Chapter 31 All Hallows’ Eve Masquerade #2
A commotion near the ballroom’s entrance captured their attention. Gasps and startled exclamations rippled through the assembled guests as a ghoulish figure appeared in the doorway.
Thomas Rumsey stood framed against the corridor’s shadows, his appearance calculated to terrorize.
White face paint emphasized the gaunt lines of his features, while tattered clothing suggested he had risen directly from the grave.
In one skeletal hand, he clutched a lantern that cast eerie shadows across the ballroom.
“Truth emerges from the grave!” he intoned in a voice that carried clearly across the stunned ballroom. “Those who profit from murder still walk among you, wearing masks of respectability!”
The effect was immediately troubling. Ladies screamed and pressed backward against their escorts. Gentlemen reached instinctively for weapons they were not carrying. Even the musicians faltered, their instruments creating discordant squeaks and groans.
Elizabeth watched with fascination rather than fear as Rumsey’s gaze swept the assembly. His theatrical appearance was clearly calculated to create maximum disruption, but his words suggested warning rather than threat.
“The dead cry out for justice!” he continued, raising his lantern higher, seemingly shining it on Elizabeth. “All will be revealed at midnight! The guilty shall not prosper!”
Before anyone could question him, Rumsey disappeared into the corridor’s shadows, leaving behind a ballroom full of rattled guests and unanswered questions.
“Good heavens!” Charles gasped, his punch cup trembling in his hand. “What a dreadful fellow! Who was that ghastly creature?”
“Thomas Rumsey,” Elizabeth replied, her mind working through the implications of a midnight reveal. “The former butler who was dismissed by Mr. John Darcy many years ago.”
“Why would he appear here, dressed like… like that?”
The dance ended on a sour note, and Darcy appeared at her side and positioned himself protectively. His centurion costume seemed perfectly appropriate as he scanned the crowd for additional threats.
“Are you hurt?” he asked with a gaze of concern.
“Quite unharmed,” Elizabeth assured him. “Though Mr. Rumsey’s message was… strange. What is happening at midnight?”
“Nothing but the removal of masks,” Darcy replied firmly, though Elizabeth detected uncertainty beneath his confident tone. “Rumsey is playing a part. Pay no attention to such nonsense.”
“How terribly exciting!” Mrs. Amelia Bingley approached. Her Roman matron costume lent dignity to her bearing. “Such drama is quite invigorating, don’t you think?”
“I find drama somewhat less appealing when it involves threats,” Darcy replied stiffly.
“Oh, but surely no one takes such theatrical displays seriously?” Mrs. Bingley’s laugh was perfectly modulated. “Though I confess surprise that former servants would choose such… intimate venues for their threats. No doubt they lie for profit, looking for a settlement.”
Elizabeth noted the careful phrasing and wondered what threats Mrs. Bingley might be referencing when Martha Wickham, dressed in widow’s weeds, approached.
“Mrs. Bingley,” Martha said, her voice carrying undertones of barely controlled resentment. “How delightful to see you taking such interest in my family’s affairs.”
“Mrs. Wickham,” Amelia replied coolly. “I trust you are enjoying the evening’s entertainments?”
The tension between the two women was immediately apparent.
“I find the entertainment… educational,” Martha replied with pointed emphasis. “Though some lessons prove more valuable than others.”
“Indeed. One must be careful about the company one keeps, particularly when reputations hang in the balance,” Mrs. Bingley observed.
Elizabeth realized she was witnessing a battle of widows whose sons represented competing claims on her supposed inheritance. Both women were positioning themselves for advantage while maintaining the fiction of polite social discourse.
“Reputation is such a fragile thing,” Martha observed with silky menace. “Built over decades, yet destroyed by a single indiscretion. Or revelation.”
Mrs. Bingley’s composure flickered at this barely veiled threat. “I find that truth has a way of emerging regardless of… complications. Don’t you agree, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth found herself the sudden focus of both women’s attention, each clearly expecting her to choose sides in their undeclared war. “I believe truth serves justice best when revealed completely rather than partially,” she replied diplomatically.
