Chapter 31 All Hallows’ Eve Masquerade
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ALL HALLOWS’ EVE MASQUERADE
Elizabeth examined her reflection in the looking glass, adjusting the silver belt that circled her waist. The white silk gown draped elegantly from her shoulders, and the small decorative quiver of arrows completed her transformation into Diana, goddess of the hunt.
“Oh, Lizzy! How magnificent you look.” Mrs. Bennet bustled into the chamber without knocking, her own costume a bewildering assemblage of feathers, ribbons, and jewels that defied classification.
“You are every inch a Darcy tonight. I knew you would outshine everyone—such regal bearing. Such innate elegance. Lady Lucas will be positively green with envy when she hears.”
“Mama, please,” Elizabeth murmured, adjusting the silver crescent that Caroline had insisted she wear in her hair. “Nothing has been settled regarding my claim.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bennet fluttered her handkerchief dramatically.
“One has only to look at you to see Darcy blood. Why, Mr. Darcy himself can scarcely take his eyes from you, though he tries to hide it behind that proud manner of his. Not that I blame him, of course—you are quite the loveliest creature in Derbyshire tonight.”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh, her thoughts turning to Darcy despite her best efforts.
They had maintained a careful distance since her midnight discovery in his study, their interactions marked by formal politeness that concealed the turmoil beneath.
Tonight would be no different—a masquerade in more ways than one.
“Is Georgiana not joining us?” Mrs. Bennet asked, mercifully diverting her own attention. “Such a sweet girl, though dreadfully shy. A London season would cure that, of course.”
“Mr. Darcy thought it best she remain upstairs tonight,” Elizabeth replied, deliberately vague about the reasons. Darcy had been adamant that Georgiana not be exposed to Wickham’s presence, particularly given the growing tensions surrounding the inheritance dispute.
“Well, more attention for you, my dear. And richly deserved. Now come—the guests are arriving, and you must make your entrance as befits the daughter of Rose Darcy.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she felt a pang of disappointment.
Georgiana’s absence would deprive her of the one genuinely trustworthy ally in what promised to be a battlefield of competing agendas.
She would have to navigate the evening’s intrigues entirely alone—save for Darcy, whose own position remained complicated by their unresolved questions about his father’s involvement.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway, surveying the assembled company. Silk and satin, feathers and furs, masks and makeup—all combined to create a scene unlike anything Elizabeth had witnessed at modest Hertfordshire assemblies.
Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from every alcove, their flickering light complemented by black silk bats suspended from the ceiling on nearly invisible threads. The effect was both eerie and festive—a perfect balance for the liminal night when the veil between worlds was said to thin.
“Miss Bennet! Or should I say, Diana herself?” Caroline Bingley approached, wearing an Egyptian queen’s elaborate headdress. “How ethereal you look. White is so… practical, is it not? I do hope you’re comfortable.”
“Exceedingly so,” Elizabeth replied with serene composure. “Your organizational skills are to be commended, Miss Bingley. The decorations are quite impressive.”
Caroline preened visibly at the praise. “One does what one can to maintain standards, though I confess the country setting presents certain… limitations. Still, for a provincial assembly, it will serve.”
“Indeed. I’m certain the guests from London will find it almost tolerable.” Elizabeth’s subtle mockery sailed over Caroline’s head like a well-aimed arrow, leaving her temporarily bewildered by what might have been a compliment or insult.
Before Caroline could determine which, Lydia bounded up, her gypsy costume featuring a scandalous neckline that Mrs. Bennet had apparently failed to notice.
“Lizzy! Have you seen the officers? Lieutenant Denny is dressed as a Turkish sultan, and Captain Carter as a highwayman. How thrilling they look in their costumes.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper.
“And Mr. Wickham has come as a pirate—ever so dashing with his bandana and cutlass. Though he seems rather intent on finding you.”
“Does he indeed?” Elizabeth’s attention sharpened. Wickham’s presence presented both opportunity and threat. If Martha knew secrets about the night of the fire, perhaps her son did as well.
Elizabeth wondered how the members of the Meryton militia were able to travel such a distance to accompany Mr. Wickham. Ordinarily, Mr. Darcy would never have countenanced officers at Pemberley, but they needed clues, and officer gossip could be revealing when warranted.
