Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  Who was speaking? The voice was vaguely familiar. David looked around, then up, and made out a small figure sitting on the first landing of the staircase. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, with her skirts pulled neatly down to hide any sight of her limbs. It was a child, a girl, a pale stick-thin waif who looked down at him with a serious expression. One of the family, obviously; she was well dressed, though just as obviously not yet out. Too young anyhow, he told himself; this chit would still be in the schoolroom. But she would know where everyone was; he walked closer.

  “Did he leave for the ball already?” David asked.

  She nodded.

  “Dash it–oh, sorry. I should have come a half hour ago.”

  “Are you on your way to the ball, too?” the child asked. She had a light clear voice that fell pleasantly on the ears; too bad she was such a plain little thing, he thought, all big eyes and wide mouth.

  “Yes,” he said. “Not that I care much for such things, but Tarrington might have need of me. He has enemies, you know.”

  “I know,” the child agreed. “You have no costume.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” David told her. “I have no patience for this dress-up nonsense.”

  “Psyche says that Sally will allow no one in without a costume,” the child told him, her tone serious. “Her footman will give you a pair of mouse ears to wear.”

  “Mouse?” David thought he must have heard wrong. He’d only had one glass of wine with dinner, wanting his wits sharp, but– “What’s wrong with the woman, eh?”

  “It’s because she’s being Cinderella,” the girl explained patiently. “You’re not very familiar with fairy tales, are you?”

  “Umm, no.” David frowned. He had to wear mouse ears? “Maybe I won’t even go–no, dash it, I must. Promised Tarrington.”

  “And you likely have a sweetheart to meet?” the child prompted.

  “Me? No, no,” David told her. “Not into the petticoat line, too complicated.”

  “That’s a shame,” the girl said thoughtfully. “You have uncommonly expressive eyes.”

  “You think so?” David began to wonder if this child had had too much wine. Did children drink wine? Someone must have been drinking overmuch; it was the strangest conversation he had ever been part of.

  “Yes, I do, and I know about eyes,” she assured him. “And hands and mouths, too, of course.”

  He stared at her, slightly scandalized. “I think you know a bit too much about body parts for a schoolgirl–”

  ”I considered you a bit foolish the first time I saw you, but I think you will improve with time,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Here now,” David protested, wounded. “No need to insult a fellow.”

  ”Yes, I think you should wait for me.”

  She nodded in apparent decision and raised her brows. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were a clear lucid shade of green. Perhaps she was a fairy, a changeling, and not a little girl at all.

  “Wait for you? Are you going to the ball as well?”

  “I shall be eighteen in only six years,” she explained. “Is that too long to wait?”

  If he said no, she would likely turn him into a mouse, not just with ears but with whiskers and tail. David wondered how one dealt with a fairy bent on mischief. A bit of iron in the pocket, a silver cross? He’d have to ask the vicar on Sunday. If the shock of David showing up in the family pew didn’t give the poor man palpitations.

  “Is it?” Her tone was very serious.

  “Oh, no, no,” he assured her, backing away. “Wait, yes indeed. Expect I’d better be on my way, however. A good night to you.”

  “Good night,” she said as he hurried toward the front door. “Sorry about the mouse ears,” he thought she called after him.

  A fairy child, no doubt about it.

  Chapter 17

  Gabriel reluctantly raised his head when the carriage rolled to a stop. Psyche gave a soft sigh of disapproval when he set her away from him.

  He chuckled beneath his breath. “The footman may not understand ancient mythology, but a man knows eros when he sees it.” He watched her lips part at his meaning. “And I don’t wish him to see it. Do you . . . goddess?” This last he said quietly as he lifted her mask from the seat beside them and slipped it over her face. He tied the satin ribbons around her head and rejoiced in the kindling passion that lingered in her azure eyes. He had awakened this in her. He smiled, remembering that he was Eros, god of sensual love.

  Perhaps there was something to be said for this mythology business, after all.

  He had barely covered his own face when the door swung open, and the footman had laid down the steps. Alighting first, he turned and offered Psyche his hand. She waited a moment and then allowed him to help her down and lead her forward.