“How wisely spoken,” Martha agreed, though her smile suggested she interpreted Elizabeth’s words as supporting her position. “Complete revelation often surprises those who believe themselves safely concealed.”
Before Mrs. Bingley could respond to this provocation, the musicians struck up a waltz, providing a convenient escape from the increasingly uncomfortable confrontation. Elizabeth accepted Darcy’s immediate offer to dance.
“What have you learned?” Darcy asked quietly as they took position for the intimate dance.
“Charles confirmed our suspicions about the smuggling,” Elizabeth replied, keeping her voice low despite the music’s cover. “His father and yours were partners in avoiding customs duties on French goods. John Darcy’s principles would have threatened their entire operation.”
Darcy’s expression grew grim as they moved through the waltz’s graceful figures. “That provides a clear motive for his murder. But which party acted on it?”
“Both widows clearly know more than they admit,” Elizabeth observed, conscious of the warmth of Darcy’s hand at her waist. “And both are maneuvering for advantage through their sons’ supposed romantic interest in me.”
“You believe their sons are merely pawns in a larger game?”
“Charles certainly seems ignorant of the full scope of his family’s activities.
Whether George is equally innocent remains unclear.
” Elizabeth paused as they turned, noting Wickham’s intense observation of their dance.
“His mother’s behavior suggests she considers him an active participant in whatever scheme she has devised. ”
“And what of Rumsey’s dramatic warning? Do you believe he poses a threat or offers assistance?”
Elizabeth considered this as they completed another turn. “His words suggested warning rather than menace. Perhaps he seeks to expose the truth rather than conceal it.”
“Likely he seeks to profit,” Darcy replied grimly. “We need to observe who he approaches. Whose secrets need keeping.”
“Agreed.” Elizabeth feared Darcy could be a target—or Bingley, perhaps even Mr. Hurst. She felt remiss that she had not investigated Louisa’s husband’s background. “We need to keep our eye on him. Perhaps he has left the ballroom to speak with someone in private.”
“You shall go nowhere without me,” Darcy warned, his gaze scanning the doorways. “Bingley is near the refreshment table.”
Before they could move in that direction, Caroline Bingley tapped on a wineglass for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “The traditional All Hallows’ Eve flaming brandy punch is about to be served. Please gather in the center of the ballroom for this most spectacular tradition.”
The guests moved toward a large silver bowl positioned on a specially reinforced table.
Mr. Hurst, already flushed with earlier consumption, stood beside it with a smug expression of anticipated pleasure.
Caroline handed him a small silver ladle of brandy, which he solemnly ignited with a taper before pouring the flaming liquid into the punch bowl.
A collective gasp rose from the assembly as blue flames danced across the surface of the punch, casting eerie shadows on the faces of those gathered around.
Mr. Hurst, emboldened by his successful ignition, seized another ladle of brandy and repeated the process with rather more enthusiasm than control.
The flame leaped higher, causing several ladies to shriek and step back.
“Careful, Hurst!” Darcy called, moving swiftly toward the table as the flames climbed dangerously close to the silk decorations overhead.
Elizabeth could not help but smile at Mr. Hurst bellowing instructions that no one followed, Caroline frantically attempting to restore order, Mrs. Bennet declaring loudly that “nothing so vulgar would ever be attempted at Lucas Lodge,” and Lydia dancing around the edges, clapping her hands in delight at the near-disaster.
As servants rushed forward with cloths to smother the excessive flames, Elizabeth’s attention was drawn to the fortune teller’s booth.
She thought she saw Mr. Rumsey disappear behind the colorful draperies, perhaps to consult for secrets.
Darcy was still occupied with the flaming punch, but Elizabeth could not lose sight of the former butler.
