by Ella Edon
"A parrot, perhaps," said Uncle Leonard, frowning. "But you are no squawking parrot, Grace. We'll have to do better than that."
"Indeed," muttered Aunt Betsey, and went back to searching the shelves and drawers. "With the rumor that the earl himself will be behind one of those masks, the excitement among the other young women is nearly unmanageable!"
"Your aunt is right, Grace," said Uncle Leonard. "They are all putting on their very best turnout for this event. You will be able to see where our every last feather and glass jewel and ribbon and plume in this shop has gone – right onto their faces! You yourself must not let them outshine you. You, too, must be just as striking, so that you will be the one to draw his gaze – not anyone else."
Finally, thoroughly exasperated, Aunt Betsey threw up her hands in surrender. "I have nothing that I can use to make another mask. All we can do is cut two holes in piece of gauze and tie it over her eyes."
Grace raised an eyebrow at that, and then giggled. "More a disguise than a mask," she noted. "But if I must, I must."
"Hmmm – perhaps not," said Uncle Leonard, and he held up a piece of bright yellow muslin.
"Oh, that’s pretty," said Grace. "It looks very like a scrap left over from my yellow gown."
"It is," said her uncle. "Now, hold up the green gown in front of you. That's right. Now – try this."
Grace blinked as Uncle Leonard draped a few of the yellow muslin scraps over her head, letting then hang down in front of her face and fall across the top of the green dress. "There, now. You're a primrose."
"I'm a – what?" Grace lifted the fabric from her face.
"A primrose," said Uncle Leonard. "The first little rose of spring. Always bright yellow and always on a green stem, of course."
Aunt Betsey sighed. At first, Grace thought she was disapproving – but then she walked over and patted Uncle Leonard on the arm. "Yes. It's perfect. You've done it. A bright yellow veil over the green dress. Yes, it will do just fine."
He leaned down and whispered something to Aunt Betsey. She thought for a moment, nodded, and then climbed the stairs to the upper room.
"Uncle Leonard," Grace said, feeling very uncertain of herself. "Do you really think I will look like a spring flower? Most everyone else is dressing as some sort of bird, with feathers and glass jewels as you said! I’ll not fit in at all!"
He smiled. "You will be a flower among the birds, Grace. I think it will be lovely. The veil will hide your face even better than any mask."
In a moment, Aunt Betsey returned from upstairs. "Here," she said, rather briskly, and pressed a small object into Grace's hand.
Grace opened her fingers. Her aunt had given her a worn brass brooch that was shaped like a flower – like a rose. A golden-yellow rose.
"You can use it to pin the veil to your hair – above your ear, on one side," said Aunt Betsey. "It will both hold the veil and show that you're meant to be a primrose."
"Well," said Grace, beginning to giggle. "There are far worse things to be than a primrose! Thank you. It's beautiful. I cannot wait to – "
"Good, good! Then take the yellow scraps and a needle and this thread, and go home and stitch yourself a veil. It's only a sevendays until the masked ball!"
* * *
Deepening by the moment, the sky faded into the deep blue-black color that came with dusk. The sun had just set, and in moments, the full moon would rise in the east. Once again, Thomas, Earl Worthington, drove his landau and pair of matched black Norfolk Trotters down the road that curved round from Worthington to Feathering Park.
He had bid farewell to his mother before he left, thanking her again for making this second ball a masked occasion and promising to attend the third and final ball as himself. She had sighed, but agreed, and gone back to her embroidery.
Again, Thomas planned to stay overnight at Feathering Park, with plans for him and Simon to ride out in the morning and try a new horse that Simon was thinking of buying. But what really mattered was the leather satchel that Thomas had again stowed under the driver's box.
The landau rolled up in front of the torchlit house. Simon's own coachman, along with one of the grooms, was there to meet him. Both of them were dressed in their formal livery, so apparently both of them would be going with the carriage to the ball tonight.
"Evenin', sir," said the coachman, touching his tall hat. "Elam Tanner here." He was a dark-haired and rather surly-looking man, and he nodded towards the groom – an older man who nodded politely and stepped up to hold the horses. "Reuben'll take them for you."
"Thank you." Holding the satchel, Thomas swung down to the ground. "They're a bit hot, but they go well. Just be certain to uncheck them when you're standing and waiting."
"Yes, my lord." Elam stepped up to the box and took up the reins as Thomas walked behind the landau and approached the house. Before he reached the first of the stone steps, Beatrice came bursting out through the door with Simon not far after her.
"Lord Worthington!" cried Beatrice, extending her arms wide and twirling lightly across the stone porch. "Such a lovely evening. I’m so thrilled about the ball tonight, that I can hardly speak!"
Thomas and Simon glanced at each other.
"I’m especially looking forward to this because it is a masked ball! Do you like our fancy dress? Can you tell what we are?"
