Midnight Masquerade

by Joan Smith

  Chapter 12

  The morning dawned bright and crisp and very cold. Long wisps of tattered clouds hung in the azure sky, reminding Belami of Switzerland, and Deirdre of Mechlin lace. They both arose early, though not by prearrangement, and met in the breakfast parlor. The only other person there was Pronto, who was plodding his way through a large plate of Irish potatoes, laced with eggs, and a stack of gammon.

  “That looks good. I’ll have the same,” Belami said to the servant.

  “Just toast and coffee for me,” Deirdre added.

  “No, you must take more than that,” Belami told her. “You are going to have an active morning. Take something to sustain yourself. Eggs and gammon for Miss Gower.”

  “And toast,” she said, planning to eat only what she had asked for herself. “What activity have you got planned, Belami?” she asked. With Pronto present, she was reluctant to call him Dick.

  Belami gave her a piercing glance at this reversion to the more formal name. It softened to a smile as he observed that shyness was the cause.

  “I have a marvelous groom,” was his oblique answer. “He has a way with snow. He has plowed off the pond for us to skate. He also has some snowshoes he’s going to allow us to try. Great, unwieldy things that look like battledore racquets. In fact, one of us must use makeshift shoes that are battledore racquets. The youngsters of our party—we and perhaps Bidwell—shall spend a healthy day in the great outdoors.”

  “Hate snow,” Pronto told him. “Ain’t going to spend no day out freezing my toes off. Neither will Bidwell, I can tell you. Foolishness. Don’t do it, Deirdre.”

  “Pay no heed to the slug,” Belami remarked. “Pronto prefers to hibernate like a bear at the first flake of snow.”

  “Something to be said for it,” Pronto replied.

  “What about the necklace? Are you abandoning the search for it?” she asked, surprised.

  “Not at all. There’s nothing more I can do till after dinner.”

  While they talked, Deirdre forgot her intention of fasting and ate up the whole breakfast, and still no one else had come down.

  After breakfast, Belami and Deirdre bundled up in warm coats and boots and went to the stable, where Pierre Réal was busy polishing the curricle.

  “How are we to return to London?” was his greeting to his employer. “A foot of snow, an open carriage. I told him ‘the closed carriage,’” he added, turning to Deirdre with accents of abuse. “But he—”

  “Tais-toi,” his master ordered. “Where are the snowshoes, Pierre?”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “You did as I asked last night?”

  “Certainement. I strolled over to Boltons’ and spoke with monsieur.”

  “Boltons’! Dick, that’s quite far away,” Deirdre exclaimed.

  “Non, ten miles, and in this balmy weather, the little walk is good for a man,” Réal said casually. “Everything, she is all set,” he added aside to Belami.

  The snowshoes and battledore racquets were brought forth. The groom first lashed the snowshoes to his own boots and strolled into the yard to instruct them in the proper placement of the feet for this mode of ambulation.

  “Well apart, you see,” he said severely, straddling his legs and shuffling at a rapid gait. “Don’t try to lift the shoes. Slide them softly forward, one at a time. By lifting the feet, you sink into the snow. If you could call this little dusting a snow,” he added, to mitigate the impression that he considered twelve inches anything to be reckoned with. “This is not transportation for a lady,” he added with another injured glance at his employer.

  Turning to Deirdre, he continued his complaints. “I tell him so this morning, when he comes to see me. The skirt, she will impede the progress. It will be best to walk behind the stables away from the wind, for you anglais.”

  “What do you say, anglaise, shall we show him what stern stuff we’re made of?” Belami asked her.

  They struck out for the main road as soon as they were accoutered in the uncomfortable aids to walking in snow. Progress was slow and cumbersome at first, but after a few false starts, they got the rhythm of shuffling glide that gave the best progress with the least effort.

  “You’re not too cold?” Dick asked solicitously.

  “I’m roasting to death. It’s hard work,” she said, breathing heavily.

