After luncheon, Quentin rode out to Quigley Magna. He was glad to get away from the hustle and bustle of the house and, perhaps he was imagining it, but Polly seemed to have a little more pep in her step after a good night’s rest. He looped her reins over a hitching post and strode along the high street, touching his hat to passersby and bidding all and sundry a good afternoon.
At the stationer’s he met with disappointment, for there was only a single quire of his favourite hot-pressed white paper in stock. The stationer was happy to order more - reams of the stuff - if the young master wished it. Quentin said of course he wished it. How he was expected to write a three-volume novel when there were only two dozen sheets of paper available, he could not imagine! See how the artist is beset!
“Send the invoice to Quigley Manor,” he snapped. “And have your stocks replenished with all haste. Art and literature cannot wait!”
And so it was not in the best mood that he left the shop. The first person he ran into was not his favourite.
“Why, Master Quigley!” cried Miss Sinclair. “What an unexpected pleasure!”
Quentin scowled. “Miss Sinclair,” the name almost choked him. “You are far from home.”
“Papa had some business to attend to in the shop,” she smiled. “So I am taking in the sights until he is ready to return home.”
It was all Quentin could do not to yawn in her face. What a dull, provincial girl she is!
“You are busy shopping,” she nodded at the packet under Quentin’s arm. He clutched it all the tighter.
“I am - on an errand. There is much to do before the ball. Good day.” He touched his hat.
“O, Master Quigley!” Miss Sinclair cried, wringing her hands. “It is good to see you. I am so looking forward to your party and becoming better acquainted with your family and your friends.”
Over my rotting corpse, thought Quentin.
He smiled thinly. “I am sure you will charm them thoroughly,” he said. “Good day.”
“And dancing too, of course! I hope you shall grant me the honour, Master Quigley. And the doctor too! I wonder if he is a good dancer; I daresay I shall soon find out. He is a man of many qualities, don’t you find? I am sure that dancing may be numbered among them.”
Quentin’s blood ran cold. He repeated a rather curt ‘good day’, spun on his heels and marched away. By the time he was back in Polly’s saddle he had determined that Miss Sinclair must not attend the party at all costs.
But how to deter her? How to get her to prefer to stay at home?
He chewed his lower lip all the way home. Fortunately, Polly’s slowness afforded him plenty of time to think. By the time he was in his room and depositing his newly acquired quire of paper in the drawer of his writing desk, he had hit upon the perfect idea.
***
“You have ink on your fingers, nephew,” Aunt Fanny observed at dinner. “I pray you do not transfer it to the napkins and tablecloths. The servants have enough to occupy them without you taxing them with further laundry.”
“I shall try my best, Aunt,” Quentin smiled. He was rather pleased with himself and did not care that it showed on his face.
“Our brother must be making headway with that three-volume novel of his,” said Frederic. “When may we read it?”
“O, that day is a long way off,” said Quentin. He did not want to tell them what he had been working on instead of his magnum opus.
“You won’t have time for such frippery when you’re married,” said Reginald. “You mark my words; you shall have other duties to perform.”
The elder brothers laughed. Aunt Fanny shuddered. Quentin would not allow any of them to mar his good mood. He excused himself before pudding and went to the stable to seek out Francis.
“You must deliver this under the cover of darkness,” he urged in hushed tones. He produced a letter, folded into a square and tied with string. “No one must see you coming or going; is that understood?”
The stable boy frowned at the piece of paper. “What is it?”
“That is not for you to know,” said Quentin. “The address is clearly marked, is it not? Let that be sufficient to quell your curiosity.”
Francis tucked the letter into his shirt pocket. “I’ll saddle up Polly.”
“No!” Quentin cried. “You must take Mabel; she will be faster.”
“Urgent message, is it?”
“I am thinking merely of your comfort. You should be home in time for supper.”
Francis found the statement difficult to believe. The little prince, thinking of somebody else’s welfare! It was unlikely.