  The street in front of the Forsyth mansion was crowded with barouches and chaises and every manner of vehicle, their lanterns flickering through the early darkness. Carriages discharged their fanciful occupants, creating a crush of revelers on the steps.

  Psyche hardly noticed. Her thoughts were still in the darkness of the carriage. Still wrapped around the man who now clutched her unsteady hand with a tender gallantry. If only they might spend their lives wrapped up in each other, guiding each other, loving each other as fully as she loved him now.

  With a start, she pulled her mind back from wild flights of fancy. She wasn’t in love with him. She couldn’t be.

  They had arrived at the top of the stairs and Gabriel was waiting patiently for her to walk ahead of him. “Thank you,” she muttered. Already she could hear music and laughter and the chatter of a large crowd of guests.

  A servant took her cloak, while Gabriel retained his white satin cloak since it was part of his costume, and–Psyche hoped–would help obscure his wide shoulders and hard-muscled physique. For tonight, he must be safely anonymous.

  Thinking of Gabriel, she had forgotten about herself. The feel of a draft on her bare shoulders, which, since the tunic had no sleeves, were now covered only by a narrow width of fabric, reminded her of her costume. Glancing into the looking glass on the wall, Psyche hoped she had not gone too far beyond the pale.

  What had she been thinking? The fact that two passing gentlemen gave her long looks of appreciation did not reassure her.

  Gabriel seemed to guess the direction of her thoughts. He offered her his arm. “You look divine, goddess,” he told her, his eyes glinting with their usual spark of humor.

  She understood what he was trying to tell her and smiled reluctantly at the pun; very well, she was a Greek goddess, not the ordinary Miss Hill of tea parties and prim dresses. Tonight, she could hide behind her golden half-mask, and it made her feel strangely free.

  As they climbed the wide marble staircase to the floor where the ball was held, she saw a menagerie of strange beings; a shaggy wolf in a red velvet tunic with whiskers glued to his cheeks; a round and merry Humpty Dumpty who seemed well into his cups already; a demure shepherdess pulling a quite real, bleating lamb up the steps by its embroidered leash.

  Wondering what on earth Sally’s servants would think of cleaning up after a sheep, Psyche laughed and forgot her worries. Tonight was a step out of time, and she would forget about Miss Hill’s concern with decorum. This evening, she was a Greek goddess, come down to play with mortal men and–perhaps–break a heart or two.

  She glanced toward Gabriel, wishing that might be true.

  When they entered the ballroom, she found it bedecked with fanciful blossoms. Some of the flowers were real, and some must be contrived out of satin and silk, Psyche thought, for such oddly colored, glitter-bedecked blooms belonged only in a fantasy world. Gold ribbons were twined among the crystal chandeliers, and a wave of music rolled out to greet them, softening the shrill sound of many voices. The room smelled of perfumes and wine and flowers, and it was enough to make her hesitate a moment on the threshold. Perhaps they were indeed stepping into faerie land.

 
Certainly, the odd beings around them belonged in a story book. Psyche saw Cleopatra walk by, wearing a stuffed asp around her neck, her arms glittering with jeweled bracelets which looked much more genuine than the snake; her white linen shift was dampened in the French manner so that it clung to her body and showed more than a hint of the curvaceous charms hidden beneath. Psyche felt less uncomfortable about her own costume, which now appeared positively Puritanical in contrast. Cleopatra accepted a glass of wine from a servant and turned to talk to a sea captain with a stuffed parrot on his shoulder.

  A glittering vision of gold and diamonds floated up to them; Psyche turned to greet their hostess. “Sally, this is quite marvelous! What a spectacle.”

  “I told you I’ve been laboring forever,” Sally told them from behind her jewel-edged mask.”And do not call me Sally, tonight I am Cinderella.”

  It would be more accurate to say that Sally’s servants had been working for days, Psyche thought, swallowing a grin, but she didn’t contradict her. “Cinderella, meet Eros,” she said instead.

  Gabriel bowed over their hostess’s hand. “You are a vision worthy of any fairy tale,” he said, kissing her fingers lightly.

