by Fortune Kent
They followed the passage to the front of the house where they stopped before a large leaded window to look down at the driveway. Lanterns bobbed from wires strung between the trees, and Kathleen watched the carriage of a late arrival drive through a fantasy of many-colored lights.
“This way,” Edward whispered, guiding her into a cranny from which a metal spiral staircase circled to the lower floors. One, two, three, she began counting the steps. She had reached eighteen when Edward stopped in front of a closed door. A muffled hum came from the other side. When he edged the door open she heard the murmur of voices and the lilt of a waltz.
She followed him through the doorway into a darkened hall where, some twenty feet ahead, she saw the ebb and flow of couples in the light from the entrance. “Take my arm,” he told her. Together they walked from the shadows into the entryway and turned through an arch to the ballroom. The splendor took her breath away.
They were standing on a raised gallery which extended to the walls on either side and then along the entire length of the room. The scene reminded Kathleen of an oil painting, the colors mingling with one another, the smoke from the cigars hazing the air, a myriad of candies flickering in the magnificent tiers of chandeliers above their heads, gaslights in gilt holders along the walls, the dancers below, masked, elaborately costumed, whirling to the rhythm of the waltz. Kathleen’s head pulsed with the music. Her breath quickened.
On the gallery along the sides of the room older women sat in round-backed chairs staring reminiscently at the dancers. On the tables adjoining the floor Kathleen saw glasses, bottles of champagne, fans, and purses. Directly across from her the orchestra formed an island of black and white. Through the open French doors on both sides of the musicians’ platform she could see the balcony which she knew extended out from the rear of the house.
As Edward stepped forward with her to the stairs the music stopped and the dancers applauded. Kathleen had the feeling all eyes in the ballroom turned to them. “Who are they?” she imagined the women whispered behind their fans as they appraised this strange dark prince and his princess.
Edward lowered his arm to slide his hand over hers and pulled her onto the floor. What was this lively tune? “I can’t,” she protested. “I’ve never danced a polka.”
“Follow my lead,” he told her and after a few moments she matched him step for step.
The music went on and on. Kathleen danced a waltz, a quadrille, another waltz, another polka. The pattern repeated—waltz, quadrille, waltz, polka. Costumed men crowded about her between dances. They laughed, flirted, thrust punch into her hand. She became warm, lightheaded, the other dancers were a blur, as though the colors of a painting had run together in the heat. Where was Captain Worthington? She searched the masked faces of the men.
She observed a cadet standing alone, seemingly aloof, one of the few unmasked guests. Recognition stirred in Kathleen’s mind. Ah, she knew. The blond horseman who smiled and tipped his hat to her at the Fourth of July parade.
“He’s not wearing a costume,” she said to the heavy-set riverboat pilot who was her partner. “Is it against West Point regulations?”
He followed her gaze. “Not that I know of,” the pilot said. “I don’t know why Worthington invited him. He’s one of the most disliked men in the Corps. Last year he reported six other cadets he claimed cheated on examinations. They were all dismissed.”
Edward Allen danced by, cocky, almost prancing about the floor as if he had been freed from bondage. His eyes glittered behind his mask. He was, she thought, more at ease when playing a role. When wasn’t he playing a role? The coachman, Dr. Gunn, the prince. Was any one of them the real Edward Allen? Or was each a different facet of the man? Kathleen was slowly finding her rejection of Edward changing to a grudging admiration.
Later, while she waltzed with a man whose clumsiness belied his costume of a French dancing master, the blond cadet whirled by with a short blonde girl. He looked intently at Kathleen, as though trying to pierce through her disguise. “A wonderful fellow,” her partner said. “When some of the cadets tried to give the silent treatment to one of the new Negro cadets, he fought for the Negro’s right to be at the Point.”
At last Edward Allen reclaimed her. His face was flushed and the limp she had suspected before was now pronounced. They left the floor when the dance ended. Exhilarated from the champagne and the music, she wanted to run and skip, felt like playing as she had when she was a child. She remembered Michael calling to her from the far bank of the brook while she leaped from rock to rock trying to follow him.
