by Nina Clare
Celia watched as her hair was tamed and braided and pinned, and finished with powder to subdue the colour and make her look more fitted to a past era. The black mask Lavinia had rejected in favour of the new white one was tied on. Celia dared not borrow any of her stepsister’s trinkets or ribbons, for Lavinia and Lady Asher would be sure to notice them. But she did borrow a pair of Lavinia’s silk stockings and garters, before slipping her feet into the dancing slippers she had taken from the shoemaker’s boy.
Agnes boldly sprinkled some of Lady Asher’s lavender water over the gown, to lessen the musty smell, and Lavinia’s woollen hooded cloak was borrowed, that Celia might cover her head and gown as she walked. Lavinia’s pattens were likewise commandeered so the beautiful shoes would not be ruined by the snow outside.
‘Wrap up warm, Robin-me-lad,’ said Agnes. ‘Go ahead with the lantern and see that Miss Celia gets to the hall safe and sound.’
Celia left the house with Robin rushing ahead, the excitement of the evening causing him to bound about like a colt. She almost walked straight into a shadowy shrub close to the manor entrance, before realising that there was no shrub near the entrance… and then the shrub spoke!
‘Are you off?’ said the shrub in a high voice.
Celia started, and peered into the darkness. It was no squat shrub, it was a little old lady in a cape and hood, like a black domino.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she said, ‘I did not see you in the dark. May I help you?’
‘Are you off? Let me see your gown.’ Celia’s cloak seemed to part of its own accord, and the old lady held up a staff that burst into a soft glow at its tip. ‘Oh dear, it is a bit shabby, what century are we in?’
Celia was rendered speechless, she could only gape at the odd woman.
‘Is it eighteenth?’
‘Nineteenth. Who are you?’
‘Hair?’
Celia’s hood fell back of its own accord.
‘Oh dear. I am sure ringlets are the thing in the nineteenth. My dear child, you are about a century out of fashion.’
‘But I am going to a masque ball,’ stammered Celia.
‘Oh ho,’ cried the old woman in her high voice, ‘that is all right, then. I will just freshen it up.’ She waved her glowing staff over the gown. ‘Well, off you go, there is nothing more for me to do. What a very resourceful young lady you are. I would that all my god-daughters were so bright.’
‘God-daughter?’ Celia tried to see the features of the old woman, but the glow of light only shone on Celia, while the old woman remained in shadow. ‘Are you my fairy godmother?’
‘But how are you travelling, child? Where is the carriage?’
‘I do not have a carriage. I shall go on foot. It is only a mile by the bridlepath.’
‘Walk to a ball! It is half past ten, you have but an hour or so left. I shall get the wind carriage.’
‘An hour left for what?’
Celia knew what was about to happen by the tingling sensation that came over her. She knew she was about to be transported to Highmott Hall just as she had been on that day with Mr Neville. She only hoped that she would arrive in this century!
‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Tell me what I have only got an hour left for?’
‘To break the curse.’
‘How do I break it?’
‘By marrying the right man.’
‘Who is the right man?’
‘I thought you were bright?’
The tingling increased.
‘If you want a carriage ride home again, be sure to leave by midnight.’
The world swirled as though she were amid a snow storm; then came the feeling of being tugged and squeezed and stretched out and hurtled through space. It was over far sooner than that first time with Mr Neville. It was only a moment before she was set down between the pillars of Highmott Hall, gasping as she caught her breath.
‘Poor Robin,’ was her first thought when she had recovered herself. What would he do when he realised she was not following behind? She untied her cloak and draped it over the stone hunting dog sitting watch at the entrance. Hopefully Robin would recognise it and know she had reached Highmott.
She shivered, partly from cold, partly from the strangeness and excitement of the evening. She could hear the music playing, and she rapped on the door, noticing as she put her hand out to the door knocker, that her lace cuff was beautifully white and without any holes or tiny tears. She looked at her skirts – was it a trick of the light or some fairy godmother magic that made her gown look as good as new? The door opened and a footman bowed as she brushed past.
