by Sophie Gee
“It is my experience that game hath a wonderful way of fleeing, just as it appears to have been caught,” she answered. She was testing him, she knew, but what it was that she wanted him to say, she could not exactly tell.
“You have a great knowledge of the sport, madam.”
“Naturally. So do you, I imagine.”
“I know its art very well, but I have seldom seen an object that I thought would be worth the pursuit,” he said.
“And yet it is held that the greatest pleasure is to be derived from the chase itself, not from the value of the spoils,” was her reply. “Perhaps you should attempt it, as a matter of investigation.”
“I believe that I shall. And when I do, madam, be assured that I shall keep this conversation in my mind.”
With another bow he was gone. Arabella was disappointed that he had not asked her to dance, and in her moment of discontent she plucked unthinkingly at the string on her bow so it twanged. Lord Petre heard it above the noise of the room, and looked back at her with a playful smile. He was toying with her, and yet it plainly showed that he, too, had moved away with reluctance. Her spirits rising again, Arabella made her way into the crowd.
Alexander, meanwhile, was walking around the room with Jervas, who had taken a glass of wine and a slice of cake for each of them, and was now observing the comings and goings with his accustomed ease.
“That nymph would do a good deal better if she were not speaking in the manner of pit bawdy,” he said. “And behold that Quaker against the buffet, drinking off two bottles of wine at once. Maskers should stay a little closer to their characters, at least until midnight.”
They were overheard by a man in the suit of a court jester, somewhat overstuffed as to contents, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Richard Steele.
“I would agree with you, sir, had I not lately given my heart to a lady who danced so gracefully that I took her for a countess,” Steele said. “But a few minutes later I observed her at the supper tables, lodging edibles in her bosom and pocket and then sneaking furtively away through a side door. I suspect that my ‘fine lady’ lives very close to Covent Garden, and that she entered the masquerade in order to smuggle out a week’s worth of cold suppers.”
Jervas laughed and replied to Steele, but Alexander’s attention was caught by a young page boy walking nearby, whom he recognized as Teresa. How lovely she looked in her boy’s suit. She was talking to a Turkish gentleman—Lord Petre! He paused. He was close enough to the pair to hear them speak, but Alexander was fairly sure that Teresa had not seen him.
“Your disguise becomes you well, madam,” Lord Petre was saying. “I hope you shall profit by it.”
“I have profited already, sir,” Teresa replied in an attempt at the playful style, but with a little too much deference. Alexander felt a pang for her.
Lord Petre replied lightly. “Your choice is capital,” he said. “I have a great admiration for Twelfth Night.” He thought for a moment, and then declaimed, “If music be the food of love, play on, / Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, / The appetite may sicken, and so die.”
“You are not inclined to love, sir?” Teresa asked.
“I care not for it. When the hart is being hunted, it seldom wishes to be snared.”
All of a sudden, Alexander noticed that he was not the only party listening to Lord Petre’s conversation with Miss Blount. A person in a domino costume had also stopped near the pair, just as Teresa said, “I fear that the man in black robes has overheard us. Do you know him?”
Lord Petre turned around to look at the domino. “Oh, that is no gentleman,” he said with a smile. “Observe the ribbons upon the slippers—are they not distinct? Indeed, I hazard a guess that she is Charlotte Bromleigh, Lord Castlecomber’s wife. I have seen her wear them before.”
Alexander turned away, fearing that Teresa would notice him standing there. So Lord Petre was to be Teresa’s object in town! She would undoubtedly be disappointed in her hopes, he reflected bitterly—but then almost immediately he felt a sinking in his heart. Lord Petre had begun the conversation. And how eagerly Teresa had pursued it. Alexander had never seen her so willing to please, nor so flattered by a man’s attention.
