My Lady's Pleasure

by Olivia Quincy

  Lady Georgiana thought this a little overzealous, but she, too, wanted to get to the bottom of this and put it behind her. She stood up. “Then let us go find her.”

  Miss Mumford was easier to find than either Gerry or Lord Loughlin. She was in her own room, a small chamber on the top floor, sewing a white ribbon onto the bodice of her costume, that of a shepherdess.

  The door was opened, and when the three visitors appeared, all looking grim, Miss Mumford was clearly flustered.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, looking from one face to another. “To what do I owe the honor . . . ?”

  Miss Niven hadn’t wanted to confront her companion when the two had been alone, but now that she had her friends with her she was up to the task.

  “Miss Mumford,” she said calmly, “I believe you are the person responsible for the threats to Lady Georgiana and to me.”

  Miss Mumford hesitated for only a moment, and then stood up, ramrod straight. “Miss Niven,” she said, “I don’t know how you can accuse me of such a thing.”

  “I saw you,” said the girl. “I saw you put the A on my mirror with lipstick.”

  She again hesitated only a moment, and her air of injured honor evaporated as quickly as it had come on. But it wasn’t replaced by the guilty resignation of someone who’d clearly been caught in the act. There was confusion, there was regret, and there were the first stirrings of panic, but there was no guilt, and no resignation.

  “No, no, I can explain.” She raised her hands, palms toward Miss Niven, in a gesture of innocence.

  “Explain!” Gerry expostulated. “You can explain threatening an innocent young lady?” He paused, and then remembered himself. “Two innocent young ladies?”

  “It wasn’t me,” said Miss Mumford, with desperation in her voice. “It wasn’t me, as God is my witness.”

  “It wasn’t you?!” Gerry scoffed. “Yet there you stand, quite literally red-handed.” He pointed to Miss Mumford’s right hand, which did, indeed, have red lipstick on it. At this, Georgiana had to look at the floor so no one would see her smile.

  “Let me explain!” Miss Mumford said again. “I did write the A on the mirror, but that’s all I did. I swear it! That’s all I did!”

  Here Miss Niven stepped in again. “Sit down, Miss Mumford,” she said severely. “And do explain.”

  Miss Mumford took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the small bed.

  “You see,” she said, “I was in the room and accidentally heard Lady Georgiana tell Miss Niven about the A on her mirror.” She took a deep breath. “At the time, I thought only that it was terrible that these young ladies keep getting these threats.” She gestured at both the girls. “But then I had an idea,” she added quietly.

  “You see, Miss Niven and I have had words over the past few days,” she said, knotting her hands together in her lap, clearly wretched. “And I thought that if I could manage it that there should be another threat—a harmless one, to be sure—and I could be with her to help her and comfort her, perhaps she might be grateful and things could go back to the way they were.”

  She was clearly having a difficult time getting the words out, but she went on. “I put the letter on the mirror when I knew she was going to be at breakfast, and I was going to find her and ask her to try on her costume one last time, and we’d find the letter together. . . .” With this, she burst into tears.

  Lady Georgiana looked at her friend, expecting her to melt at this display of what was clearly honest misery. Miss Niven, though, did no such thing. She wasn’t sympathetic; she was angry. Angry that this woman, whom she’d known long and, she thought, well, could do such a thing to her.

  “It is not in my power to dismiss you outright, as you serve at the pleasure of Lord Bellingford, my guardian,” she said coldly. “But it is difficult to see how, after this incident, we could ever be suitable companions again.”

  Miss Mumford put her head in her hands and sobbed. “I am so very sorry. I just wanted us to be friends again.”

  She looked at Miss Niven through her tears. “I have always loved you and wanted what was best for you. I couldn’t bear the idea that you no longer needed me.”