20
Lord Marbury knew he was drinking more of the Christmas punch than was good for him, and he did not even like the taste of punch. But if he had to propose to Miss Asher, it was not going to happen without some dulling of his senses. He had danced once with her so far. She admired his costume greatly, and expressed her disappointment in Lord Marbury being dressed as a highwayman of all things. ‘Why, it is as bad as a pirate,’ she had complained.
‘And how do you know it really is Lord Marbury?’ Lord Marbury said, feeling a little reckless from too much punch and the strain on his nerves. ‘Perhaps I am the real Lord Marbury. What would you say to that?’
Miss Asher had laughed and said she would be happy to swap a highwayman for a Sun King and then looked uncomfortable and a little nervous, when he did not laugh in reply. They were silent for the rest of the dance. Poor girl, thought Lord Marbury bitterly. How did I ever get caught up in this mess?
‘Oh, who is that?’ said Miss Asher, as the dance ended and Lord Marbury escorted her back to her mother.
A lady appeared in the doorway of the great hall, looking about her as though she had never seen a ball before. All eyes turned to her, and speculation began immediately as to who she could be. She was sumptuously dressed in a mantua from another era, a beautiful gown so well made, she looked as though she had stepped right out of an historical portrait. Her dark hair was powdered and simply arranged, and she wore no jewellery, but she had the air of aristocracy about her. Her black domino, while hiding her eyes, could not conceal her high cheekbones, and that straight nose, decided chin and full mouth.
Lord Marbury stared. She stepped into the circle of light from a sconce on the wall, and he saw the coppery gleam on her hair, despite the dulling effect of the powder. He felt his breath catch in his chest. It was Celia, walking in like a queen, commanding every eye in the room, and seemingly oblivious to the attention. He saw a cardinal and a hussar moving towards her to ask for her hand in the next dance, and he bolted through the guests to reach her first.
He forgot to speak. He bowed and held out a hand. She met his eyes through his mask, and he knew she recognised him. She did not speak either, but curtsied and took his hand and let him lead her to the dance.
They danced three times, he would not let another partner take her from him, then he led her to the refreshment tables and procured her a glass of wine, taking nothing for himself. He was aware that other men were desirous of speaking with her, and he felt a surge of jealousy rise up, for he had such a short time. He glanced at his watch, it was already a long way past eleven o’ clock, so little time left!
‘It is very warm in here,’ he said. His voice sounded odd, there was a note of desperation in it. ‘Would you take a turn with me in the gallery above?’
He thought she would refuse, but she put down her glass and let him lead her through the door in the panelling, up to the gallery overlooking the great hall.
‘I recognise your costume,’ she said, as they walked slowly along. The air was only a little cooler than in the hall, for the warmth of the fire rose up. ‘Do you recognise mine?’
He looked at the rich red fabric, and then he remembered. ‘The woman at the ball.’
‘Lady Violet.’
‘But why have you come as her?’
‘Why have you come as the man who jilted her?’
‘M
y aunt organised it.’
She looked thoughtful and they resumed walking.
‘Do you believe in curses?’ she asked presently; she paused to look at a portrait of a woman with the unmistakable Marbury chin.
‘That is Lady Margaret,’ he told her. ‘The wife of Lord Robert.’
‘The lady wearing the diamonds,’ said Celia, recalling the scene at the ball a hundred years ago.
‘She had no sons,’ said Lord Marbury. He moved to the next two portraits, covering her hand on his arm, that she might walk with him.
‘This is her daughter, Lady Margaret. She had two surviving daughters, Henrietta and Georgiana. The elder had no children, Georgiana had two daughters, the elder being Lady Wilhelmina.’
‘And this must be Lady Wilhelmina’s younger sister,’ said Celia, examining the girlish face of the portrait of the two sisters as children.
‘Lady Margaret,’ said Lord Marbury softly. It was hard to imagine his mother growing up in this house. Perhaps she had run up and down this very gallery where he now stood.
