“But if he discovers everything,” Weddington worried, “my plans for the Long Island and Hudson Valley spy network are ruined.”
“There is nothing we can do now,” Selena concluded. “Let us get into our costumes.”
Sean’s apparent absence triggered a tiny warning in her mind, but, donning her peasant outfit, a catlike mask, and a scarf of Highland plaid, Selena hoped that his sudden disappearance had something to do with his mysterious costume. She adjusted the scarf to conceal the telltale gold of her hair, and checked the mirror. The mask covered her face from mid-forehead to mouth. The scarf was effective. And the costume, with its long, full skirt, quite obscured her figure, although the blouse accentuated rather than hid the youthful swell of her breasts. Oh, well, that was all to the good. She was momentarily unnerved by the stark deception that a mask can work upon human identity, but immediately the element of mystery became intoxicating. She realized that it had been years since she’d attended a costume ball. In fact, the last ball she had attended was the one in Edinburgh Castle…
She descended to the ballroom, excited my memory and anticipation, and the masque commenced.
The first dance was a reel, introduced to New York during the past several years by the many Virginians who had come north to attend political gatherings and meetings of the Continental Congress. Whirling and spinning to the music, trying to guess the identities of the dancers, Selena’s body told her that she was still only twenty years old, hardly more than a girl. She rejoiced with the knowledge, laughing and spinning exuberantly, enchanted by the dance and the feeling of freedom it gave her.
Her first partner was a pirate—not tall enough to be Sean—and then she danced successively with an Indian in war paint, two devils, and a creature inspired by Greek mythology, whose headdress sprouted any number of serpents that were made of wire and cloth. She thought one of the devils might have been Sean, a suspicion enhanced by the fact that he did not speak to her. But the devil did not stand as straight as Sean, and after consideration she dismissed the possibility. The game was interesting, and the dancing exhilarated her. She felt happy and excited.
The evening grew very festive, that moment of tension at dinner now forgotten. Pausing between dances to catch her breath, Selena sipped punch beneath her feline mask, and watched the dancers in their multitude of costumes, trying to decide who they were. Blakemore (the preposterous bitch!) had been too vain to conceal herself well, too spitefully independent to accede even to the spirit of the masque. She wore (what gall!) a tight-fitting, low-cut gown, with just the suggestion of a train, and a bejeweled tiara that also suggested royalty. Her mask was but a little snip of gold cloth, and she held her chin high and haughty as she danced. Her partner, in the costume of a barrister, robed and wigged, danced with debonair grace. Hamilton. The sight of them dancing together—Hamilton, to whom Selena was attracted, and the conceited Blakemore woman—struck yet another chord of emotion in Selena. She remembered not only the wild exuberance of Edinburgh now, but also feelings of jealousy and competitiveness. Anyway, she thought, Veronica did not win Royce either. She felt a certain satisfaction as she reflected upon that fact, but memory of the Christmas dance was sullied, somehow disturbing.
The music stopped for a time and then began again. Selena did not believe anyone had yet guessed her identity—with the exception of Sean, who knew her costume, but whom she could not spot—but she was wrong. The masked barrister stood before her.
“Dance?” he smiled beneath his purple mask, and she took his arm for a grand promenade.
“You’ve lost your queen,” she said, as they faced each other and bowed.
“I have no queen,” he said. “I am a republican. She is amusing, isn’t she?” His voice turned hard. “She was born to a great family in Jamaica. I was also born in the islands, though not to such genealogical distinction. At one time, she would not have deigned to spit on me, but she likes excitement, and she senses money and power. An adventuress, in short. She had a man, Royce Campbell by name, but he turned rebel and George the Third, in all his wisdom, saw fit to appropriate Campbell’s lands. Have you ever heard of him?”
“I think so,” Selena said.
Then Hamilton returned to the mood Selena associated with him, that of the youthful, clever man who is master of all he surveys.