She and Edward paused to look back from the gallery. On the platform at the far end of the room Kathleen saw a tall man in green bend forward to talk to the leader of the orchestra. Despite his mask she knew him at once. Charles Worthington. As she recognized Charles the image of Michael faded and she heard his voice become faint, calling to her from farther and farther away while she remained frozen, afraid to leap over the last churning expanse of water.
Edward started to follow when she left him to walk across the floor. “No, stay here,” she told him and he turned back. Couples waiting for the music to begin moved aside to form a twisting passage. The room seemed darker. She was perplexed until she looked above her head to find that many of the candles in the chandeliers had guttered out, while others burned fitfully.
She walked as though in a trance, her sensations dreamlike. Unreal and distorted. The memory of her nightmare returned and the Indian loomed in her mind. Once more she ran from the horrors of the sod house. Once more she heard the awful clawing beneath the mound of earth.
The dancers clustering about her whispered among themselves. Behind the masks their narrowed eyes followed her. Accusing me, she thought. Accusing me of vacillation, of procrastination, of cowardice. Kathleen sensed a movement. She glanced to the far end of the room in time to see a tall young man remove his mask. She shivered and her legs felt weak. Although the revealed face was featureless, Kathleen knew him: Michael.
Another man on the opposite side of the ballroom yanked off his mask. She stopped, staring. No, she thought. She wanted to cover her face with her hands. Impossible, this must be another dream. A dream, she repeated, saying the word over and over like an incantation—a dream, a dream, a dream. The second face had been blurred but unmistakable: Michael.
One man after another slipped his mask from his head and she saw the same face again and again, the same eyes, her brother’s eyes, wide and staring. She wanted to rush from the room but knew she must not, knew she must force her trembling legs to go the last few paces to where Charles stood.
She was almost to the musicians when Charles looked up. He saw her and stiffened, then slowly stepped from the platform with his hand extended. He wore a loose green jacket, matching trousers, and a brown cap with a feather on one side. Arrow shafts protruded from a quiver slung over his shoulder.
Charles tucked her hand under his arm as though they were old friends and walked with her through the French doors. The air on the balcony was still and close. She looked anxiously about, relieved to find they were alone. Behind them the orchestra began a Viennese waltz.
The moonless night crouched just beyond the ballroom’s halo of light. That night the darkness of the outbuildings and the trees seemed more comforting to Kathleen than the bright ballroom with its many phantoms.
As she left Charles to walk beside the high stone railing, Kathleen counted the posts with her hand. She stopped at the seventh and turned to lean with her back against, the banister. Charles still stood by the door, his mask in one hand. He swallowed and she saw the muscles of his face grow taut. Shadows rimmed his eyes.
“My masquerade is a great success,” he said. His voice was controlled and without enthusiasm. Yet she thought she detected a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “And now,” he went on, “I find myself with the most beautiful of all my guests. Though, I suspec
t, an uninvited one.”
Kathleen let her wand fall to the stout pavement. As she knelt to retrieve it she reached behind her, fingers feeling along the rough stone, beneath the leaves, until they closed over the hidden revolver. She stood and faced him, the gun held before her in both hands. She cocked the hammer with her thumb.
“So this is how it ends,” he said, walking slowly toward her. “Are you really going to shoot, Miss Stuart?”
She gasped. He had recognized her.
“Or,” he said, “should I use your real name?”
“My real name? What do you mean?” A church bell began to toll the hour.
“Kathleen Donley, I believe.” She could feel the gun heavy in her shaking hands.
“H-how did you know?” she asked.
“Your brother Michael kept a miniature,” he said. “An excellent likeness.”
“You killed Michael,” she accused him. “You killed him, didn’t you?” She expected a denial, thought he would try to put her off with words. Did she want him to explain, to excuse himself? To prevent her from firing the gun?