‘She died very young,’ said Celia. ‘I recall Lady Marbury telling me of that.’
‘Childbirth,’ he said quietly.
‘And she had a son who is now the heir,’ said Celia. ‘He is something of a miracle child, is he not? One surviving boy in a hundred years.’
‘But at what price?’ Lord Marbury said bitterly. ‘It cost her her life.’
‘Did you know her?’ Celia asked. She must have caught the emotion in his voice. ‘But of course you did not. She would have died while you were very young, if yet born.’
Lord Marbury forced himself to speak evenly. ‘And if her son has no children, the line will end. He is the last of the Marburys. Does that sound like a curse to you?’
‘From the time of Lady Violet,’ said Celia thoughtfully, ‘the Roseleat fortunes have steadily declined. Bad investments, bad harvests, trusted friends not repaying loans, fires and droughts and one year a flood from the gentle little river that has never flooded in centuries. Does that sound like a curse?’
‘We heard her curse him, did we not?’ said Lord Marbury.
‘And he cursed her in return,’ said Celia. ‘My mother used to say to be sure never to curse anyone, for a curse will always return. Do you think that is true?’
Lord Marbury shrugged, to show that he did not know if it were the truth or not. ‘My…’ he stopped himself, he had been about to say my aunt. ‘My understanding is that Lady Wilhemina did speak of a curse,’ he said hesitantly, not sure if he should relay any information about his aunt’s strange will. ‘She seemed to think it was her heir’s duty to break it.’
He could tell that Celia was listening attentively, even without seeing her expression behind her mask. ‘How are you to break it?’ she asked. There was a tremor in her voice, as though the answer was very important to her. He looked down into her face. She was so close to him. His eyes passed slowly over the aristocratic nose, the determined set of the chin, the full lips. Especially his gaze rested on her lips.
‘Does it involve marriage?’ she said, almost whispering, as though she were sharing a secret.
‘Yes.’
‘Who must the earl marry?’
‘The descendant of Lady Violet.’
She made a sharp intake of breath. He was still watching her lips and saw them part slightly as she gasped.
‘And will he? Does he wish to?’
Should he tell her? He was sick of the lies and pretence – he could tell her that he was the true earl, and he could not bear to marry Miss Asher, for he was in love with herself.
She waited to hear his answer; she was so close, and she looked so beautiful, so warm and real amidst the dreaminess of these snatched minutes away from the crowd below. It was an easy, natural thing to turn slightly that he might now face her. She did not draw back. They were very close, close enough for him to reach out a hand and touch her cheek. Still she did not draw back.
‘If you are going to kiss me,’ she whispered, ‘could you take that ridiculous wig off?’
The heavy wig dropped to the floor with a dull thud and a cloud of powder. The sound brought him back to his senses. What was he doing? He was supposed to propose to another woman in a matter of minutes, and he was going to indulge himself in kissing someone he had no right to!
‘Forgive me,’ he said, stepping away from her, feeling a little dazed, and slightly shocked at the intensity of the desire coursing through him. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ He snatched his watch from his pocket and flipped it open. It was but ten minutes to midnight!
‘What is wrong?’ Celia sounded hurt.
He took a deep breath, the watch still clutched in his hand. ‘Miss Celia, may I ask you something that has life-changing consequences?’
‘Yes?’ Her voice trembled.
‘If you had the chance to marry for love, but in doing so you might fail to help many people, would you do it?’
‘I do not understand. What people?’
‘Families. Lots of them. Some of them very poor. And if you married someone you did not love, but in doing so you could break a curse from your descendants, and help a great many people besides. What would you choose?’
She was silent for a minute. He knew it was a full minute, because he could see the hand on his watch move. There were only nine minutes left to midnight. If he was going to propose to Miss Asher, he would have to find her immediately.
‘I would not wish a loveless marriage on anyone,’ she said quietly. ‘Why exchange one curse for another? But you talk as if you were Lord Marbury, it is he who lies under a curse, does he not?’