“Miss Bennet.” The deep voice behind her sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine despite her best efforts. She turned to find Darcy standing there, resplendent in the armor and red cloak of a Roman centurion. The costume suited him—authoritative, disciplined, and commanding.
“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged with a slight curtsy. “Your home looks magnificent tonight.”
“Thank you.” His eyes traveled briefly over her costume, appreciation flickering in their depths before being carefully masked. “Might I claim the first dance?”
Elizabeth had anticipated this request, knowing that the investigation required close observation of all suspects. What she had not anticipated was the flutter of nerves that accompanied her reply. “Of course.”
The orchestra struck up a lively country dance, and Elizabeth joined Darcy in the line of couples. As they moved through the figures, he maintained a careful distance, yet there was an intimacy to their shared purpose that transcended physical proximity.
“Have you noticed anything of significance?” he asked during a turn that brought them briefly together.
“Not yet,” she replied, equally low. “Though Wickham has apparently been looking for me.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened visibly. “Be careful. He wants something beyond your hand in marriage.”
“As do they all,” Elizabeth observed wryly. “Yet each must be investigated if we’re to discover the truth.”
“I dislike this strategy,” Darcy admitted. “You’re placing yourself in the path of whoever orchestrated your parents’ deaths.”
“I am the bait in our trap,” Elizabeth agreed. “Though I have no intention of being caught.”
The dance separated them before he could respond, and Elizabeth found herself temporarily partnered with Charles Bingley, gaudy and awkward in his knight’s armor.
“Miss Bennet! Or Miss Darcy—forgive me, I’m not certain which you prefer.” His open, friendly countenance showed confusion rather than calculation.
“Miss Bennet will suffice until matters are legally settled,” she replied, studying him carefully. Could this amiable, straightforward young man be party to a murderous conspiracy? Or was he merely a pawn in his mother’s machinations?
When the dance ended, Elizabeth found herself approached by a succession of partners.
George Wickham claimed her hand for a Scottish reel, his pirate costume lending him a roguish charm that Elizabeth now found more sinister than appealing.
“Diana suits you admirably,” he observed as they moved through the figures. “The huntress in pursuit of her rightful place.”
“I seek truth rather than position,” Elizabeth corrected him. “Though I wonder if you might assist me in that quest, Mr. Wickham. Your mother seems to know a great deal about the night of the fire.”
“My mother saved your life,” Wickham replied, his smile never wavering, though his eyes grew cold. “A fact that seems to have escaped your gratitude.”
“I am grateful for my life,” Elizabeth said carefully. “Though I question why she concealed my identity for twenty years, only to reveal it now with such… specific conditions attached.”
“Protection,” Wickham said. “From those who would have preferred you remain conveniently dead.”
“Would it not be a kindness to point those people out so I can avoid them?” she asked as he turned her around.
“My presence will prevent their advance.” He glared in Darcy’s direction. “And marriage would blunt their menace. As an officer, I am well armed.”
The dance separated them, and she was again paired with a red-faced Charles Bingley.
“Dreadfully warm in this armor,” he confessed, accepting a glass of punch from a passing servant. “Mother insisted I represent the noble Bingley heritage, though I feel rather foolish clanking about.”
“Your mother seems to have strong opinions on many matters,” Elizabeth observed, watching him drain his punch in a single swallow. “I understand your father and Mr. William Darcy were close business associates?”
“Oh, yes—thick as thieves, those two!” Charles laughed, then hiccupped slightly. “The fortunes of both families were built on their special trading arrangements.”
Elizabeth sensed a potential opening. “Special arrangements?”
“French silks, primarily,” Charles said, accepting another glass of punch from a passing servant. “And brandy, of course. Father was quite proud of their special arrangements. Said they managed to avoid certain difficulties that plagued other merchants.”
Elizabeth felt a chill at the hint of smuggling. The Darcy and Bingley fortunes, built on illegal trade. And John Darcy—her father—had been described by multiple sources as principled, honorable, and unwilling to compromise on matters of legality.
“Did your father remember the night of the Rose Cottage fire?” she prompted gently.
“Definitely memorable!” Charles agreed with the enthusiasm of the slightly intoxicated.
“Father always said William Darcy collapsed from guilt after the fire. Took to his bed for weeks, apparently. Couldn’t bear to discuss Rose Cottage or…
oh, I shouldn’t speak of such things.” He seemed to remember himself, glancing around nervously.