“Very good, sir,” Francis bowed his head. “I am not to await a reply?”
“O, dear me, no!” said Quentin. “There will be no reply. Now, be off; it is dusk already and I should hate for Mabel to meet with an accident.”
“I am sure, sir,” Francis bowed again. He prepared to perform the assignment.
Quadrille
The day of the ball arrived and the manor was busier than a beehive at Piccadilly Circus. Quentin felt a curious sense of nervous anticipation deep in his stomach; a great deal was riding on the way the evening played out. He withdrew from the general hubbub to practice dancing in his costume with an imaginary partner. How different it was from his customary attire! He felt constricted in some ways and freer in others, and he adored the way the fabric swished and flowed as he turned around and around. He was spinning on the spot, almost breathless from excitement and the restrictive nature of the bodice, when there came a tap-tap at his chamber door, followed by Birkworth’s sonorous tones.
“Master Quentin, Miss Shaver craves your presence in the ballroom.”
Hellfire! With a cry of frustration, he proceeded to extricate himself from his costume. He had a grand entrance to make later on and he did not wish to dilute its impact by giving previews.
“I shall be with her presently,” he called out, struggling with the sleeves.
“Very good, sir,” said Birkworth.
Hang it all! Quentin wriggled free and pulled on a robe to cover his nakedness. Without pausing to check his hair in a mirror, he hurried down the back stairs to the ballroom. He pushed open the door, which was decorated on one side to seem part of the ballroom wall, and stopped in his tracks.
I am here already, he gasped! Across the room stood Miss Shaver, replete in a Boadicea costume, addressing Quentin Quigley himself! Fool, it is the stable boy, disguised as me and dressed for the party! I must say, from this distance, he does look the part - although I doubt I slump so when I am standing. And as for the costume: well, it was a bold choice on my part but it cuts an undeniable dash.
Miss Shaver, unfortunately, was of a different opinion, and her words carried across the room. “Is that really what you are to wear?” she asked in despair.
“Young master’s orders,” said Francis, glumly.
Miss Shaver circled him slowly, taking in the costume from every angle. “It aids the deception, I suppose, for the little prince to dress up as the little emperor.”
Unseen, in the servants’ doorway, Quentin was aghast. To hear his betrothed-to-be refer to him by the execrable epithet! It stung like a betrayal.
“But Napoleon, Miss,” sighed Francis. “It don’t seem proper.”
“You know Quentin,” said Miss Shaver. “He has a desire to be controversial.”
Do I? Quentin stood astonished. Is this how I am beheld?
The pair were approached by Birkworth, who presumably had come to inform Miss Shaver that Master Quigley was on his way; the butler was surprised to find him already there. And dressed as England’s mortal enemy.
“Very good, Miss,” he stared at the stable boy, barely able to contain his mortification. “The guests are beginning to arrive.”
“Very
good, Birkworth,” Miss Shaver smiled. “Master Quentin and I shall ready ourselves to bid them welcome.”
As soon as the butler’s back was turned, Miss Shaver sent Francis a grimace of excitement. She pulled him by the arm to the tall, double doors, nodding to the string-and-clarinet quintet to strike up a tune.
Quentin pulled the door to and hurried up the stairs to his room. Blast it; there was no one to help him dress.
In that case, he would surprise them all.
***
It took him over an hour. As well as the dress and all its intricacies, there was the wig, which added a couple of feet to his height, and the make-up, which was in keeping with the period and served to mask the shadow on his chin; even though he had shaved as closely as he could, he was concerned any hint of blue would give him away. A choker and a necklace of paste diamonds would draw attention from his Adam’s apple. His eyebrows were mercilessly plucked in order to give them a more refined and feminine arch.
He gave himself a final appraisal in the mirror, fanning himself and essaying a range of pouts and postures. Beautiful, he gasped, highly pleased with the overall effect!
He opened the door and almost dislodged the wig in the process of leaving the room. I must remember that, he thought; how do taller people cope?