“I shall offer you a lesson in politics, Selena,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not. What is it?”
“Veronica is the lesson,” Hamilton said. “She will tell us—you and I and everyone here—when we have victory in our grasp.”
“Veronica will tell us that?”
“Yes.” He laughed. “When she cares enough about something to betray us, she will go over to the side of the loyalists. She has an unerring instinct for defeat.”
“Do you think so?” His description did not sound at all like the woman Selena thought she knew.
“I know so,” Hamilton said. “I have spent most of my life attempting to become accepted by the society into which she was born.”
“Why?”
“Because I was not born to it. Besides, she is most amusing. But do not forget our lesson. And, more to the point, you are the one I desire. If you could find a place for me in your heart…”
She was flattered. His spell was working on her body once again. But she was also angry. He had been too bold, importuning her right before Sean, right at the dinner table.
“Now I understand why your general’s army is still entrenched in Morristown,” she parried. “You should tend to important affairs, and not the frivolous.”
“I’m hurt,” he said, his eyes showing no hurt at all. “We are discussing the most important of all affairs. And, as to strategy, we occupy the road to Philadelphia, which mighty Howe will attack this summer. If he gets around to it.”
“And you will win?”
“Of course, I always win.”
“And General Washington?”
“He has not lost since I joined his staff.”
“He has fought one battle since you joined his staff.”
“But we were victorious. My strategy never fails.”
“Your strategy?”
“Of course. Why do you think we won?”
The music was ending; the dance was winding down. They were both aware of the current of excitement that flashed between them.
“But this time your strategy does not succeed.”
“What?” he asked, holding her precisely one moment longer than any other man would have.
“No,” she said. “The answer to your suggestion is no.”
He smiled beneath his mask, not at all daunted. “Well, your husband is a fine-looking man. Perhaps another time.I cannot resist a woman who scorns me…”
“I don’t scorn you…” Selena began, and saw by his clever smile that he had maneuvered her into just such a protestation.
“I am sure you would never do so base a thing,” snapped the approaching Veronica, her eyes on fire with malice.
The sight of proud Veronica so reduced by jealousy gifted Selena with a measure of sinful pleasure. Blakemore might once have taken Royce away from her, but this moment belonged entirely to Selena, along with every twinge of satisfaction it contained.
“Wares too readily peddled tend to decrease in value,” she said very sweetly.
Hamilton laughed with delight, then turned to Veronica for her reply, as if he were watching an exchange of blows at a prizefight.
“That is one of the maxims of your peddler husband, I suppose?” Veronica managed.
“Let’s not speak of husbands,” Hamilton advised. “They distress me. As do jealous women,” he said to Veronica, softly but sharply. She quieted immediately, but the humiliation cut deep. With a quick movement of her hand, she jerked off her mask and glared at Selena. She said nothing, but she did not have to. There was a promise in her angry eyes, a promise of revenge. What galled her most was that Hamilton, to whom she had given herself, seemed to
value much more highly a woman who resisted him. It was not the way she had learned the game, and this was not the way it was supposed to work out. Unable to countenance humiliation, she had exploded. And, having done so, she had shown herself to be a piece of goods. Expensive goods, without doubt, but still goods. It was not the way she thought of herself. Restoration of her self-esteem would require the humiliation of Selena, if not her destruction.
That was the promise in her angry eyes.
“Where is your husband, by the by?” Hamilton asked, after Veronica had stormed off.
“I must confess that I don’t know for certain. But I think he’s the man in the hangman’s costume.”
She indicated a tall man who stood alone near the side-board, quietly watching the ball. He wore a soot-colored hood that covered his head and face and fell down to his shoulders. His boots and trousers were black, as was his loose-fitting executioner’s shirt.
“I’m not entirely comfortable with the implications of his costume,” Hamilton said. “Are you sure?”