Instead of a protest, he nodded. “Yes, I did. I killed him.” He does look like a young Lincoln, she thought irrelevantly.
“Pull the trigger,” Charles Worthington murmured. “Pull the trigger.” He was almost upon her.
The gun roared. The explosion deafened her, rattled the windows of the house. Someone screamed. The music wavered to an uncertain close. Men and women crowded to the French doors. Smoke from the exploding powder hung in the air.
The gun dropped and she grasped the railing with both hands. The last notes of the church bell faded as she stood staring straight ahead. Her sobs were the only sounds in the quiet night.
Chapter Eleven
As Kathleen pulled the trigger two events occurred almost simultaneously. Charles, whose body was only inches from the muzzle, threw himself to the ground, where he landed on his hands and knees. At the same time Kathleen swung the revolver down and to the side, so the bullet ricocheted harmlessly past him.
She dropped the gun and leaned on the balcony. Charles scrambled to his feet, then bent to snatch the weapon from the ground and slip it into his pocket.
Brushing himself off, he faced the costumed men and women crowding from the ballroom.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he told them, “no one’s hurt. I was showing the young lady my Army revolver. Go back inside, everything’s all right.” He smiled while he walked, arms outstretched, toward the French door and turned the attention of his guests back to the dance. After what seemed an interminable time, but was probably only a few minutes, she heard the music resume.
Kathleen was momentarily stunned, without feeling. She hugged herself as a chill spread through her and she began to shake, an uncontrollable trembling of her entire body. At one and the same time she felt exultation because Charles was alive—and dismay, for she had lost her courage at the last instant and Michael remained unavenged.
Kathleen looked up to see Charles, tall and pale, silhouetted in the doorway. His hat was missing, the quiver empty. Without a word he took her hand and hurried her along the side of the ballroom floor to a hallway and through a door to the rear of the house. He strode across the lawn to an overgrown path, pulling her so she had to run to keep from falling. At last he stopped on a rock ledge high above the river. Noticing she still trembled, he placed his jacket over her shoulders.
He walked a short distance away and stood staring down at the dark river. Overhead the stars seemed closer than she had ever seen them. Storm King Mountain loomed above to their right. For a long time she remained with head bent and arms folded. When at last the trembling subsided she lowered her face into her hands and wept.
Charles came to her holding out a handkerchief which she took and used to wipe away her tears. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, then ran his hand along her arm until he found her hand. For a moment she leaned to him so her hair lightly brushed his cheek. Still holding her hand he turned and began the walk back to the house. He left her in the upper hall with a whispered “Good night.”
The mirror in her bedroom showed Kathleen a pale, tear-smudged face. Her hair was tousled, the tiara lost. With a moan she threw herself on the bed to lie staring at the blank wall until sleep finally came.
A restless sleep was troubled by phantoms she could not recall when she woke in the early dawn. She got up, her body aching. She removed the rumpled gown, and as she hung it in the wardrobe she saw the dress she had worn so confidently on the train from Ohio. After she washed in the basin, Kathleen pulled the gray crinoline over her head. Standing before the mirror she undid the bow to let her hair fall. Her brush snagged time after time before the curls loosened to cascade in gentle waves about her shoulders.
She was no longer the fairy princess of the night before. I’m plain, she thought, Josiah’s girl from Ashtabula in the plain gray dress. Good, she told herself, I was never meant to be anyone but myself. Yet she did not really care, she was empty, drained of feeling. Is this how Mrs. Ehrman feels, she wondered, as she waits for her life to end?
I’ll find Charles, she told herself, and make him tell me the truth about what happened in Kansas, the how and why of my brother’s death. Only three days remained of the eight allotted by Josiah. The deadline no longer mattered to Kathleen. She would return to Gleneden with Josiah, face whatever awaited her there. What difference did it make?
