Chapter Six
Phillip had come as Hades, Lord of the Underworld, his mask a full one in black ceramic and his hair hidden beneath a wild and tangled wig.
He could barely identify himself and was certain he would not be recognised without much difficulty.
He’d chosen the Unseen One because he liked the hiddenness of such a god and because his father had had the ceramic mask made for himself years ago. He’d borrowed his father’s clothes, too. They were large and shapeless and hid even more of him, just as Willa had predicted.
He wondered what she would come as, for he had not seen her after the ride in the park anywhere, even though he had made himself attend both the Countess of Luxton’s ball and the Smithsons’ Mayfair party the following week in the hope of running into her.
He’d toyed with the idea of sending her a note to ask if everything was all right but decided against it.
He wished Oliver and Esther might have still been in London so that he could have slipped Willa’s name into a conversation and gleaned some information about her movements.
But his brother and wife had stayed with him only briefly before hurrying back to Nettleford Park.
So he was here on his own, a solitary dark-garbed figure in a mask with a confusing excitement that welled inside him.
He wanted to see Wilhelmina St Claire and talk with her as he had the other week in the park.
He wanted her laughter and her irreverence and that particular smile of hers which said I know more about you than you want to tell me but I will be kind.
Shaking his head, he wondered if perhaps he was sick or tired. But it wasn’t either of those because he felt more alive than he had felt in a long while, and the feeling came down to his time in her company.
There were hundreds of people here, he realised as he stepped inside, the ball spreading over three or four large salons that stretched into the distance, the mirrors around the walls widening the space yet again.
His heart sank. There was no way he would be able to find anyone in this melee and so he took an offered drink from the serving minotaur as a distraction.
The Duggans knew their wine, was his next thought, and the night looked up.
His aunt Julia crossed before him a few yards away dressed in an outlandish sea-goddess costume.
He was pleased when she did not recognise him.
Further afield he could see Miss Arabella Montague surrounded by every manner of masculine fairy folk and Greek deity.
She had made little attempt to hide her beautiful face and was easily identifiable.
An hour later a figure in a flowing mantle passed him by, carrying a wreath of leaves.
The banded tiara of gold and green on her head was joined to a white mask but it was the notes of gardenia and violets that caught his attention.
He watched her for a moment quietly stalking around the edges of the room and refusing the offered glass of wine as she did so.
No one joined her, which was an oddness in itself as at every social occasion Wilhelmina was more normally within a tight group of friends.
He saw her scan the room back and forth until her glance came over him, caught across the width of the salon, noise and lights flickering and the sounds of a small orchestra tuning their instruments.
She had seen him somehow, under the ceramic mask and the clothes and the wig. His height probably had something to do with it but there were other things also at play. He watched her as she threaded through the throng to stand beside him, lifting her mask slightly to identify herself.
‘The Hidden God is an entirely appropriate costume, my lord.’
‘What gave me away?’
‘Your stillness. Everyone in the room is moving and you are stationary. I have seen that before in you.’
His glance ran over the green-and-white silk mantle she wore. ‘You are Daphne?’
‘The tree spirit?’ She shook her head. ‘Try again.’
‘Demeter? Persephone?’
‘Wrong on all counts, although you do get full marks for your knowledge of the goddesses of natural things. I am Nike, the Goddess of Victory.’
‘Minus the wings.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I thought Nike sported wings. You have none.’
At that she laughed. ‘You do surprise me, Lord Elmsworth, with the scope of your general knowledge.’
Julia had joined them now, finally recognising him, her hand resting on his arm in familiarity.
‘My goodness, Phillip. Is that you? I would never have guessed in a million years had it not been for your father’s mask.’
‘Do you know Mrs St Claire?’ he then asked.
Turning to Willa, Julia lifted her mask of seaweed so that a part of her face was visible.
‘I do, having attended a few of her wonderful evenings of discussion in the past few years. It is so nice to see you again, Wilhelmina, for I often thought of you in Nice as I perused the art galleries of that city.’
‘A veritable treat, Lady Julia.’
‘You have been there, too, then? To France?’
Willa shook her head. ‘No, I have not, but I have heard wonderful stories.’