Thomas was afraid to say anything, but did glance at both of them. Beatrice wore a simple white gown, but around her shoulders, was a wrap that was entirely stitched over with black and white feathers. Her mask was done the same way, all black and white, with a few sparkling glass jewels set into it. The mask was tied around her blonde hair with streamers of black and white ribbons.
She did look rather pretty, Thomas had to admit. When he looked at Simon, he wondered how much that beauty was really worth.
Simon stood near the door with his mask in his hand. It was a small piece that seemed to be covered with a few short red and brown feathers.
"My lord! Can you tell? Can you tell what we are?" Beatrice's excitement only grew with every passing moment.
"Why – I should say you were a lovely swan, Mrs. Clarke," Thomas finally said. "And your husband is – let me think – a spring robin?"
Simon closed his eyes, as though he were pained.
"A swan?" Beatrice's voice was so high and piercing, that the horses tossed their heads uneasily. "No, no, my dear Lord Worthington! You see, Mr. Clarke is a banty rooster and I am a Dorking hen! A beautiful, black-and-white, ruffled Dorking hen!"
Thomas took a deep breath and glanced at Simon again. "Of course. Of course. Wonderful masks, both of them. Now, please, Mrs. Clarke, do get into the landau. It's waiting for you, as is everyone attending tonight's ball."
"Oh, my, of course you’re right, Lord Worthington! Mr. Clarke, why are you waiting? Get in the carriage this very moment! Everyone is waiting for us!"
Beatrice hurried to the side of the landau as Thomas opened the door for her. "And not only is this a masked ball, it will be held out-of-doors along the river! How magical it will be. Oh, I do hope everyone remembered to wear their masks and fancy dress!"
She never missed a word as Simon climbed in and sat down across from her. "We are so lucky that the weather is perfect! The marketplace is larger and so more people can attend. That means more tickets can be sold and more money made, to allow more balls to be held after this one!"
Then Simon sat up and spoke to Thomas. "I should tell you that for this evening, my wife has chosen to share your generosity when it comes to this carriage. She – "
"Oh, yes, yes, you are so right, Mr. Clarke! How could I forget? You see, Lord Worthington, as a thank-you to Mrs. Robbins for all her work on the subscription balls, I told her that I would pick up her daughter, Miss Merope Robbins, at the cottage home of her friend, Miss Sally Henson. That way, they, too, can make a grand entrance in the landau when arriving at the masked ball! Just like Mr. Clarke and me!"
Thomas nodded, trying not to laugh
at Beatrice's unbridled enthusiasm and at his friend's discomfort. "Go along, coachman," he called, and the horses started off at a trot.
"And Mrs. Robbins has assured everyone that in case of rain, the Inn will be opened up for dancing and shelter. Well, at least for as many as can fit! It's just a short run across the street and down only a few doors . . . "
Beatrice's voice faded away as the carriage turned onto the road to Birdwell. Thomas sighed, hoping Simon would enjoy himself at least somewhat at the masked ball. He might have known that his poor hen-pecked friend would end up as a little bedraggled rooster with a – well, with a hen who pecked at him mercilessly.
Thomas opened up the leather satchel, took out what he needed, and then hid the empty bag in the bushes near the steps. In a moment, he was walking along the road to Birdwell, very much looking forward to the ball.
* * *
Elam found that he actually enjoyed driving the earl's very smart pair of trotters. "Hook you to a nice little phaeton, then we'd see some speed," he muttered.
"What was that?" asked Reuben.
"Nothing. And hold that lantern off to the side, so I can see the road. Don't shine it in my eyes."
"Yes, sir."
It was not long before they were swinging around the curve and driving down the main street of Birdwell, finally stopping in front of the marketplace field at the end of the row of buildings. Elam noted that a place had been left open for the earl's carriage, right in front of the entrance, and so he pulled up and waited while his passengers got out.
The horses fretted a bit, and he elbowed Reuben and told him to go and hold them while they waited. Mrs. Clarke was taking her grand time about getting out, for she loved nothing more than having such attention. Finally, though, she was out, and the adoring crowd followed her into the marketplace, so the ball could begin.
He motioned to Reuben, and in a moment, they were off on the short drive to pick up the other two young ladies. He only hoped they were not such talkers as Beatrice Clarke . . . but then it occurred to him that it might be quite advantageous to him if they were. Quite advantageous, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bejeweled Birds And An Inquisitive Driver
"It's so exciting, Merope! Imagine the two of us making our entrance in the earl's own carriage!"
"And a beautiful carriage it is, Sally. My mother did not exaggerate. There is no vehicle anywhere in Birdwell that compares to this!"
The two girls collapsed in giggles. Elam just rolled his eyes and concentrated on negotiating the turns in the darkness. It hadn’t been hard to find Sally Henson's cottage – there must have been a half-dozen torches stuck up along the road in front of it – and now, he was bringing these two girls to the ball just so they could make a grand entrance.
He sighed, wondering if anyone ever understood the female sex.
