Moonlight Masquerade

by Ruth Axtell

  If it is childlessness you fear, did it never occur to you that perhaps it was not you who was at fault, but your late husband?

  And if it turns out that it is you who are barren, the Scriptures say that the Lord makes the barren woman to be a joyful mother of children.

  In closing, the only words I can offer you are to trust in the Lord. You said that you had made your peace with God.

  Well, perhaps now it is time to trust in His goodness toward you. Trust that He will bless our union whether we beget children or not.

  I love you, Céline. Please marry me and come with me. I leave on Sunday morning.

  Your servant, Rees

  He had written the address of the British embassy at the bottom.

  Céline was unable to sleep that night. She lay for hours, staring at the darkness. She had reread Rees’s letter more than a dozen times.

  Dear God, how can I marry him? What if I am condemning him to never seeing a son grow up, a daughter smile at him in love and admiration?

  The tears finally came, drenching her pillowcase.

  The next day dragged on. Valentine gave her no sympathy. When she visited Gaspard, Valentine had already been to him. He gave her a look of understanding.

  “Think hard before you turn this man down. You have been unhappy with one man and alone for too many years. Perhaps le bon Dieu has put this man in your path.”

  She could find no words to refute him.

  He sighed. “France is no place for you now, chérie. It will only make you unhappy.”

  She fought with everything within her to keep from going to the British embassy.

  Sunday finally arrived. Céline heard a rooster crow in someone’s yard and arose while it was yet dark. She was sitting in their small kitchen when Valentine came downstairs.

  Thankfully, her maid said nothing but went about stirring up the fire and putting a kettle on to boil.

  Céline drank a cup of black and bitter coffee, her mind imagining the preparations at the British embassy. How many would be going? How early would they leave?

  Help me to be strong, Lord. Help me to let him go.

  When she went upstairs, she pulled out his letter again, from the Bible by her bed.

  She reread the words. Trust in His goodness.

  Had she ever trusted in the Lord’s goodness?

  She had learned to accept God’s will. She had learned to accept Him.

  But had she learned to accept His goodness?

  Dear Lord, what does that mean? Her eyes slid to the next line in the letter.

  Trust that He will bless our union . . . I love you, Céline. Please marry me and come with me. I leave on Sunday morning.

  Suddenly, those words “on Sunday morning” hit her full force. He was leaving. Perhaps he was already on his way.

  Oh, dear God, no! She might never see him again.

  No! She must see him. One last time.

  It was Stéphane all over again. Except this time she had a choice. The Lord had given her a choice.

  Her heart racing and her hands shaking as if with the palsy, she grabbed her clothes, not bothering to call for Valentine, praying the Lord would delay Rees in time for her to arrive at the British embassy.

  26

  Rees was ready and waiting outside the embassy as servants loaded the last things. Castlereagh was already down, and Rees knew it would only be a matter of minutes until they were off.

  Castlereagh had accepted Wellington’s recommendation to have Rees join the British Legation to the Congress of Vienna. The foreign minister remembered him from a brief encounter at the Foreign Office shortly after Céline had departed England.

  That was when Rees was racked with guilt, questioning his own patriotism and loyalty. He’d tendered his resignation, but Castlereagh had refused to accept it, offering him a leave of absence for a few weeks instead.

  Now, the foreign minister welcomed him, telling him he needed someone fluent in French, as well as another pair of eyes and ears in all the hobnobbing. For he had made it clear to the younger men accompanying him that they would be just as useful at all the social events he anticipated as sitting in meetings or translating documents.

  There were two other men his age, one Castlereagh’s private secretary. They had three coaches in all, the last one for the servants and the bulk of the baggage.

  Castlereagh would ride in the first carriage with his wife. Rees could only be grateful to the minister’s wife. Any delay in departure was due to her last-minute preparations and leave-taking.

  But as the minutes wore on, Rees’s hopes that Céline would have a change of heart dwindled. Lord, Thy will be done, he kept repeating to himself.

  Céline had not contacted him since the day he’d proposed to her. He had no idea if she had even read his letter. He grimaced. Perhaps Valentine had destroyed it before her mistress even had a chance to see it.

  The heavy doors to the hôtel opened, and the two men came out.

  Lord Castlereagh turned to his secretary. “Everything ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Castlereagh handed the bag he carried to the younger man. “Well, as soon as Lady Castlereagh appears, we shall be off,” he said with a chuckle. Then he turned back to Wellington.

  At that moment, Rees heard footsteps coming into the large courtyard from the street. His heart leaped at the sight of Céline, who stopped short at the opened gates, her gaze on the carriages.

  With a brief “Excuse me,” Rees hurried over to her, afraid to hope.

  They both began to speak at once. “You came—”

  “You haven’t left—”

  They stopped and smiled self-consciously at each other. At the sound of the stomping of a horse’s hooves, Rees glanced back. Castlereagh was looking his way. “Come and greet Castlereagh and the duke.”

  Putting a hand to her bonnet, she hesitated. “I am scarcely dressed for the occasion. I—I hurried over, afraid you had already left.”

  He pressed her hand. “You look beautiful as always.”