  “And you are a most appropriate god of love,” Cinderella declared, flicking her fan with practiced archness. “My, that mask gives me chills, darling. I adore it! You must come and dance with me; it is a royal decree. Andrew has already gone off to the card room; he says his corset is too tight and his crown is giving him a headache.”

  “But what about the guests still arriving?” Psyche asked in surprise.

  “It’s a masquerade, no one is being announced.” Cinderella waved her fan airily. “Come along, Eros, and don’t disappoint me.”

  Gabriel looked over at Psyche, his eyes glimmering with laughter. “I shall return,” he promised, and then he led Cinderella off toward the dance floor.

  Psyche looked about; the costumes were a marvel. Close at hand, two women approached, one seemed to be Queen Mary, she wore an antiquated dress with a wide ruff around her neck, and a gilt crown on her head. Her daughter was–well, she wore a crown, too. Psyche decided that perhaps it was the younger woman who was Mary Tudor, and the older who portrayed Katherine of Aragon. They were each trying to be some antique royal lady, that was certain.

  When the older woman spoke, Psyche recognized the voice. It was Mrs. Fleming, and this must be her daughter.

  “Is that you, Psyche?” the older royal demanded. “What an, um, unusual costume, dear.”

  “Do you like it?” Psyche asked calmly. “I thought I should live up to my name.” She had regained her usual self possession and did not intend to let this old cat . . . um . . . queen upset her. She imagined the skinny matron as a cat, with whiskers glued to her cheeks like the wolf they had passed on the stairwell and had to stifle a laugh.

  “Is your fiancé here?” the younger woman asked, her tone eager. “The Marquis?”

  “Oh, I cannot tell you that, it is a masquerade,” Psyche pointed out. “But you might just find him somewhere among the guests.”

  “Oh, look Mother,” the younger woman said. “The tall man in the Chinese emperor costume and the fake beard, I believe that might be him. Is it, Psyche?”

  Psyche only smiled mysteriously, and the two women hurried off. “And good luck to you,” Psyche murmured.

  A man wandered up, wearing a drab brown coat, mouse ears attached to his half-mask and below the mask, a petulant frown. “Have you seen Madam Forsyth–that is, Cinderella?” he asked, his voice plaintive.

  “I believe you’ll find her on the dance floor,” Psyche told him. “If you go and stand nearby, you can likely claim her for the next dance.”

  Brightening, the mouse hurried off.

  A stout man dressed as a monk appeared at her elbow. “My dear classical goddess, your loveliness overwhelms me! No doubt you must be Venus, goddess of beauty. Perhaps you will favor me with the next dance?” He leered at her in a very un-monklike manner, and Psyche was reminded again of how revealing her costume really was.

  “I’m sorry, that dance is already promised,” she told him.

  “Then perhaps you would like a glass of wine?”

  “Goddesses subsist only on mead and ambrosia, didn’t you know?” She smiled and stepped back. “Excuse me, I see a friend.”

  Actually, she saw a bevy of shepherdesses with crooked staffs and one rather stout king, whose crown was slipping over his bald pate.

  “It just wouldn’t behave,” one of the young women was saying. “It kept stepping on my slippers and pulling at the leash. And it smelled–ugh. So I told the footman to take it away to the stables and give it some hay, or something. It didn’t act like the poem, at all.”

  Psyche smiled; so much for the sylvan peace of rustic glades. Then she did recognize a face beneath a half-mask.

  “Matilda, is that you?” she asked. Her cousin’s plump form was clothed, not unbecomingly, in a ball gown of striped lavender; her brown hair was fringed with an arrangement of large silk flower petals; the young man with her was tall and thin and his costume was green; she wasn’t sure who they were supposed to be, some kind of plants, perhaps, but they reminded her forcibly of Jack Sprat and his wife. She didn’t say this aloud, of course.

  “Psyche, you look beautiful!” Matilda was flushed and quite bubbly with excitement. “Isn’t this the most wonderful ball? People will be talking of it for weeks.”

  “Sally will be happy, then,” Psyche agreed. “Yes, I think it’s quite marvelous.”