‘Miss Celia,’ he said, determined now to tell her the truth and ask her to marry him. If she refused him, he would do his duty and marry Miss Asher. But if Celia would take him, without his estate and a great fortune, he would choose her. He decided in that moment, with seven and a half minutes remaining.
‘Hey!’ came a shout from the stairway. ‘Marbury, are you up there?’ Neville came tearing up the stairs ‘There you are! The lawyers are about to have an apoplectic fit! Get downstairs – it’s five minutes to midnight – get down and propose!’
‘Marbury?’ said Celia, sounding appalled. She backed away from him, brushing past Neville.
‘I can explain,’ said Lord Marbury. .
Celia turned and ran.
‘Wait!’ Lord Marbury called, hurrying after her. He stumbled on the stairs and lost vital moments as he righted himself. She had already gained the hall beyond.
The hall was crowded. He searched through it, feeling a mounting desperation as he looked for a glimpse of a jewel-red dress.
‘Midnight approaches!’ came the call of Henry the Eighth. The guests cheered. ‘Prepare to be unmasked!’
21
Celia hurried down the steps from the gallery, feeling her blood pounding in her ears. How could she have been so foolish! The man she thought to be Mr Neville – the man she thought had feelings for her, had even, for one magical moment thought he was about to propose to her – that man was Lord Marbury! His friend had called him Marbury.
And Lord Marbury had known that if he married her, he would break the family curse, but he did not want to marry someone he did not love.
She tore through the hall, pushing her way through the cheering guests as they prepared to count down the strokes of midnight. She looked back at the door to see Mr Neville – no! Lord Marbury, the imposter! – saw him dragged by his friend towards Lavinia. Three men in lawyer costumes clustered round her. Was he about to propose? Was it Lavinia he loved? He would sooner marry her than break the curse and marry herself?
Wait! Did he know that she was Lady Violet’s heir? How could he? But it changed nothing. He had lied to her, he had deceived her, he had pretended to be someone else and he had almost kissed her as though he felt something for her. She had just fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book – the handsome lord of the manor attempting to se
duce a lowly maid!
Some part of her knew this was true – but her anger and humiliation got the better of her rational mind. She only knew that her world felt as though it had been turned upside-down, and she could not determine what was real and what was not.
She rushed through the door of the great hall, feeling her right foot slip inside her shoe. The cut on her foot had split open again, it was not as healed as she had thought. Her foot throbbed, and she slipped off the shoes, carrying them in one hand as she ran through the entrance hall, intending to put on the pattens she had left in the porch. The grandfather clock near the stairway began tolling the strokes of midnight as she left the manor house.
‘Miss Celia!’ called a voice from somewhere in the shadows.
‘Robin! Have you been waiting there all this time?’
Robin held out her discarded cloak, damp with snow, and lifted his lamp which had gone out. ‘Oil ran out,’ he said, looking cold and miserable.
‘Oh, Robin!’ she took hold of his hand to tug him from the porch. She had to get him home and warm as quickly as possible. And she wished more than anything to be far away from Highmott. She did not ever want to see Highmott Hall and its master ever again. She would always be cursed, even in love.
She had forgotten her godmother’s instructions until she felt the tingling, whirling sensation come heavily upon her. One of her shoes dropped from her hand. ‘Robin, don’t be scared. Just hold on!’
Everything whirled like a snowstorm around them, and they hurtled home.
Agnes had dozed off on the kitchen settle, trying to wait up for Robin’s return. She woke with a start at the back door being flung open.
‘Sit there on the hearth and warm up,’ Celia ordered Robin.
‘What happened?’ Agnes said blearily. ‘Why are you back so early, Miss Celia? And why are you back so late, Robin-me-lad?’
‘I do not want to talk about it,’ said Celia. ‘I just want to get out of this gown.’ And she ran from the room, leaving Robin gabbling excitedly about how he had magically flown home.