She looked in on Clarissa and found her sitting up in bed. “Last night I could hear the music all the way from here,” the other woman said. “Tell me about the masquerade.” Kathleen described the ballroom, the dancers and their costumes, told of the failure of her plan.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Clarissa said. She blushed. “Early this morning I sent one of the maids who’s been staying with me to make sure the Captain was all right.”
“I couldn’t harm him. Even if he hadn’t rescued me I wouldn’t have been able to.”
“Rescued you?” Clarissa seemed puzzled. “Oh, yes, at the cabin in the woods.”
Kathleen glanced at the older woman but Clarissa did not meet her eyes. “The Captain did rescue us, didn’t he?” Clarissa looked away. “I suspected something of the sort,” Kathleen said. “Tell me the truth: did Josiah arrange the kidnapping?”
Clarissa nodded. “I don’t know why Josiah isn’t more straightforward. At times he’s like a secretive boy playing games.”
“I didn’t guess at first,” Kathleen said. “And when I did suspect, I wasn’t sure. I thought, or hoped, Josiah would find a way to get us onto the Estate. With no idea of what he might have in mind. Why didn’t he tell me? As it was I might have ruined his whole plan.”
“He should have explained, but Josiah loves mysteries. Nothing pleases him more than to appear to be a bumbler until the last minute when he reveals a wonderful solution to all your problems. A man with surprises hidden up his sleeve like a conjuror. In a way I sometimes see him as a magician or a sorcerer.”
“When we were captured my only thought was to escape,” Kathleen said. “I set the fire in the cabin without thinking. I had to do something.”
“If I had been in your place,” Clarissa told her, “I’m afraid I would have waited and hoped. Prayed, no doubt, but waited. I’ve discovered patience works best for me.”
“Michael always said I flailed about like a newborn colt and as unsuccessfully. I never imagined the fire might trap me. Even when Edward knocked the revolver from my hand I didn’t suspect Josiah had planned the whole affair.”
Clarissa smiled when Kathleen mentioned Josiah. A smile of fondness and exasperation, Kathleen thought.
“He hired the two men who kidnapped you in Newburgh,” Clarissa said. “And later a third to watch and make certain the coach was stopped before he rode to report the abduction to the Worthington Estate. Just as he expected—no, just as Josiah kn
ew he would—the Captain galloped to the rescue.”
Josiah again, Kathleen thought as she walked to her room. Even though hundreds of miles away he still made his presence felt.
At the door to her bedroom she changed her mind. I’ll find Charles now, she decided. She went downstairs to the empty dining room and walked through a hushed hallway to the front porch. Above her head the many windows of the house stared at her with blank faces. On the driveway flies circled over piles of horse dung. One of the wires holding the colored lanterns had broken and several lanterns lay shattered on the ground. The others hung between the trees, their usefulness over.
Kathleen returned to the ballroom. The candles in the chandeliers had guttered out. The floor was strewn with streamers, cigars, and crumpled papers. Several chairs lay overturned. The room seemed contracted, as though it had grown smaller overnight, and Kathleen felt a sense of desolation.
Head down, tired, wanting to sleep yet knowing she could not, Kathleen walked to the entrance hall where she saw Alice Lewis stop momentarily on the curving stair. The two women faced one another.
“I’m looking for Captain Worthington,” Kathleen said.
“He’s gone.” The stout maid was abrupt.
“Gone?”
“Yes, he packed his saddlebags early this morning to go into the mountains. Like his father before him. Mr. Jeffrey used to go off alone when he wanted to think things over. I don’t know what happened last night, but something surely did.” Her voice became harsh. “And I suspect you know what it was.”
Kathleen lowered her head without replying.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Lewis said. “I shouldn’t be sharp with you. This heat gets all of us a bit out of sorts.”
“I heard thunder the evening before last. Perhaps we’ll have rain.”
“Thunder?” Mrs. Lewis raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I know. Not thunder at all. What you heard was the West Pointers firing their cannon at Target Hill again. Mr. Charles was fit to be tied. This is no weather for target practice what with the woods so dry and so much danger of a forest fire.”