“Well,” she said, “he wasn’t here during the early part of the dance, and Sean did contrive to keep his costume secret…”
“How unfortunate,” Hamilton said, with feigned sadness. “There is little hope for me with a woman who plays love games with her husband. I believe he is looking at you, too.”
It would have been difficult to tell if the hangman was looking at her or not, because of the hood, but Selena suppressed the impulse to return his gaze. Instead, she talked a bit more with Hamilton, seeking to make Sean jealous. She felt comfortable with the young rebel now, and he seemed to have been much impressed by her handling of Veronica Blakemore. And, although he gave no indication that he would cease to solicit Selena’s favors, Hamilton’s tone and manner indicated an acceptance of her as a person, not merely a woman from whom pleasure might be won. Or by whom it might be given outright.
Better if it must be won; he placed a higher value on it then.
The hangman appeared beside them when the music began again.
“May I have the honor of this dance?” he asked, bowing slightly. His voice was muffled by the hood.
“I must consult my counsel,” Selena replied saucily, turning to Hamilton. “What say you, barrister? Shall a young maid dance with death?”
“Better you than I, my dear,” Hamilton replied, with-drawing gracefully.
Wordlessly, the hangman led her out onto the floor. He seemed to be studying her intently, as if trying to identify her, as if he were not certain it was she, and suddenly she had a strange feeling that he might not be Sean at all. The sensation was one of deep disquiet, and she looked up with alarm at the opaque material that covered his face.
McGrover!
Her heart pounded hard inside her chest as, very slowly, he reached for her hand, and took it before she had a chance to bolt from the floor.
“Are you enjoying the masque?” he asked. The sound of his voice was familiar, but she could not place it exactly, it was so muffled. It could be Sean after all, couldn’t it? The grip of his hand on hers was not ungentle. But the costume was upsetting.
The dance was a rollicking one that had originated in the hills of east Virginia. Several members of the orchestra were sawing away on instruments that resembled violins, which made a strange, not unpleasant sound. The music was fast and the dance also, and the dancers linked elbows with their partners, parted, linked arms and whirled again. Selena felt better when they began dancing, and her misgivings spun away. She had decided, once again, that the hangman was Sean. All right, she thought, we shall play our game. She gave him a smile, waiting for him to give her a clue. When he did not speak, she was utterly convinced he must be Sean, and that he did not wish to reveal his identity by the sound of his voice.
The dance required them to part and exchange partners for a time. Selena saw, with a measure of regret, that the hangman was paired with Veronica Blakemore, whom he seemed to be examining with considerable attention. Veronica sent Selena a spiteful smile of challenge, and it was almost with relief that Selena linked arms with the hangman again.
“Do you know this dance?” the hangman asked suddenly.
“No,” she said. “I like it though.”
They spun around, approached, linked elbows, whirled. People were clapping on the sidelines, in time to the insistent beat of the tune.
“I grew up with quite another kind of dance.”
“As did I,” he said after a moment. “But where did you grow up?”
A game. She considered the fabrication of an imaginary past, but the spirit of the music, the laughter and shouts of the dancers, reminded her of the heady dances of the Highlands.
“Scotland!” she cried, whirling again. She loved the way it sounded on her tongue, and, in spite of all that had occurred since she’d been driven from her homeland, at this moment, dancing after so long, every memory was good. “Scotland,” she said again, proudly.
“Selena,” the hangman said, in a tone that is known all over the world by anyone who has ever been in love. It is the tone that is used when you speak the name of a beloved to whom one has come home.
Selena knew at the very instant she heard him call her name. The hangman was Royce Campbell. She wanted to cry out. She wanted to scream with joy. She wanted to go to him and lose herself in the wonder of his embrace, in the glory of his very being. But the music went on and on, and they kept on dancing. After the initial shock, her mind worked furiously. He was a hunted man, and had taken a great risk coming to New York, even if the Penrods’ party was not a Tory gathering. Nor could they speak, or hold each other, not even for a moment, here in the middle of the dance floor with the music pounding on. Then, with a shiver of dread, she caught a glimpse of Veronica, who was looking toward them, her eyes glinting with suspicion and malice. She had guessed. She knew! I can’t even speak his name, she thought.
