Chapter 20 #2
This had the effect of causing all the other guests to cheer heartily, save for Verbena and Flora—who were silent and motionless in the great sea of bodies—and Lord Byron, whom Flora spied barreling in his distinct gait across the ballroom.
“No waltzes, I said!” he cried, but was intercepted by the master of ceremonies, who clearly disagreed with Byron’s opinion on the German dance. An argument ensued, the musicians having subsided to await the result.
Despite the bizarre circumstances, Flora could not help but laugh. She sensed Verbena’s eyes staring at her through the mask’s holes and thought the look conveyed curiosity. She rushed to meet it—and fill the awful silence between them.
“His Lordship detests the waltz,” she said, “not because of its scandalous intimacy, as so many of the older generation do, but because he cannot participate.” She lifted one slippered foot in demonstration.
“He can dance a reel or even a quadrille well enough when he may depend on the support of the other dancers, but his foot makes it impossible to lead in a two-person arrangement. If he cannot be involved in a sensual exhibition, I suppose he feels no one should.”
Finally, across the ballroom, Byron raised his hands in defeat and bowed his head. The victorious master flicked a hand toward the conductor to indicate he should play on.
Another cheer erupted as the waltz began anew. Flora set her half-empty wineglass on a passing salver, worried she would drop it in the crush of dancers rushing toward the floor.
Then Verbena extended her hand.
Flora stared at the white calfskin that encased Verbena’s palm. These were men’s gloves. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask where Verbena had procured such a perfect pair, but there were more pressing matters. She was being asked to dance.
“I’m afraid I have only waltzed in quite informal settings,” Flora said. If one could call being whirled around the club by tipsy poets waltzing. “I—I hardly know any of the steps.”
Verbena said nothing, merely kept her tongue behind the impassive harlequin mask, and waited.
It would cause more of a scene to refuse than to simply accept. Flora took a shuddering breath and placed her hand in Verbena’s waiting one. “All right,” she said, “but do not mock me if I step on your toes.”
It was impossible to tell what expression Verbena wore under her mask, but Flora imagined she could detect a slight wrinkle at the corners of her eyes that betrayed a smile.
They swept onto the dance floor together just as the various couples were establishing their places in the concentric rings the waltz called for.
Verbena led them to a spot quite in the middle of it all, which was a relief to Flora at first, as she assumed it meant they would be well hidden by the other couples.
Yet she soon realized it only made them the center of attention, not the least because they made such a striking pair.
Of all the men in attendance, her partner stood alone in matters of dress and comportment.
Flora could feel the eyes of the guests lingering on them as they arranged themselves into the prescribed stance.
Flora swallowed hard. Verbena’s hand wrapped around her waist, holding her close.
Flora mirrored her, placing her own hand on the fine wool of Verbena’s tailcoat.
The faint swell of Verbena’s hip was only apparent by this touch, dulled as it was through the layers of Flora’s opera gloves and Verbena’s many items of clothing.
Flora’s mind was awhirl. It seemed too cruel to contemplate, but she feared this appearance in men’s raiment might be her erstwhile friend’s way of saying she knew the truth about William.
It seemed a mockery of Flora’s entire life.
Why else would Verbena stare at her so silently, so intently? Surely it was a look of judgment.
“Are you the mysterious patron I’m supposed to meet tonight?” Flora asked, her voice quiet under the noise of the ballroom so that only Verbena might hear.
Verbena, maddeningly, did not answer. She did not need to. Her hard stare said all.
Flora set her jaw, lest the tremble in it betray her. The last thing she needed was to burst into sobs in front of hundreds of people.
The band swung into the waltz, and the dancers began to dance.
Flora let herself be moved by the music and Verbena’s firm hand.
They were an excellent match, of equal height and similar builds.
But beyond the physical, they seemed to be of one mind, at least when it came to the steps.
Flora could feel how Verbena planned to move before she did, their feet carving out the patterns of give and take that made the waltz such a seductive and intimate prospect.
Though its popularity had given way to a more English—and therefore less effusive—version of the original continental style, it still held within its movements more passion than Flora could bear.