  “We shan’t go too far. This is straining muscles I didn’t even know I had. Can you make it to the road, or will you wait here while I go on down?”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  They completed the trek to the main road, to see drifts of snow as high as their waists in some places, with as yet no effort to clear the track. Dick thought a mounted rider could get through and pointed out that at spots the road was blown clear completely, and even the drifting was toward the banks of the road. A carriage would have trouble, but his own Diablo, he insisted, could make it.

  “I’d say we’ve got a few days before our suspects can run off on us in their carriages,” he concluded.

  “Is that why we came?” she asked.

  “And here you thought I had taken the day off, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged. You really are like a bulldog with this investigating business.”

  “I can be tenacious as a barnacle when I decide to do something. You’ll see what I mean,” he added with a flirtatious smile that told her he had ceased speaking of the case.

  They plodded back to the stable, to see Bidwell in the doorway speaking to Réal. “He is eager to get away,” Belami mentioned.

  Gliding forward, he greeted Bidwell. “The road is still blocked,” he said cheerfully. “Have you come to try the famous snowshoes, Bidwell?”

  “Your groom has been extolling their virtue. He tells me he once walked forty miles in them, in the teeth of a wild storm too. Amazing.”

  “Oui, in Canada, where we get real snow. Many times I have had to tunnel out from my front door,” Réal told them.

  “I doubt you or I could go a tenth of that distance,” Belami said, rubbing his cramped muscles. “Do you want to try them?” he repeated.

  “I think not. It’s chilly. I’m not dressed for this weather. I’ll go back inside and have breakfast.” He turned aside and spoke to Deirdre before leaving. “I expect your aunt is chirping merry this morning, with her diamond back in place.”

  “I haven’t seen her this morning, but she was in alt last night,” Deirdre replied.

  Belami noted his sly smile and was on thorns to learn its cause. He noticed Bidwell’s eagerness to discover a way out of Beaulac, but didn’t think he’d tackle a forty-mile trek to London on snowshoe. Already he was shivering and darting back into the house.

  Dick turned to his groom and said, “I want you to tramp down to the inn and disappear for a few days.”

  “What I am to do at the inn?” Pierre asked.

  “Enjoy yourself. Play in the snow. Take your snowshoes with you, if you like. They will provide an excellent introduction to the serving girls. Thanks for the loan of the shoes. I’ll redesign them for you. A narrower and longer shoe would buoy the weight up as well, and not require such an ungainly gait. Some sort of cane or walking stick would be a help too.”

  “The shoe, he is perfect, made for me by an Indian guide from Montreal.”

  “Fine, then I’ll design one for me, and race you.” Réal gave him a withering look and strolled back into the stables, while Dick and Deirdre returned to the house to warm up and rest from their exertions.

  This was done in his mother’s dressing room, where Bertie sat with a pot of cocoa and plate of toast fingers. Deirdre noticed the elegant dressing gown her hostess wore, all embroidered in roses down the front. Her gray curls were carefully dressed in a basket style, and her cheeks, if Deirdre guessed right, were tinted with rouge. How different from her Aunt Charney, who was ascetic in her private moments, and whose habits Deirdre followed to a large extent. She sat imagining herself in such a fashionable outfit as Berti
e wore. In her mind, Dick sat with her, taking cocoa, being every bit as gallant and loving to her as he was with his mama.

  This too surprised her. She would not have thought him a man to admire and love his mother.

  “Can we rob you of some of that cocoa, Mama?” he asked cheerfully after he had wished her a good morning, kissed her cheek noisily, and found a seat. “I’ll ring for another pot and some cups,” he added when he lifted the lid and discovered the pot to be empty. He stuck his head into the hallway and asked the upstairs maid to attend to it.

  “Well, old girl, how are you bearing up under the strain of this damnable party?” was his next question.

  Bertie gave a quick, guilty glance at Deirdre and said, “Really, Dickie, I don’t think you should . . .”

  “Deirdre is becoming accustomed to my plain speaking. She, of all people, must agree with us that it is a damnable, boring party. It isn’t even possible to call in the neighbors, or hire decent musicians, or ride or hunt or anything.”

  “It is a pity it has fallen so flat,” Bertie had to agree. “Snippe can fiddle better than you might think, and someone must be able to play the piano. All the young ladies hammer away at it nowadays till your head is throbbing. Couldn’t we get up a dancing party at least?”