  She allowed him to lead her to the group of gentlemen. Both Wellington and Castlereagh greeted her fondly. After a few moments of small talk, Céline glanced at Rees.

  He cleared his throat. “If you would excuse us—”

  “Certainly, certainly,” they assured him at once.

  He pulled her aside and took her hands in his. “Dare I hope this means you’ve changed your mind?”

  She squeezed his hands in hers. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Hiding his disappointment, he returned the pressure of her hands. “Please come to Vienna. I can ask Castlereagh if his wife wouldn’t mind having you along. She may appreciate the companionship.”

  She shook her head. “Oh no, I can’t come today. I haven’t made any preparations.”

  Today. He fixed on that one word. “Does that mean you will come?”

  Her brandy-hued eyes met his, her hands resting trustingly in his. “Are you very sure?”

  “Yes.”

  When she still hesitated, he thought of a possible reason. “I can give you money for whatever arrangements you need to make.”

  She shook her head. “I have money.” She smiled. “I am not destitute, you know.”

  He returned her smile. “I am glad to hear it.” Then he sobered. “We can be married once you arrive there.”

  He read the wavering in her eyes. How he longed to pull her to him. “Please come. I’ll find you—us—a house. If you change your mind when you get there, I’ll arrange for you to travel back.” He was going on, grasping at anything to have her promise.

  He waited, hardly daring to hope, his gaze fixed on hers.

  Finally, she took a deep breath. “Very well.”

  He smiled, his spirit soaring at the two words. Then he frowned. “I don’t like the idea of your traveling alone. It’s not safe.”

  “I shall find someone to accompany me. I’m sure there are hordes going to Vienna for the congress.”


  He nodded in relief. “Yes. That’s perfect.”

  She seemed to have something more on her mind. “What is it?” he asked softly.

  “You said in your letter”—she paused, moistening her lips and looking away from him—“that perhaps the fault was not with me but with . . . with . . .”

  He knew at once what she was referring to. He touched a finger to her chin, turning her back to face him. “First of all, the good earl never begat an heir through his first wife, did he?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then it stands to reason the problem lay with him and not you.”

  Her brow began to clear. “Do you really think so?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said emphatically. Before she could speak, he held up a finger. “But, if it is indeed you who are barren, we can adopt a child. There are certainly enough children left each day at our foundling hospitals to establish a whole dynasty.” He smiled tenderly at her. “You may have as many children as you wish—or your diminished fortune allows—since I am still only a salaried man. You are getting the paltry end of the bargain.”

  Her lips twitched, and her hands came up to rest on his chest. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Your prospects are quite decent, with Castlereagh and Wellington both befriending you.”

  “Perhaps with you at my side in Vienna, I will quickly rise to prominence.” He leaned in close to her, the last words whispered against her lips. Would he be able finally to taste them once again?

  “La, is that what I am to expect of romantic language from you?” she whispered back.

  He cupped her cheek in his hand. “I am not a Frenchman of fine words. I can only tell you I have never loved anyone as I love you.”

  She closed the gap between their lips, breathing against them. “Do you remember the first time?”

  “Do I indeed . . .” he only managed before being lost to the kiss.

  It had been so long, and yet the moment his lips touched hers, it felt as if it had only been yesterday that they’d stood in the garden at Hartwell House and embraced.

  How he longed to deepen the kiss now, but he knew they weren’t alone.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he drew his lips from hers, though he kept his hand on her face. “Don’t delay. I shall count the days until your arrival.”

  She nodded, her eyes warm and loving, her lips rosy and still half parted.

  He heard a discreet cough behind him and turned, taking Céline by the arm. It was Castlereagh’s secretary. “We are ready to depart, sir.”

  “Yes. I’ll be right there.” He turned to Céline.

  “Go.” She loosened his hold and stepped away from him. “You mustn’t keep them waiting.”

  He swallowed. Would he see her again? He took her hand and bent over it. Then, reluctantly, he let it go and moved away.

  He ascended the second carriage. The door slammed shut, and the horses’ hooves began to clatter against the cobblestones. Rees pushed down the window and leaned out of it, his gaze fixed on Céline until the carriage left the courtyard and headed down the street.

  Epilogue

  Scarcely a fortnight after Rees left Paris, Céline arrived in Vienna.

  He had sent her a few messages by courier, telling her of his arrival, giving her the details of where he was lodging, and finally sending her the address of the apartment he had found for her. It was located in the center of town, near all the activities of the congress.

  She arrived late at night and sent him word the next morning.

  Rees came as soon as he received her note.

  An Austrian maid he had hired showed him to a sitting room. Too nervous to sit, he stood at a window overlooking the street below.

  A few moments later the door opened. All he could do was stare. She had really come. She stood in the doorway as if she were unsure of her welcome.

  “You’re here,” was all she said as she wiped her hands against the sides of her gown.

  He walked toward her with a gentle smile, afraid she would turn and run at any moment. “I should be saying that to you. I hope I am not too early. You must be exhausted after your journey.”

  Céline looked at Rees as he came toward her, feeling suddenly very shy. Did he still want her?