Not five minutes later, however, Alexander was startled to see Lord Petre standing alongside the woman dressed in domino robes. The pair were just beyond the doorway of the main assembly space, and the nature of their exchange was easy to guess, for they leaned close together as intimates. But when the black-clad figure walked back into the main gathering, Alexander saw that the shoes had no ribbons on them. It was not Charlotte Bromleigh at all. Lord Petre had been meeting a man! Alexander stared, but the figure soon disappeared into the crowd.
He tried to find him again, but it was too late. The ball guests surged around in a rough swell of movement. As he watched, Alexander saw for the first time that many of them were dressed in the robes of the Catholic Church. He thought of the pope-burning, noting that several were attired in obvious mockery of their characters: monks holding bottles of wine; a priest strolling about with a gaudily dressed whore on his arm. But others could easily pass for real clerics. As he recalled the murdered masquerade guest in Shoreditch, he looked apprehensively around at the whirl of faces, their expressions hidden by the blank masks.
Near where Alexander was standing, Arabella had come to the end of a minuet with the dancing bear who had alighted earlier from a coach-and-six. Unbeknownst to her, she was being watched by one of the many dominos, whose face was obscured by the dark folds of his costume.
Suddenly Arabella sensed that somebody was just behind her and she wheeled around. Seeing the faceless hood looming above her, she gasped.
“I do not know you!” she cried out. “You frightened me!”
For a moment the domino said nothing, but then he pulled off his hood and mask. It was James Douglass.
“Oh!” Arabella exclaimed. “Lord Petre’s friend from the Exchange.”
“Indeed, madam,” Douglass answered with a bow. “I overheard you speaking just now on the subject of disguise.” Arabella looked at him closely, waiting for him to continue. Something about him chilled her, but she was intrigued, longing for what he might tell her of his puzzling relationship with Lord Petre.
“A woman masked is like a covered dish,” Douglass said. “She gives a man curiosity and appetite, when, likely as not, uncovered she would turn his stomach.”
Arabella took a step backward. What a cruel thing to say. “You have little regard for woman, sir,” she answered.
“On the contrary, I consider woman to be of inestimable value,” Douglass replied, and his eyes wrinkled into a provoking smile.
Arabella half wished that he would go. But she could not resist her urge to hear more of the baron. “Yet you value only those parts of a person that strike the eye,” she insisted, determined not to let Douglass disconcert her.
“That is precisely what value is, madam,” Douglass answered. “The value of gold is no more than the price that can be obtained for it. So it is with women.”
Arabella tried to laugh, and decided to make one final attempt. “I cannot think that you would say the same of men,” she said. “Surely you do not judge your friends, at least, by their manner alone. You must want to penetrate their deeper characters.”
“Deep characters do not interest me,” Douglass answered, and he looked at Arabella closely. “A man is defined only by his actions.”
“But very often people disguise their true motives and real intentions,” Arabella replied. She looked around, taken aback by his sudden seriousness, and wanting to escape Douglass’s presence.
But he continued to look at her as though he meant that she should listen carefully. “You are mistaken, madam,” Douglass said. “When a man really has something to hide, he will not be so foolish as to appear disguised. Women are vain, and fancy that they can penetrate men’s secrets by intuition alone. But they are always mistaken.”
&nb
sp; “Nonsense!” Arabella cried, stepping away from him. “A penetrating woman will perfectly understand a man’s real character.”
Douglass shrugged, nodding toward a group of dancers who were standing before them. Lord Petre was among them, dancing with a woman dressed magnificently in the costume of a Venetian noble. Arabella turned away so that Douglass could not see her face, determined that he would not perceive her disappoinment.
Alexander was still thinking about Lord Petre’s encounter with the stranger when Jervas joined him. He stood expectantly, waiting for Alexander to speak. Alexander realized that his disappearance from the conversation with Jervas and Steele must have seemed very abrupt.
“Glad to meet you again, Jervas,” he said. And seeing the Ottoman come past with his dancing partner, he asked, “Who is that lady dancing with Lord Petre? She has a very pretty style.”