  “I hammer a little,” Deirdre confessed.

  “You hammer divinely,” Belami objected. To his mama’s utter amazement, he reached out and grasped Deirdre’s hand. She stared, unable to conceal her astonishment, but at least she got a rein on her tongue.

  “I didn’t mean you, Miss Gower. I’m sure you don’t hammer in the least,” she said. “Oh, dear, why can I never open my mouth without putting my foot in it?”

  “A family failing,” Belami told her. “Have you seen the duchess yet this morning?”

  “No, she sleeps late, thank God. Oh, dear—I didn’t mean that, Miss Gower. It is only that I am a late sleeper myself, and . . .”

  “I understand,” Deirdre said, unoffended. “I’ve often thanked God for my aunt’s late sleeping myself, ma’am. What a charming room you have,” she added, glancing around at the flower-covered walls, the dressing table with dainty crystal pots ranged over the top.

  “Life is too short to be miserable. I try to make my house attractive. I don’t know why any lady who doesn’t have to decks herself out in gray gowns and . . . They suit the duchess admirably. I didn’t mean her! Yours is lovely too, my dear. Such a pretty shade of dove gray. I’ve done it again. Terribly sorry, Dickie. I wished the demmed cocoa would come.” After this hapless speech, Bertie drew a deep, resigned sigh and looked impatiently to the door.

  “Eager to be rid of us, are you?” Dick asked unconcernedly.

  “Not you, dear. Oh, and certainly not you, Miss Gower. That was not my meaning.”

  “She refers to all these other invisible guests, you see,” Dick explained to Deirdre. “You and I are perfectly welcome.” He turned to his mother and said, “Why don’t you call Miss Gower Deirdre? It makes conversation easier.”

  “She didn’t ask me to.”

  “Please do,” Deirdre said at once. “Perhaps I ought to go, Dick.”

  “Stay,” he told her, squeezing her fingers. “Bertie will soon get over her nervousness. Won’t you, luv?”

  “I’m sure I’m not nervous in the least,” Bertie objected. “How silly. As though I should be nervous about a young chit. Oh, dear!” Her fingers flew to her lips.

  “That’s your other foot you should be sticking into your craw, Mama,” Dick advised, smiling.

  “I really didn’t mean . . .” She looked helplessly at Deirdre.

  “Of course you didn’t mean me,” Deirdre said, trying to control her lips.

  “Of course I did. There’s no other young chit here,” the hostess admitted frankly.

  “Bertie would refuse a lifeline if she were drowning,” Dick explained.

  “Oh, you were trying to help me cover up my blunder. How kind of you,” Bertie said, smiling at the girl. “I would not have expected it from you. I—”

  “I confess my first reaction was to leave in a huff,” Deirdre said blandly.

  “How nice. I had no notion you could take a joke either, Deirdre. However did you learn to do it, living all these years with that vinegar—with the duchess?”

  “Born with a silver foot in her mouth,” Dick said with a rueful shake of his head.

  “I shan’t say another word this visit,” Bertie said, and promptly ran on with another bushel of nonsense. “It is only that Dick rang such a terrific peal over my asking you, Miss Gower. I mean Deirdre. And naturally I have been a little nervous ever since, wondering how we were to get out of the engagement. But as the two of you have very obviously worked it out between you without becoming mortal foes, I can just relax and enjoy myself, as soon as you leave. Have you told Charney?” she asked Dick, giving up all pretense of politeness.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Dick said. “We haven’t worked anything out. We’re working on it, but nothing is definite yet.”

  “But are you engaged or not?” she demanded, more confused than ever. “Why are you holding hands if you’re not engaged? And why are you smiling if they’ve truly nabbed you?”

  “She has grown three feet,” Deirdre said, shaking her head ruefully.

  “What we have here is a sixty-year-old centipede,” Dick replied.