  At this, Miss Niven did begin to thaw. She sat down on the bed next to her companion and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “What has happened, I think, is that I have gone beyond the age where I require the services of someone in your position, and that is what I will tell my guardian. For the many years that I did require those services, you performed them ably and assiduously, and I will always be grateful. That is what I will be thinking of when I ask Lord Bellingford to write you a wonderful reference, and I’m sure we will both do all that is possible to secure another position for you. You will not be left out on the street.”

  Miss Mumford’s sobs subsided a bit, and she tried to smile at Miss Niven through her tears. “I am sorry, you know. So sorry.”

  “I do know. It was a silly thing to attempt, but there has been no harm done and I shall not hold it against you. But I do think we have reached the end of our road.”

  Miss Mumford stood up and made an effort to muster her dignity. “Perhaps we have. Perhaps we have.” She looked at her erstwhile charge once more. “I am so sorry.”

  The three left Miss Mumford to her regrets, and went back downstairs. They did take their walk, but it was a very subdued one. They walked here and there, talking of Miss Mumford and of the events of the last several days, and wondering—again—who might be behind the threats, as it was clear to all of them that Miss Mumford had told the truth.

  Both girls, though, were getting tired of the subject. They were young, and they were vibrant, and the prospect of the evening’s masquerade held much more fascination for them than dead peacocks and tainted milk. In time, their talk turned to the festivities, and their mood rebounded.

  They were almost cheerful as they turned back toward the house.

  They reached the drive just in time to see a carriage leave for the station. Miss Mumford would never return to Penfield.

  NINETEEN

  By the time the threesome walked up the front steps, there were only a few hours remaining before the party was to start, and the house was ready for its biggest night of the year.

  The orchestra was setting up on one end of the largest room, which was to be set aside for dancing. The supper was beginning to be laid in the adjoining room. One of the smaller drawing rooms had been converted to a giant coat closet, and the powder rooms were stocked with soaps and powders and creams. Supplies of cigars and port were stowed in the library for the gentlemen, and the breakfast room, farthest from the orchestra, was made comfortable for any lady who wanted to escape the bustle and noise.

  The outbuildings were also ready. It was a tradition to invite the local villagers to come celebrate with roasted pig and beer, and long tables were set up in the peacock pavilion to accommodate them, the peacocks being banned for the evening.

  In the stables, there were mounds of hay, buckets of oats, and troughs of fresh water for the horses. There were brushes and blankets for the visiting grooms to use, and food set out for all the servants.

  Although all the guests were closeted in their rooms, preparing their persons and donning their costumes, there were people everywhere. They were the people responsible for making sure everything ran smoothly—the servants of the house, the additional help hired for the purpose, and the staff of the houseguests. They were running from place to place, cleaning up this, straightening that, laying out the other, and Penfield was a hive of activity.

  And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Half an hour before the guests were due to arrive, everything was ready, and all was still. Not calm, though. There was an air of electric anticipation even where there was no movement.

  The stillness was broken by the master and mistress of the house, coming down the stairs together. They were dressed as Czar Nicholas II of Russia, who had taken the throne the year before, and his wife, Alexandra. Lo
rd Loughlin was resplendent in a genuine hussar’s uniform, with a broad sash and gold epaulets, and his wife wore a purple gown with a jeweled bodice. Following a tradition that began with the very first Penfield masquerade, the host and hostess did not wear masks.

  They took one last look around the rooms, but it was a mere formality. Everything was as it should be.

  Just as they finished their tour they heard the sound of the first carriage pulling up to the door. And then the second. And then it was as though a signal had been sent, and the floodgates opened. The guests who were staying in the house started coming down the stairs as carriage after carriage disgorged costumed revelers at the front door.

  The Loughlins’ masquerade wasn’t quite like other masked balls, where men wore traditional evening dress and women wore ball gowns and masks. At Penfield, all the guests were dressed as something other than themselves, and both men and women wore masks. While some people could be identified by distinctive shape, or gait, or hair, many were truly anonymous. It was that anonymity that added to the excitement of the evening, and made an invitation to the ball the coveted item it had come to be.