He strode grandly through the house and down the main staircase, beaming at the astonished faces of the servants he passed.
A footman hurried forward to open the ballroom doors. Quentin was assaulted by the din of conversation - the music was barely audible. He nodded to the footman, who struck a gong to command everyone’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Marie Antoinette!”
***
Quentin was more than gratified by the amazement and stupefaction engendered by his entrance. He stood on the spot, allowing every eye to drink in the vision before it. As the guests gawped at him, he took in the room. There was Lady Garden and Miss Garden, both of whom appeared to have dressed as Boadicea, their breastplates agleam and their tresses in thick plaits. O, dear! He caught sight of some other women. They too were dressed as the queen of the Iceni. There was not a single Joan of Arc among them; clearly the ladies had second-guessed themselves and had all had the same idea.
The men too were displaying a disappointing lack of variety. Most of them had come as Robert the Bruce - a look that suited Quentin’s fiery-headed eldest brother; Reginald was easy enough to spot, leaning on his stick, with Joanna (another Boadicea) on his arm. Frederic, pleasingly, was dressed as Shakespeare but who was the crone at his side? It must be Mrs Frederic Quigley, whom Quentin had never met, for they had been married in secret in London. Well, all credit to the woman for bucking the trend and eschewing the bellicose trappings of Boadicea and opting instead for an outfit that made her look like a wicked witch from fairy stories.
He watched the Squire approach with Birkworth at his elbow bearing a tray of drinks. The former was sporting Roman garments, cutting quite a dash as an elderly Julius Caesar; the latter was dressed as Birkworth with no concession to the festivities.
“Welcome, welcome,” mighty Caesar bowed to his second daughter-in-law.
“Father,” said Frederic, “this is Joanna, my wife.”
“Welcome, Joanna!” the Squire clutched her hand. “And may I say what a splendid costume! You have gone to a great deal of effort.”
Mrs Frederic Quigley scowled at the emperor of Rome. “I was not aware there was a fancy dress requirement,” she said in a voice like fingernails on slate.
“Oh!” Caesar seized two glasses from Birkworth’s tray and downed them in rapid succession. With a cough of embarrassment he excused himself. “I must mingle,” he declared, moving faster than he had in decades.
Marie Antoinette chuckled to herself. Frederic’s wife really was that old! Ancient, in fact! No chance of an heir then from those quarters.
He turned away lest he be caught staring and his gaze fell on another Robert the Bruce. While the costume was rather becoming on Reginald who could bear himself with a militaristic attitude, the same could not be said for the postmaster, Scroggins; the kilt made his legs look even shorter. The squat little man was in a corner and collusion with a severe-looking Mary Tudor - at least that woman was showing a spark of originality. Quentin gasped when he realised who it was.
Aunt Fanny!
He masked his surprise with a flutter of his fan.
What was Aunt Fanny doing with the postmaster? Trying to organise a discount, perhaps. Or - worse! - seeking to intercept my deliveries from the fashion houses of London and Paris!
“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure.”
Quentin lowered his fan to find the beaming face of Doctor Goodhead inclined toward his hand. The half mask did little to conceal the doctor’s identity; Quentin would recognise the man in a darkened room with a sack over his head.
He allowed the kiss, feeling the warmth of the doctor’s lips through his glove.
Doctor Goodhead looked even more handsome than ever - if such a thing were possible. He wore an unruly wig of dark brown; it hung lankly past the shoulders of his chiton. A loose cape of fur hung down his back and his bare legs were crisscrossed by the leather straps of his sandals. In his free hand he wielded a hefty club.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” he grinned. “I am Hercules.”
You certainly are, thought Quentin! He simpered and said nothing. Hercules offered Marie Antoinette his arm and invited her to join him in a dance.
Quentin’s heart was galloping faster than Satan ever had, straining against the whalebone stays of his corset as his horse would against the bridle. The quintet struck up a stately air and the guests peeled themselves from the perimeters of the room to participate in a steady, formal dance of slow turns, bows and curtseys, palm to palm, their faces impassive beneath their inscrutable masks.
