the need to change rapidly.

  Before she’d completed the transfer to her costume, other dancers swarmed into the room, filling it with their voices. She shrank toward the corner and concentrated on doing up the laces holding her costume close to her body.

  “What have we here?”

  Daphne tensed at the voice of the one dancer who seemed to resent her: Cynthia, the woman she’d met first of any of them.

  “That was your bell, dear,” the dancer prodded. “Guess you think you’re so good the audience will wait on you. Think you’re better than us ’cause you’ve got the starring role.”

  Daphne straightened her skirt and turned to face Cynthia. “I don’t think that,” she said, her voice soft. “I know I’m late.”

  Cynthia dropped into a curtsy, a mocking smile on her lips. “And see how she admits to her faults?” Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper, “Just wait until you hear from Henre. It’ll be the crowning moment of your short-lived career.”

  Pushing past the other woman, Daphne struggled against a tension filling her gut with worry. What would Monsieur Henre say to her? She’d only done it for his protection, his and hers. She shuddered to think what her father would do to Henre if he ever found out.

  Then she squared her shoulders, pushing back the concerns. No matter what happened after, she owed her audience a wonderful dance.

  Though her heart was focused, Daphne knew she’d failed by the second twist. Her mouth threatened to open into a wide yawn and her feet seemed to collapse at every opportunity. She begged the Lord above to give her strength, but her day had taken its toll.

  As she bent over her legs, freezing into position with the last notes of the musical piece, instead of the silence she’d earned before, this time Daphne could hear rustles as people adjusted their clothing or their seat. The deafening silence before applause never came. Instead, some made half-hearted efforts to bring their hands together while others jeered.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, soaking the edges of her mask. She’d tried her best, she really had.

  “Get off the stage.”

  “An imposter? Does he think he can pawn us off on someone with so little skill?”

  Daphne desperately waited for the curtain to drop, needing that slight barrier between her and the dissatisfied audience. She feared they would throw hard or rotten fruit next as the other dancers had warned her they sometimes did.

  She glanced up at the cloth that should have been her salvation, and it had snagged. One of the workers struggled to release it, but Daphne could tell rescue would not come in time.

  Gathering her courage with both hands, she pushed to her feet and swept an apologetic curtsy to the crowd before moving quickly off stage, almost running.

  There, she ran full tilt into a grinning Cynthia.

  “You’ve done it now, mystery lady. Henre’s giving me the center stage to try and rescue your mess.”

  Daphne stumbled as Cynthia shoved past her. She saw the other dancer look back with a grin before going into a swift tumbling routine that threatened to upend her skirt over her head. Daphne clenched her fists at the display, but the audience didn’t mind the performance at all. She could hear laughter where just moments before the same people had mocked and condemned her.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, clouding her vision though she kept her gaze fixed on the other dancer. She knew she’d failed to give the audience what it deserved, but she’d tried her best. Shoulders slumped, Daphne turned away, wondering if she really had what it took to dance professionally.

  Behind her, she heard the thump of Cynthia’s feet against the floorboards, feeling the vibrations through her thin-soled slippers. The music from the pit masked every mechanical part of dancing, from the harsh breath to the thud produced by even the most delicate movement. The audience had no idea just how hard they had to work to produce such beauty and grace.

  Daphne straightened, regaining a measure of confidence as she realized she’d had no choice in what happened and she’d just have to accept that she’d failed this night. Tomorrow, she’d come ready.

  A rough hand closed o
n her upper arm as she stepped down from the stage wing. She squeaked, more from surprise than pain, jerking against the hold.

  “What? You think you can enact that disaster on my stage and have no consequences?”

  She turned to meet Monsieur Henre’s sharp glare.

  “In my office now,” he ground out, giving her no choice as he pulled her behind him.

  Daphne bit her lip to stifle a cry when she stumbled over an uneven board, her slippers providing little protection. Her heart pounded against her ribs as fear returned. Would he take all this away from her? Would the audience remember only this failure?

  Determination grew within Daphne. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, she’d get the chance to prove tonight an accident of circumstances and nothing more.

  Monsieur Henre pushed through his door, leaving it open as he tossed her into a chair before moving around his desk to stare at her, his chin resting on steepled fingers.

  Daphne looked back, keeping her spine straight enough to impress her mother had she been there. Not even his strongest glare would make her flinch, not with so much at stake.

  He frowned, dropping his hands to the desktop where he clenched them, random papers protesting the movement with their crinkling. “So. You come in late, from partying no doubt, and disgrace yourself on my stage. All this and you have the audacity to attempt to stare me down?”

  She tried to protest his interpretation, but he slammed his hand flat on the desk, silencing her.