  Encouraged by his smile and outstretched hands, she met him halfway. “No, I’m fine, nothing to signify.”

  His hands clasped hers as he smiled at her.

  “Are you happy to see me?” she whispered, her courage returning at the warm look in his eyes.

  “How can you even ask that?”

  Then she was in his arms, her bones in danger of cracking, and he was twirling her around. “I was so afraid you’d change your mind,” he said against her neck.

  He halted and gazed down at her.

  “And I was afraid after so many days away from me you’d come to your senses and hope I wouldn’t follow after you.”

  “I certainly have not changed my mind, if that is what you are implying,” he said sternly. “In fact, I have taken the liberty of finding a pastor who can marry us this very day . . . if that is not too soon for you.” He searched her eyes for confirmation.

  She smiled slowly. “Today? And then . . . you would move here with me?”

  He nodded cautiously. “If you have no objections.”

  “None at all,” she whispered, her cheeks tinting.

  He cleared his throat. “Castlereagh said he and his wife would stand as witnesses at the wedding.”

  “Oh, my. You have certainly come up in the world.”

  He chuckled. “If they come, it is only because of you, my dear.”

  She rested her hands against his chest. “That must mean they have forgiven me my activities of last year.”

  “You know what they say—all’s fair in love and war. Besides, I think he wants to use your influence and talents for the British at this congress before Talleyrand gets to you.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “He already has!”

  The two laughed as he bent his head and touched his nose to hers before taking her lips once more with his.

  If this is what a London season is, I’d say it’s a silly waste of time.” Jessamine Barry folded her arms in front of her, frowning at the hordes of people milling past her in the Grecian-style drawing room.

  “It is rather difficult to speak to anyone in this situation,” admitted her closest friend, Megan Phillips.

  If it weren’t for Megan, she’d know no one in this sea of glistening, gleaming faces. Her handkerchief was already limp from patting it against her forehead and neck. “All this trouble to dress one’s finest just to be ignored. I don’t know how long I shall be able to stand it.”

  Megan turned worried eyes toward her. “Oh no, don’t say that. You know it’s such an opportunity we’ve been given by your godmother. I’m sure things will soon improve.” Megan craned her neck above the crowd. “Where did she go? I haven’t seen her since we arrived.”

  “In the card room, I would say,” Jessamine said sourly. The picture Lady Bess had painted Jessamine’s father of a London season was far from the reality. Jessamine shook her head. If her father could see her now, he’d whisk her back home in a thrice, lamenting the cost of her gowns and all the other falderals deemed necessary for a young lady’s coming out in London. She flicked her fan open, eyeing the ivory brisé sticks with distaste, and stirred some of the warm air against her face.

  “Look at that gentleman there.” She snapped the fan closed and pointed it toward a young man whose florid jaws bulged over his neck cloth. “He looks close to asphyxiating any moment from his own cravat. How can men be so ridiculous?”

  Megan swallowed a giggle behind her own fan. “Careful, he’ll hear you.”

  “How anyone can hear anyone in this babble is beyond me, yet they all go on as if anyone cares what they say.” She studied the ladies and gentlemen making a slow progression past her. As far as she could make out, a rout was merely a place to see and be seen. No one seemed to be lis
tening to anyone, yet their mouths kept moving, their smiles pasted on their faces like painted dolls.

  She shuddered at the amount of rouge she’d observed on women’s faces, both young and old. What went on in London! And the gentlemen were worse, dressed like popinjays with more jewelry than the women.

  “Perhaps if we smile at some of the young ladies our age, we’ll be able to meet them.”

  “My lips hurt from all the smiling I’ve had to do since arriving in London,” Jessamine muttered. “I refuse to do so any longer, since it hasn’t done us a bit of good.” To illustrate her point, she scowled at a lady sporting a purple turban with three curled ostrich plumes of the same shade, which thrust themselves against her male companion’s upswept curls, so full of pomade they reflected the light from the chandeliers hanging above them.

  “I know you’re not in the best frame of mind, but things will get better, I’m sure. Things just . . . just take time.”

  Jess’s lips tightened in displeasure at Megan’s reminder. How she wished at times that Megan weren’t her best friend. It would have made things easier. To be constantly reminded—but no, she would not think about him! He was as good as dead to her.

  She felt like one of those families that had exorcised a wayward son from their midst, the father banning the mere mention of the loved one’s name in his hearing.

  It would be humorous if it still didn’t hurt so much—and weren’t nigh on impossible to avoid hearing her beloved’s name since he was Megan’s brother. Thank goodness he was no longer in England.

  It should have been the happiest time of her life, yet she was miserable. A year ago she would scarce have imagined herself among the fashionable world in a London drawing room, enjoying a season.

  Her mouth turned downward, and the tears that were never far threatened to cloud the vision of the glittering array of ladies and gentlemen parading before her.

  A year ago, she’d have envisioned herself betrothed by now, perhaps even married, to the finest, handsomest—no! The streak of rebellion and bitterness, a streak new and foreign to her which had invaded her nature almost a year ago and poisoned everything around her, reasserted itself.