Quentin was aware of the admiring glances of the other dancers and the whispered questions hissed between partners. He caught the eye of Miss Shaver as she led a stumbling Napoleon through the steps. Francis was fretful; Quentin could tell by the way he curled his lower lip. Oh, you’ll soon get the hang of it, he sent a smile of encouragement. Napoleon gaped like a chasm to see the young master dressed in such a manner and was about to make an exclamation but Miss Shaver spun him away.
I am the talk of the ball! Quentin glowed with pride. Everyone is captivated. Everyone is in my thrall - save for Hercules, who is barely looking at me at all.
It was true; Doctor Goodhead was forever peering over Marie Antoinette’s shoulder or craning his neck to see beyond her towering wig. Quentin beat him on the upper arm with his folded fan.
“You are looking for someone?” he whispered.
“Um...” said the doctor. “I am sorry?”
“You appear distracted,” frowned Marie Antoinette. “There is someone else with whom you wish to dance other than the most beautiful woman in all of France?”
“What?” It was a Herculean effort but Doctor Goodhead forced his attention to focus on the beauty at his fingertips. “Forgive me,” he bowed his head.
The quintet brought the quadrille to its conclusion. The other couples moved off to seek refreshments. Quentin was loath to release the doctor’s hand. He fanned himself rapidly. “I am in need of air,” he whispered. “I pray you, which way is the garden?”
“Through here.” Doctor Goodhead led his dance partner toward a set of French windows that opened onto a patio. He kept glancing behind him and frowning with disappointment.
Marie Antoinette found her way to a low, stone bench and lowered her voluminous gown onto it, like a deflating soufflé. She indicated with her fan to the demigod to sit beside her.
“Tell me,” Quentin dipped his chin and peered from under his eyebrows, “who is it you seek so urgently? Perhap
s I have seen them.”
Hercules was looking at the ballroom. Pairs of dancers wheeled past the open window, affording fleeting glimpses of the guests. “Someone I was hoping to - expecting to see...”
“Let me hazard a guess.” Quentin touched the doctor’s bare knee with the tip of his fan. “Is it one of the plethora of Boadiceas that have invaded us this evening?”
Hercules laughed and shook his long locks.
“A Robert the Bruce, peut-être? You wish to strengthen Anglo-Scots relations?”
Doctor Goodhead smiled. “You are perfectly charming.”
Beneath his face powder, Quentin turned red. He looked away and saw Miss Shaver spinning a staggering stable boy past the window. “Napoleon!” he cried. “You wish to have an audience with the Emperor!”
“What?” Doctor Goodhead scowled. “O, no! That is in very poor taste, if you ask me. To attend a festive occasion in an Englishman’s house, dressed as the country’s mortal enemy! No, it will not do.”
Quentin was aghast. “You do not like the French, Monsieur?” He tried to cool himself with some frantic fanning. “You do not like me?”
Hercules remembered his manners. He took a gloved hand in his and kissed the knuckles. “The beautiful but doomed Marie Antoinette! That is different; you are a historical figure.”
Quentin glowered. His perception of Doctor Goodhead was tarnished. He began to think that his image of the ideal man was, like Hercules, a myth.
“I have misspoken, Mademoiselle?” the doctor placed especial emphasis on the last word; Quentin began to panic. He sees through me! He affected to conceal himself behind the fan. “That is a hazard of a masked ball,” the doctor continued. “One might find oneself saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“Indeed,” Marie Antoinette nodded. Her wig slipped. O, confound it all, thought Quentin! He got to his feet, took off the wig and dashed it at the doctor’s sandals.
“Voilà! C’est moi!” he cried. “I am the one you seek.”
Doctor Goodhead gaped in shock. The club fell from his grasp. “Kon-tan! My word! What are you doing?”
Quoits and Quotability Page 13