She made her way to the doorway where she glimpsed a woman in exotic robes, wearing a turban on her head. A sign above her booth read, “Let Madame Evro Divine Your Future.”
“Miss Bennet!” Madame Evro’s voice carried a faint accent that suggested foreign origins. “Come, child! The spirits are eager to speak with you on this most auspicious night.”
Elizabeth glanced around for Darcy, but he had been drawn into conversation with several local gentlemen. Perhaps the fortune teller could guide her toward the murderer’s identity.
“Very well,” Elizabeth agreed, approaching the draped alcove. “Though I warn you, I am not easily convinced by vague predictions.”
“Madame Evro deals not in vagaries but specificities,” the fortune teller assured her, leading the way into the curtained alcove where a small table had been set up with a crystal ball and a deck of cards. “Sit, child. Let us see what the spirits reveal.”
Elizabeth seated herself, watching as the woman made an elaborate show of passing her hands over the crystal ball, which obligingly began to glow with what appeared to be internally placed candles.
“I see great danger,” Madame Evro intoned, her voice dropping dramatically.
“You seek truth about your past, but others wish it to remain buried.” Her eyes, visible through the veil, studied Elizabeth with unsettling intensity.
“The fire that changed your destiny was no accident, but neither was your survival.”
Elizabeth’s skepticism wavered. These were not the generalities of typical charlatans.
“What do you know, Madame Evro?” She slipped a coin onto the table. “Who stands to harm me?”
“You stand between powerful forces,” the fortune teller continued. “Beware those who offer protection—they may be your greatest threat. The spirits return when the veil is thinnest, seek the answers, and they may be found.”
“Do you know?” Elizabeth asked, leaning forward despite herself. “Who killed my parents?”
“The answer lies in plain sight, if you have eyes to see.” Madame Evro’s voice had changed subtly, becoming less theatrical. “Look to those who profited most from death. Look to those who have been paying for silence all these years.”
Elizabeth felt a chill. The fortune teller spoke not in riddles but in specifics that aligned too closely with what she had already discovered.
“You know something about the night of the fire,” she accused quietly. “Who are you?”
“Truth emerges in its own time,” the fortune teller agreed, releasing Elizabeth’s hand. “But sometimes it requires… assistance. The cottage where fire once burned holds secrets still. Seek them before others silence you forever.”
Elizabeth started at this reference to Rose Cottage. “What do you know about—”
But Madame Evro had risen abruptly, her attention apparently captured by a presence beyond the alcove’s draperies. “Go now, child. Return to the light and safety. But remember—when shadows move tonight, trust your instincts above all else.”
Elizabeth emerged from the fortune teller’s booth with her mind racing. The woman’s knowledge was far too specific, yet her warnings raised more questions than they answered. Who had provided her with the information? And what immediate danger was she referencing?
As she looked around for Darcy, Elizabeth noticed another figure in white silk near the ballroom’s entrance. With a shock of recognition, she realized she was looking at another Diana—a woman wearing an identical costume, complete with silver accessories and a decorative quiver.
Why would there be another woman whose appearance was so close to hers? What if she were the true Darcy heiress? Elizabeth began moving toward the other Diana, but a firm hand grasped her arm, stopping her progress.
“Miss Bennet,” a man’s voice said near her ear. “A word, if you please.”
Before she could take another breath, a cloth was pressed against her nose and mouth, filling her senses with a sickly sweet scent that made her thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
“Do not struggle,” the voice advised with false kindness as Elizabeth’s vision began to blur. “This will be much easier if you cooperate.”
As she was forced out through a garden door, Elizabeth caught one final glimpse of the ballroom—the false Diana now dancing with Darcy, her costume perfect in every detail, her deception apparently complete.
No one would miss her. No one would realize she had been taken.
A horrible blow to her head blackened her sight. Elizabeth’s last coherent thought as consciousness faded was the horrifying realization that her duplicate would keep Darcy occupied while she was spirited away from safety.
She was well and truly trapped.