For much of the beginning, they were side by side, their hips brushing as they went through the steps.
Then the men—plus Verbena—spun the ladies about, large, strong hands clasped to dainty waists.
Or, in their particular case, Verbena’s small, strong hands clasped to Flora’s fairly ordinary waist, which owed its slight curve to the judicious use of stays.
They pressed close, chest to chest, so that Flora feared her heartbeat would be noticeable even through the thick brocade of Verbena’s waistcoat.
Another complicated spin and Flora found herself embraced in Verbena’s arms, back to front.
She could feel Verbena’s metal coat buttons digging into her spine.
Warm breath ghosted along her neck, and she closed her eyes against the sensation.
With the tattered threads of her composure gathered as best she could, Flora opened her eyes and saw, in the wall of faces that passed them by, approving glances and impressed moues.
Tears pricked her eyes. Under any other circumstances, Flora would be thrilled to dance like this with Verbena, but now—with so much pain between them and even more left unsaid—she was bereft.
Thankfully Verbena spun her again, and Flora was able to stifle the first sob against her shoulder. Tears ran free of her mask and soaked into the dark wool there, her face hot as a coal.
“Flora?” It was the first word Verbena had said to her all evening. There was concern there, perhaps, but mostly surprise. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re very cruel,” Flora mumbled into the soaked wool. She tore away and stumbled off the dance floor, nearly barreling into several couples before finding a break in the spectators.
“You see?” she heard Lord Byron hiss above the music. “I am not the only one who simply cannot abide the waltz.”
Flora ignored him, instead darting through the nearest French door and onto the portico. The covered stone walkway was deserted, the columns as silent and empty as a deep forest. Flora took a huge gulp of the night air, feeling it cool her from within.
She collapsed on a bench seat formed into an elaborate U shape. There was a long tradition of wronged women weeping into their hands outside of masquerade balls. Why not join that illustrious number, was her feeling.
Flora slipped off her mask and dabbed at her wet eyes with her gloved wrist for want of anything better, staring sullenly down at the gray flagstones.
A handkerchief appeared before her. Flora sat straight up and stared at the owner of the hand that proffered it.
Verbena had removed her tricorn hat and pushed her own mask up to her hairline, where it was held in place by its silken strap.
Her eyes were pinched in worry, and her hair, now free, tumbled about her shoulders.
Flora’s gaze returned to the handkerchief. The initials E.C. were embroidered on one lacy corner. That was one mystery solved, at least.
“Is Monsieur Charbonneau aware that you have absconded with his ensemble?” Flora asked. She took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“Of course. He helped shove me into the damn thing.” Verbena placed her hands on the upturns of the U that formed Flora’s seat, leaning in close. “Flora—”
“You must replace your mask and hat,” Flora interrupted, twisting the damp handkerchief in her hands. “Someone could come out here and see you. Do you have any idea what might happen if you were caught dressed like this?”
“I actually don’t.”
“Nor do I, though I shouldn’t like to find out.” She turned her head to stare at the French doors, her whole body taut as a bowstring. “An actress strutting upon the stage might be allowed her breeches, but this is no evening performance.”
“Flora, if you’d just listen—”
“They might put you in the stocks. Or worse, in the papers.” Flora sensed she was babbling, yet she could not stop herself. “Think of your reputation. Think of your impending marriage. All you hold dear would be ruined.”
“Not all.” This was said so forcefully, so violently, that Flora flinched. Dropping her hat to the ground, Verbena lowered herself into an unladylike crouch so that she was in Flora’s lowered line of sight. Their eyes met and held. “Not all,” Verbena repeated, but gently.
Flora watched, frozen, as Verbena lifted one gloved hand and brought it to Flora’s cheek. She fought her instinct to lean into the touch, her lashes fluttering.
“Why did you come here?” she asked. “And dressed like this? To mock me?”
“What?” Verbena reared back so violently her mask nearly toppled off her head. Her hand, so recently cupped to Flora’s face, hovered in the air. “I came here to dance with you! How else was I to do that if not in men’s raiment?”
This made no sense to Flora. “Why should you wish to dance with me?”