“Is there a place in the house?” Royce was asking.
She knew at once that he meant to be alone with her,, and her heart cried out with longing and despair. The rooms on the ground floor were filled with guests, talking, drinking, laughing, walking from one room to another, admiring the Penrods’ elegant home. And anyone would easily be seen ascending the grand staircase that led from the ballroom to the upper floors. There would be a back stairs, for certain, probably in the kitchen, but…
“It’s…it’s too dangerous,” she said, wanting to burst into tears of helplessness and need. “Veronica.”
She saw the hangman look over at his former lover. She saw Veronica’s cold smile. They had to whirl and part again, and it seemed an eternity before Royce was back with her.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
No. Oh, no. He could not come to Bowling Green. Never. “On Bowling Green,” she said.
The music stopped then, abruptly, the sound of it reverberating all over the room.
“Are you happy, Selena?” she heard the hangman ask.
She had no chance to reply.
“What a touching sentiment from a traitor,” hissed a voice just behind them. “Don’t move. There are men at the doors.”
Selena whirled and saw armed men there, men from Lord Ludford’s offices, and she saw a pride of soldiers as well. The sight of two of the men made her gasp in anguish. In the doorway, next to an armed guard, stood Sean. While behind them, with a knife at the hangman’s back—she saw the pathetic artificial ear as closely as she might have seen the approach of her own death—was Darius McGrover. Fool, she thought, incongruously. Vain fool. The rubbery ear was tied on with a string, as an eyepatch might be. And she knew, at the same moment, that he would do far worse than remove an ear from the person who had divested him of his own.
“Don’t move, anyone!” McGrover ordered, in his old voice of certainty and command.
Had Sean called him here? Selena could not believe it.
“That’s good,” McGrover cried, as Ludford’s men and the soldiers began to close into
the room. “Now, we know most of you are loyal.” He said it as if he did not believe it. “We are only looking for one or two. Forgive me if I ask you to remove your pretty little masks.”
Too many things happened simultaneously; Selena was unable to register all of them. She saw Hamilton dive through the crowd, and she saw the momentarily stunned look on the faces of the security men nearby, before they, too, leaped forward. Inches away, she was suddenly conscious of movement, and caught the blur of the hangman’s arm as it swung past her in a flashing arc, ramming an elbow into McGrover’s solar plexus. The ever-present knife leaped from his hand as a cry of agony escaped him, and he jack-knifed forward from the waist. He was not even bent double when the hangman braced himself and, fists together, slammed a double uppercut to McGrover’s slack jaw, catching McGrover’s tongue between his teeth. A shower of blood pearled about his head, and his artificial ear jumped from its string-tied mooring. In the meantime, whether by plan or accident or simply the human tendency to band together and flee in the face of danger, people crowded toward the doorways, temporarily blocking the entrance of soldiers and security men. Had Hamilton waited even seconds more to make his move, Selena reflected later, everything would have been lost.
McGrover was spinning in midair, in the process of dropping unconscious to the floor. Selena was turning from him to look once again at the hangman. But he removed that identity, pulling the hood from his head, eyes searching for a route to escape. He was not afraid. He was exhilarated. She could read the emotion in his flashing, depthless blue eyes.
“Who’s fortunate this time?” he managed to ask, and she thought he would have smiled had he had the time.
But he did not. He made his calculations, ran a short distance, and made a flying leap toward the balcony, where the banistered staircase turned, leading to the upper floors. Some of the crowd hunkered at the foot of the stairs. People were shouting. Soldiers were pushing and shoving them now. Curses and threats filled the air. A few of the security men, watching Royce Campbell flee, tried to order the soldiers back outside, but the confusion was now too great.
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