  The array of costumes was staggering. Among the men, there were Julius Caesars and Henry the Eighths. There were, as Freddy had predicted, satyrs aplenty. There were monks and musketeers, cricketers and court jesters. There was one towering Zeus, wearing a false beard and carrying a thunderbolt.

  Among the ladies, there were goddesses, goddesses, and more goddesses. There was Diana (of the hunt), several Daphnes (of virtue), a Luna with an iridescent moon as a halo, and a magnificent Pandora who came with her own gilded box. There were many faeries, and at least two Florence Nightingales. There was a threesome—sisters, perhaps—dressed as the three little maids from The Mikado. (There was also a man dressed as Ko-Ko, but he didn’t seem to be of the same party.) There was a highly stylized cat with a sleek black dress and a headband with pointed ears.

  While there were guests who clearly knew one another—husbands and wives, particular friends—everyone saw far more people whom they didn’t recognize than whom they did. The costumes eased the sometimes awkward business of striking up a conversation with a stranger, and the rooms filled with the buzz of excitement and novelty.

  Lady Georgiana and Miss Niven had no trouble finding each other behind the masks, as each had seen the costume of the other. Miss Niven was a thing to behold, tall and stately in a beautiful white dress with Roman-style folds of fabric, her eyes made up and her hair straightened in imitation of Cleopatra, or at least of pictures of Cleopatra.

  Georgiana had used her slim, boyish figure to great advantage as Alice. Her costume precisely replicated the illustrations in the book that both she and her friend had read as children. She wore a knee-length blue dress with starched skirt and white pinafore, white stockings, and little black shoes with straps. She’d brushed her hair back simply, and anchored it with a headband. Her mask, which she’d had made specially, was the familiar face.

  After they had admired each other’s costumes, they surveyed the room and admired some of the others they saw. Miss Niven was particularly taken with the cat, and the way the tail integrated with the skirt of the dress to create a lithe, feline look. “She even moves like a cat,” she said in wonderment. “How very clever.”

  Georgiana was taken with one of the many Queen Victorias. It was a favorite costume among the older women, but there was one who stood out as the very picture of the queen herself. Georgiana pointed her out to Miss Niven. “Does she not look precisely like our queen?”

  Miss Niven looked and nodded. “Perhaps it is the queen.” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

  Georgiana laughed, but then thought about it. “If I were the queen, and I wanted to go to a masked ball that was just a little too risqué for me to attend openly, I would certainly disguise myself as myself. It’s a brilliant idea, and you’ve uncovered it!”

  “Shall we go discuss women’s suffrage with her?” Miss Niven said.

  “Oh, I think not.” Georgiana frowned. “That’s not the right sort of talk for this sort of affair. We must ask her whether she likes champagne, or if she is enjoying the music, or whether she comes from this part of the country.”

  “How very dull,” said Alexandra. “Perhaps we should talk to someone else.”

  At that point, someone else presented himself. It was a man, slight of build, dressed in animal-skin trousers with boots gotten up to look like hooves. The horns on his head completed the outfit.

  “It’s a satyr, I daresay,” said Georgiana. “How nice to see you this evening, sir.” She bowed her head slightly.

  The satyr didn’t reply, but quickly moved his mask so the girls could see his eyes and recognize him.

  “Freddy!” Georgiana whispered, looking around to see if anyone else had seen him do it. “You know that violates all the rules!” But she couldn’t help smiling. “I thought you were joking about being a satyr. And how ever did you know it was us?”

  “Miss Mumford, I’m glad to say, is more susceptible to my charms than either of you two young ladies.”

  “She told you?” Miss Niven would have been irritated had Miss Mumford still been in the house, but now that she was gone her former charge could not but think of her with benevolence.

  “She said you would be the finest Cleopatra in the room,” Freddy said. “As far as I can see, you are the only Cleopatra, but I am sure you would still be the finest had there been a score more.”

  Alexandra curtsied in response.