The two of them sat side-by-side in the back and continued to chatter like a couple of excited chickens, enjoying themselves greatly. Elam tried to block out the noise as he drove – until he turned back onto the main street in Birdwell and the two girls seemed to recognize someone.
"Look, Merry! There she is again, right at the gate. Why would she come back?"
"Oh, you're right, Sally! It is her! Right there in that little green dress, without a touch of jewelry or even a decent pair of gloves!"
Green dress –
The only woman in a green dress that Elam saw was the one he could have sworn was Grace Miller. And this time, he wouldn't have to swear to it, because right there with her was the woman he knew to be her mother. They were both there with the older couple he'd seen Grace with on the night of the ball last month.
Now, though, as he approached the gate to drop off his charges, he found that the space had no longer been left open and he was forced to line up behind several other carts and small wagons.
The girls continued to chatter. Elam glanced over his shoulder at them and cleared his throat to get their attention. "Begging your pardon, young ladies," he said. "The lady in the green does look to me like Miss Grace Miller. I knew her parents, ye see, at my last position. If that is her, I'd love to pay my respects to her mother and her father. Can ye tell me where they are now?"
The two girls finally left off talking and turned their heads to look up at him, their eyes huge with bewilderment as to why the coachman was talking to them. They looked like nothing more than a pair of owls in the back of his carriage.
The two of them glanced at each other. Finally, Merope Robbins spoke up. "That is Grace Miller. She’s with her mother, Mrs. Cecil Miller, a recent widow."
Widow?
"That's right," added Sally Henson. "The family lives at Applewood Cottage, though they haven't been there long. The Vanes used to live there, but they live over their shop since they have let the cottage to the Millers."
"But here is what is so very funny," said Merope, in a loud whisper. "They hope to have Grace marry the earl! Isn't that so very funny?"
Elam turned around again to move the horses up into position, but the girls didn’t seem to notice and simply went on talking between themselves again.
"Oh, no one believes that Earl Worthington would want such a girl," declared Sally. "Grace Miller is tall and thin and plain and terribly, terribly shy. She hardly danced with anyone at the last ball!"
"There’s no doubt about it, Sally," said Merope, quite decidedly. "The earl would much prefer a girl like – like one of us!"
"Oh, I do hope he will be here tonight!" said Sally. "I keep hearing that he will not, but surely, he cannot stay away forever! We know very well that it will be one of us that the earl chooses. I cannot wait to see which of us it is!"
They went on laughing and chattering as Elam moved the carriage into position. A widow? Patience Miller is a widow now? I wonder what happened to old Cecil?
Then he almost laughed. No doubt, it was the drink that killed him, if anything did. I wonder if these pretty little ladies know about that?
* * *
With the fall of night, the small open field with its scattered trees – the field that usually hosted the marketplace – had been transformed into something out of a fairy story.
The street was lined with torches and so was the western road. Scattered about the site of the ball were lanterns, hanging from trees and resting on tables. All of the lights lent their glitter and shine to the softly rippling waters of the Feathering River that ran alongside the western road.
As Grace stepped up to the entry table and presented her signed ticket, she found that she was looking forward to this much more than she had the first ball. She had been so nervous then, that the event had been something to endure, not to enjoy. She was suddenly quite hopeful that this one would be different.
It helped that now she knew a bit more of what to expect. And the setting out here was far better than being inside the crowded, stuffy Inn. The air was fresh, cool, and damp, and soon, the moon would rise . . . it could hardly be more perfect.
"Why, Grace! You're here!"
"Oh, it's so very lovely to see you!"
Grace turned around and saw Merope Robbins and Sally Henson standing there. They looked so pretty and fresh in their new dresses, with Merope in delicate pink and Sally in soft blue. "You both look lovely," she managed to say, suddenly feeling very nervous once more. "It's so pretty here, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes," said Merope, glancing around with some disdain.
"I always like to dance in a pasture," said Sally, and both of them giggled.
"Did you bring masks? I should love to see them," said Grace politely.
"Of course, we did!" Merope raised a pink feathered mask to her face, which had long pink plumes attached to one side and sparkled with glass jewels. "You see? I am a pink flamingo! Sally, tie it for me!"
Sally turned and tied the long, pink ribbons to hold the mask on Merope's face. "Perfect! And you see – I am a bluebird!" It was Sally's turn to wait as Merope tied her mask, which was cover
ed with short blue feathers and also had plenty of glass jewels.
To Grace, the two of them really did look like a pair of pretty birds, colorful and sparkling.
"But – Grace! Where is your mask?" asked Sally.
"Oh – my mask. Yes. I have it here." Grace had nearly forgotten about that, being so enchanted by the setting, and by what the other two girls were wearing. She took the long piece of yellow muslin from where it lay across her arm, draped it over her head and face, and fumbled in her reticule for the brass flower pin.
"Well – that is quite – charming, Grace," said Merope, sounding puzzled.