  “Fifty-four!” Bertie snapped. “It’s bad enough, without your making it worse. And don’t you dare tell a soul I am fifty-four, either. I haven’t publicly reached fifty yet. I was so very ancient when you were born, Dick, that I can easily let on I am still in my forties. I wish that demmed cocoa would come.”

  “I’ll run down to the kitchen and hurry the servants along,” he offered.

  “No, don’t leave me alone with her. I’m sorry, Deirdre, but I don’t know how to talk to clever girls. I never had the knack of it. I can get along very well with clever gentlemen, but you clever gals always want to talk about books and things that are too boring for words.”

  “Here’s the cocoa now,” Deirdre said. “Isn’t that lucky? Now you won’t have to be alone with me, ma’am. A pity, really. I was all set to bore you with my notions on Gibbons’ great, thumping, dull books of history. It will have to wait for another time.”

  “The worst thing about history is that it just goes on and on,” Bertie said, nodding her head. “You think you’ve learned all you have to know, and someone goes and writes up another volume. Now they’re doing them on Wellington’s campaigns; I wish history would stop.”

  “They should have a moratorium on it at least,” Deirdre agreed. “Besides, I’m sure history is half lies.”

  Bertie narrowed her eyes at her guest, wondering if she had heard her correctly. “You speak very much like Dick,” she said, staring. “Satirical. That’s what you are being. How clever. I wish I could learn to do it.”

  “It’s really very simple,” Dick told her. “You just say the opposite from what you mean, as if you meant it.”

  “It wouldn’t be very clever of me to say ‘no cocoa for me’ when I really want another cup. People—stupid people, I mean—might misunderstand, and I should be cheated of my cocoa. Fill me up, Dick. I’m not being satirical. I need another cup of cocoa.”

  Dick poured three cups and they sat around the table, sipping nervously. “There has to be more to it than that,” Bertie decided, after deep thought. “More than saying the opposite from what you mean. You should write up an extract on the subject. It would be a great hit with all the stupid ladies like me who want to be smart.”

  “You don’t have to be clever, Bertie. May I call you Bertie?” Deirdre asked daringly.

  “You may as well, even if it does sound fast coming from a chit. Why don’t I have to be clever?”

  “Because you are charming, and that’s much better than clever.”

  “Is she being satirical?” Bertie asked her son, who shook his head. “I don’t know how you can say so
. I’m a perfect widgeon. The duchess herself told me so, not that I didn’t know it already.”

  They talked on, discussing the walk on snowshoes, the condition of the roads, and their intention of skating on the pond that afternoon. Bertie accidentally insulted both her guests a dozen times, and her guests were good-natured enough to take it for satire. When she finished her cocoa, Deirdre arose and said she would go to see if her aunt was up yet.

  “Oh, you’re leaving now. Good,” Lady Belami said with great feeling. “If your aunt is sleeping, pray don’t awaken her. Let her sleep as long as she likes. Longer.”

  Dick covered his mouth with his hand and looked out the window. “I’ll see you downstairs shortly,” he said to Deirdre.

  “What a strange girl,” Bertie said when they were alone. “What on earth is going on with you and her? Why did you bring her to visit me? I’ve never done you any harm, except to drop you once when you were a very infant. I didn’t think you even remembered it. You were only three months old at the time. You should learn to let bygones be bygones, dear. It’s not nice to hold a grudge.”

  “Then why don’t you drop your grudge against Deirdre? She can’t help it if her aunt is a Tartar.”

  “Very true. No one can do anything with Charney. Deirdre is more conversable than I had hoped. And she don’t poker up as I feared she would at any little thing that slips out.”

  “I’d like us both to know her better.”

  “It’s not necessary now. You have found the diamond. You can wiggle out of the engagement if you are very sly about it.”

  “I was never sly, Mama.”

  “Pooh. The slyest man in the parish, always up to anything.”

  “The girl has qualities,” he said, in a ruminative mood.

  “Being satirical would not wear well in marriage. It’s good enough for a brief conversation, but as a steady diet, it would be extremely tiresome.”

  “That was not the quality I referred to, though I like it too. She’s . . . different. You don’t get to know her in a day, like most of ‘em. Get used to her, Bertie. All it takes is a little familiarity.”