“If I were to hazard a guess, I would say she is Lady Mary Pierrepont,” Jervas answered. “I see a gentleman named Edward Wortley standing to one side watching them, looking as jealous as Othello. He’s been trying to marry her for years, but apparently her father won’t budge on the settlement.”
“Oh—so that is Mary Pierrepont!” said Alexander. “She is as beautiful as your painting would have her.”
“Quickest wit, sharpest tongue, and biggest flirt in London,” Jervas answered with a laugh.
“Lady Mary Pierrepont is permitted to take liberties that other women are forbidden,” said Alexander. “She is a Protestant, and the daughter of an earl.”
“Well, she does take liberties, of that you can be sure. I heard Wortley say that she knows every man of fashion in London—some of them far too well.”
Alexander wanted to ask more, but his attention was claimed by a delightful new sight. Among the group of dancers in the room were Martha and Teresa, who faced each other, performing the parts of gentlemen in the gavotte that was presently being played. Each was evidently delighted by the novelty of appearing in men’s attire. Teresa, as was to be expected, danced rather better than Martha; she was really quite adept in fitting a gentleman’s steps to her own spirited gait. Martha was struggling to move around the obstacle of her little broadsword, and each time she turned or bobbed, she became caught in the ribbons of the sword knot. It banged against her repeatedly, making her seem clumsy and awkward in her step, like an adolescent boy learning to dance for the first time.
But absorbed in the enjoyment of the dance itself, she was untouched by a consciousness of being watched; she had the happy look of a girl whose pleasures are still unworldly. The sight struck Alexander so forcefully that it threatened to bring tears of affection to his eyes, but he was forced to collect himself, for the dance was over, the sisters bowed to one another, and Martha dashed up to where Alexander was standing. Teresa was on the point of walking over to them as well, and he felt a rush of anticipation, but she was approached by the man who had just revealed himself to be James Douglass. She stopped to speak to him.
As it was now after midnight, Alexander took off his mask, and Martha did the same.
“How well you and Teresa looked when you were dancing, Patty,” he said.
She thanked him. “We are both enlivened by being in town again, though I am sure that Teresa often considers its diversions to be wasted upon me.”
“Ah, but you may not return to the country, for I depend on you to praise my jokes,” said Alexander.
Martha smiled, and said, “I know that you saw Mr. Tonson a few days ago. Did he like your new verses?”
“Not at all, I am afraid to say,” Alexander answered. “But he praised my Essay on Criticism.”
“Oh! My congratulations, Alexander,” Martha exclaimed. “I knew that it would be admired.”
They were interrupted by Teresa, and Alexander looked at her with a serious expression. “You are in uncommonly lively spirits tonight,” he said.
“Do you mean to compliment me, Alexander?” Teresa asked lightly. “You have a habit of giving praise that is so very weak that I would almost be relieved if you were to come forward and damn me directly.”
“A nice conceit. I shall remember it. Miss Blount does not care to be damned with faint praise.”
As the pair laughed together, Martha looked left out.
Teresa, oblivious of her sister’s feelings, exclaimed, “What a diverting evening this has been. The company is excellent—everybody so happy. I have had more pleasure from one outing in London than from months together in the country.”
“That is because the pleasures of the town are new to you,” said Alexander, again in a stern tone of voice.
“I do not agree with you, Alexander,” she said. “Arabella is enjoying herself excessively, and she is quite used to being in London.”
“Miss Arabella Fermor would not be seen with a long face if she were passing the most disagreeable three hours of her life,” Alexander replied.
Jervas joined their conversation. “Am I to assume that you have now made Miss Arabella Fermor’s acquaintance?” he asked.
“I have not met Miss Fermor, but I have looked upon her—which must supply the happiest portion of claiming her as a friend,” Alexander answered.
“Did I not tell you that she was the most beautiful creature alive?” Jervas exclaimed, forgetting in his enthusiasm that the Miss Blounts were standing by. “She is radiant as the sun.”