  Freddy held out his hand to her with all the gallantry a satyr could muster. “May I have this dance?”

  Alexandra marveled at his cheerful manner. It was as though the events of the previous day had never occurred. “You may,” she said with a smile, laying her hand on top of his. “Will you excuse me?” she said to Georgiana.

  The two went off to the next room to dance, leaving Georgiana to continue her survey of her fellow partygoers. Most she could not identify, but she knew Zeus to be Barnes. It wasn’t just his size; it was the way he moved. She was too familiar with his body, his air, his gait, to be fooled by any costume.

  And he, apparently, could say the same of her. She didn’t think she had thus far been recognized by anyone, but Zeus was approaching with a purpose, two glasses of champagne in his hands and his thunderbolt tucked under his arm.

  Her heart sank. She knew she must talk with him, at least one more time, but she so wanted to enjoy the party. She thought that, with the mask, it would not have been clear that she had seen him and, even if it had been, perhaps he would assume she wouldn’t recognize him and know that he was coming toward her.

  She turned around and walked out of the room. She chastised herself for doing the cowardly thing even as she did it, but she felt a burden lift as she entered the room where the dancing had begun, the floor already crowded.

  She had barely taken two steps when a stout fisherman in an oilcloth sou’wester stepped up to her, bowed, and extended his hand. She smiled and took it, grateful for the rescue, although she had no idea who the gentleman was or, come to think of it, whether he was even a gentleman.

  Part of what made the Penfield masquerade exciting was that the strict conventions of dances were ignored. Although the requirement that a man be properly introduced to a lady before asking her to dance was already falling by the wayside, it was necessarily disregarded entirely at a function where anonymity was all. For all she knew, Georgiana was dancing a tarantella with an actual fisherman, who just happened to be passing by.

  She danced two dances with the fisherman, and then two more with a Roman senator who seemed familiar to Georgiana, although she could not place him. Then came a quadrille with a satyr who wasn’t Freddy, which finally tired her. As she headed off the floor, in need of food and drink, the satyr who was Freddy appeared at her side.

  “Lady G,” he said. “You must dance with me.”

  She smiled. “Well, you certainly have a cha
rming way of asking, but I must have some wine and a bite to eat. I’ve been dancing this hour and more.”

  He put his hand on her elbow and gently steered her back in the direction of the dance floor. “Just one, just one, and then I’ll personally escort you to sustenance.”

  She rolled her eyes, but gave Freddy his gavotte. As they danced, she caught sight of Alexandra, who was standing up with an admiral. Was that allowed? she wondered. If there were any real admirals here, as there undoubtedly were, they might be put out by having to dance next to a false one. She shrugged, if one could be said to think a shrug. All the ordinary rules of society seemed to be suspended for the evening.

  Freddy was as good as his word, and led her out of the room and off to the buffet when the dance was over. The room with the food was almost as crowded as the room with the orchestra, and they had to thread their way through the revelers to get to the sliced ham.

  They both managed to fill their plates, and then looked around for a place to sit. There were none to be had, so they settled for a spot against the wall with a little table where they could put their wineglasses.

  Alexandra, carrying a plate of her own, found them there. She was still flushed from the dancing, and her pleasure and excitement were palpable.

  “Did you dance with a fisherman?” she asked Lady Georgiana.

  “I did. Twice.”

  “And did you know who it was?”

  “I did not. But you do?” Georgiana was curious.

  “I do. It was Gerry!”

  “Did you figure it out, or did he reveal himself to you?” asked Freddy. Had he known that Gerry was his rival for the affections of Miss Niven, he might have been more interested, but it never crossed his mind that the older man would be interested in any girl, let alone the girl he was interested in.

  “Oh, I figured it out,” she said. “But he wanted me to figure it out, although I’m sure I don’t know how he knew it was me. At first he didn’t say a word, but then he started in with pleasantries about the dance because he wanted me to hear his voice. And of course, when I heard him I knew.”