The orchestra then burst into life. Another waltz and, wanting some time alone with Wilhelmina, Phillip asked her to dance. As they stepped away he saw a wide smile on Julia’s face.
‘Your aunt looks content.’
‘She has learnt the difficult trick of living a happy life and wants others to do the same.’ His hand came around her back, pressing her in, here amongst the gods and the warriors and fairy folk.
‘Is it not such a relief to suspend the conventions of polite Society, my lord?’
Her question ran alongside his own thoughts.
‘Fifty years ago these affairs were even more risque. Imagine that.’ Her voice held humour.
A man in a long cloak of black pushed past, a thin mask serving as the sole means of disguise. Beside him strode a jester, fully costumed from head to foot, the Harlequin pattern of his clothing reflected in the material of a hood pulled tight across his face.
‘All kinds of people like to hide,’ she said this quietly, ‘and it is not often that they have the chance to do so.’
He could see Julia watching him, and further afield Arabella Montague watched them too. Society had its eyes wide open even in incognito and he knew he needed to be careful. Shifting back, he took a breath.
‘I have not seen you at any of the Society events across the last week.’
‘That’s because I have barely been out.’
‘Have you been ill?’
‘No, merely preoccupied with the affairs of my estate.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
She smiled. ‘Lawyers always are, my lord.’
‘Is everything all right?’
She stopped and looked at him directly.
‘It is.’
Phillip Moreland’s hand was warm against her own. She noticed that those around them were starting to recognise his true identity. Her disguise was nowhere near as complete as his and yet in his company the more astute patrons were beginning to put them together.
When Arabella Montague crossed over towards them as the waltz came to an end she knew that their quiet isolation was over. The group of men and women accompanying Miss Montague looked quizzical until she spoke his name.
‘Lord Elmsworth. I wondered if you would come tonight. Mrs St Claire.’
This was said with far less enthusiasm.
Willa had never been able to understand women who saw every other female as a threat and especially not those as beautiful as Arabella Montague. The young woman had donned a flimsy half-mask which barely covered any of the features of her face.
‘I had promised my aunt Julia that I would at least make an appearance.’
‘You are in London for a while longer, then?’
‘Perhaps.’
He did not expand on his answer, leaving a small but awkward gap in the conversation.
‘I heard that you are about to travel to France, Miss Montague?’ Willa asked the question to fill the silence.
‘Indeed, I am. Mr Fitzgibbon is to accompany our party. It seems he has a great affection for the region and is in dire need of cheering up.’
The last words were said in an accusing tone but Willa ignored them altogether. She could not be responsible for George’s melancholy, and the three letters he had sent her in the last week had been full of the emotion.
Lionel had needed constant propping up, too, and she had sworn never to do that again in any relationship.
‘Well, I hope the weather is warm and the skies are sunny in the south, Miss Montague. At this time of the year I hear they generally are.’
An innocuous reply but she had found talk of the weather always invoked a kind of natural end to conversations and indeed it was only a moment or two before Arabella and her group swanned off again.
‘Well done, Mrs St Claire.’
His words were filled with humour.
‘I rather think she hoped she might have had you to herself, my lord.’
‘It has been centuries since I felt that young and untroubled.’
‘Difficulties in life mark one, I expect, which is why these masked balls hold so much attraction.’
He laughed out loud and she liked the sound. She might never know his trials, and he might never learn of hers, but for now as the music began again she walked into his arms for the next dance.
It was improper, she knew. One ought not to allow more than a few dances to one partner and certainly not two in a row, but if people were noticing she chose not to look. Phillip Moreland felt warm and safe and large, a man who could beat the memory of everything away at least for an evening.
He had lifted his mask upwards now so that the arch of it sat at his forehead, allowing her to see his eyes. He watched the crowd around them, never fully at ease, and she wondered what had made him so guarded.
There were so many parts to one’s life that could scar a person.
He still wore his wedding ring. There was a long white mark on his neck beneath his ear on the left side.
He favoured his left leg in the dance as well, for she could feel the slight shift of weight as he moved into particular steps.
And the tremor she felt in his hand was there each time they touched.