“You have stumbled upon an excellent comparison, Jervas,” Alexander said, still feeling censorious, much disappointed that Teresa showed little interest in him. “There is a sameness about Miss Fermor’s beauty that does indeed resemble the sun’s. Her smiles are without variety; she shines upon all alike.”
“You are not quite correct, Pope, for I fancy that she shines rather more brightly upon my Lord Petre than any other person,” replied Jervas, who had caught sight of them speaking earlier in the evening.
“If that is so,” Alexander answered, “it is because Lord Petre is foolish enough to venture forth when the lady’s beams are at their brightest. Other men would stay indoors, for fear of a heat stroke.”
CHAPTER SIX
“When to mischief mortals bend their will”
As it happened, Lord Petre was feeling out of sorts. He was tired of smiling and talking to women whose faces he could not see. He had not minded dancing with Lady Mary, who was very handsome, and whose company was diverting. But though he had known her for many years, he had never felt a serious attraction—just as well, since her family were Protestants and Whigs, and his were Catholic Tories. She was the cleverest woman of his acquaintance, and since Lord Petre was a clever man himself, this might have proved a powerful allure. Yet he did not share some men’s taste for intellectual women, however pretty they might be. There was too much that was restless about Mary Pierrepont’s mind; there was a desire for constant provocation that he found tiring.
These were idle reflections, an attempt to tear his mind away from its new preoccupation, Arabella Fermor. He was unnerved by how completely she had captivated him. He replayed their moments together—the glittering, loose gown she wore; the look of absorbed concentration as she had tied her mask; that talk of Herrick and hunting; her gorgeous smile.
He had known her since she was a child, and even then it had been generally acknowledged that she would be beautiful. But Petre had met beautiful girls before. The attraction that he felt for Arabella made him feel physically hungry. Standing beside her, he had been barely able to suppress an urgent, overwhelming desire to take hold of her lovely form and tear at it like an animal. He had experienced nothing quite like it until now. He felt angry and excited; he felt a sort of desperation. And yet he had no choice but to stand and make the gallant small talk that was expected of him, wrestling his mind away from the overpowering impulse to take her into his arms.
He left the ballroom and stood instead at the card tables, mechanically watching the play as it was carried on. In truth he saw nothing. His mind’s eye was entirely absorbed by r
ecalling Arabella’s form and figure; the tip of her tongue touching upon her teeth as she spoke; the hair disordered about her face: innocent as a child’s, yet knowingly, artfully caught up. Of course it was impossible to do so, but how he wanted to take hold of that lithe, warm, breathing frame and crush it beneath him.
He must attend to the gathering. There were friends here; there were his family’s acquaintance; he had to appear himself. There should be nothing odd, nothing remarkable about his conduct, particularly when the real business of his evening was the meeting he had arranged with Douglass later on. He felt in his pocket; the banknotes were there.
But already he was conscious that Sir George Brown was beside him, heavy and dull, though still a friend to whom he owed consideration. Sir George leaned over the card table, breathing so heavily upon the head of a player that he was actually causing the hairs of his wig to move. Lord Petre would have laughed, but he remembered suddenly that Sir George was Arabella’s cousin, and experienced a new stirring of longing and passion.
He forced himself to speak. “How do you do?” he asked, and Sir George sprang to a standing position, nearly knocking the player’s wig off altogether.
“Tremendous, tremendous,” Sir George blustered in his usual style, the light powder of snuff stirring gently upon his person as he spoke. “Never better, my dear fellow. My word, how smart your turban is. Perhaps I should have done something of the same with my costume. But look, it is my friend Dicconson—over there—hello, sir; hello, William!”
Dicconson was another Catholic acquaintance, lately married to a baronet’s daughter. He had been to stay at Ingatestone while Lord Petre’s father was alive, but Lord Petre had always disliked him. Dicconson submitted reluctantly to Sir George’s greeting at last, and walked across to where they were standing.