  “You know Mr. Stilton,” her cousin added, blushing even more deeply.

  “Yes indeed,” Psyche said, making her curtsy. “How nice to see you again.”

  The young man bowed, his eyes widening just a little at Psyche’s bare shoulders and brief tunic, but to his credit he turned quickly back to her cousin, speaking with a slight lisp. “We’d best head for the dance floor, thuch a crush, tho we can take our placeth for the next thet.”

  “Of course,” Matilda agreed. “Will you excuse us, Psyche?”

  “With pleasure,” Psyche agreed, smiling to see her cousin’s happiness. Long live the tall and thin Mr. Stilton-Sprat, she thought.

  A young lady dressed as Mother Goose, with a wide hat and a toy goose under one arm, came up to her. “Miss Hill?”

  “Yes,” Psyche said. Her disguise was obviously not every effective; next time, she would come as a Chinese concubine, she thought. Or a goose!

  “My grandmother, Lady Serena, would like a word with you, if you would,” the girl said timidly. “She is sitting to the side of the room.”

  “Of course.” Lady Serena was a contemporary of Aunt Sophie’s; Psyche would need to explain her aunt’s absence and make a little polite conversation. At least it would deliver her from the monk, whom she saw eyeing her again from a clump of nearby guests, and a Cavalier in a blue cloak who was also assessing her. And by that time, perhaps the current dance would have ended, and she could reclaim her own escort. Psyche followed Mother Goose toward the side of the room.

  She found Lady Serena wearing a sumptuous purple turban and a well-cut gown with a fichu tucker covering her wrinkled neck, her only concession to the masquerade a half-mask that dangled from her wrist. Even Sally had been unable to cow the formidable Lady S, Psyche thought, hiding her amusement.

  “Hello, child, where is Sophia? I thought she would be here to amuse me with her wit,” Lady Serena complained.

  “My aunt has come down with a slight cough,” Psyche explained. “She sends her regrets.”

  The old lady sniffed. “Not half the regrets that I have, stuck in this Bedlam of revelers with no one congenial to talk to.”

  Her granddaughter, looking meek in her Mother Goose disguise, tried to argue. “Now, Grandmother, you know that you have many friends–”

  ”Most of them in the graveyard!” Lady Serena interrupted sharply, apparently determined not to relinquish her role of martyr. “Anyhow, I wanted to tell you, child
. Sophia asked me about a family, the Sinclairs of Kent.”

  “Yes?” Psyche’s polite attention sharpened at once.

  “I had something to tell her,” Serena announced in sepulchral tones.

  On the dance floor, Gabriel led Sally through the intricate steps of the dance, amused by her skilled and light-hearted flirtation.

  “You know that as your partner, I am the envy of all the other ladies,” she told him.

  Rule number one, flatter your gentleman friend, Gabriel thought. “You’re too kind,” he said, smiling down into her wide brown eyes until she whirled away from him.

  “And I shall treasure this moment, since I know you will be occupied with your betrothed for most of the evening,” Sally said, when next the dance brought them together.

  Rule number two, show a hint of your attraction. “True,” Gabriel agreed. They held hands briefly, then parted again.

  “But I shall hope for another dance later, since even one’s fiancé cannot expect constant attention,” Sally added when they came back together. “It would be so provincial, don’t you think?” She batted her long lashes.

  He pressed her hand but kept his expression only mildly interested. Rule number three, determine the amount of interest from the other party. Sally could give lessons in flirtation, he thought. And he had always been an eager pupil, up to now. The woman currently on his arm was delightful, pleasing to the eye and soft to the touch and smelling of lilies, so why did his thoughts keep returning to the front of the room, where he had left Psyche too unguarded in her revealing costume? He was sure that men all over the ballroom were hurrying to flock around her. He wished the dance would end.

  “I’m sure we will have another dance,” he agreed. “If the crush of your other admirers permit it.” He had seen more than one set of mouse ears among the guests. Then, glancing down into her caramel-colored eyes, he gave way to a mischievous impulse and added, “Or we could slip away to a secluded alcove, and I could teach you some of the mysteries of the East–lovemaking is something of an art in India, you know.”