Chapter 7 #2
Her own mask pressed against her skin, a delicate construction of bird feathers and emerald jewels that covered the upper half of her face.
She walked with her father, who looked remarkably comfortable in a domino of dark blue wool.
Mr. Bennet had always enjoyed a farce, and the masquerade was the grandest farce of all.
"I feel like a character in a bad novel, Lizzie," Mr. Bennet said. "Do you think anyone will notice if I fall asleep behind this silk?"
"You must stay awake, Papa," Elizabeth said. "You promised to keep an eye on me."
"I am watching you," he said. "You look like a very expensive bird. If a hunter comes by, I shall warn him off."
He moved toward the sideboard, where the punch was being served, leaving Elizabeth to thread through the crowd alone.
She moved through the shifts of silk and satin, her eyes searching for a familiar height and a particular set of shoulders.
She saw him standing near one of the tall pillars on the edge of the dance floor.
He wore a simple black mask and a coat of dark charcoal, his presence as imposing as it had been at the first soirée.
Elizabeth approached him, her fan fluttering with a rhythm that she hoped felt natural. "Good evening, sir. You look as though you are expecting a rebellion rather than a dance."
Darcy turned, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. "A masquerade is a form of rebellion, is it not? It is the one night where we all pretend to be someone else."
"Or the one night where we reveal who we truly are," Elizabeth said.
"That is a dangerous sentiment."
"Life is dangerous," Elizabeth replied, "and it is particularly so for those who travel under false names."
Darcy stood unmoving. The change was subtle, a tightening of the muscles in his jaw, but Elizabeth saw it. He looked at her for a long moment, the silence between them filled with the frantic energy of the music.
"I do not know what you mean," Darcy said.
"I think you do. I have heard that the river is very interesting this time of year. The depth of the channel, the height of the levees—it is all very significant for a man of your interests."
"My interests are my own."
"They are the interest of the Governor as well," Elizabeth said. "And the Port Captain. And several other gentlemen who do not believe that an English squire has any business measuring the mud of the Mississippi."
Darcy stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper. "Is this a threat, Miss Bennet?"
"It is a warning," she said. "You are not as invisible as you think you are. This city is a small place, and the people here have long memories."
The orchestra struck up a new tune, a slow, stately dance that required the participants to join hands and move in a circle. Darcy reached out and took her hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm against hers.
"Dance with me," Darcy said.
"I should refuse," Elizabeth said, but she allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
They moved together with a precision that was almost military. Darcy was a fine dancer, his movements certain and graceful despite his size. Around them, the other couples were a blur of color, but for Elizabeth, the world had narrowed to the man in the black mask.
"If you know what you claim to know," Darcy said as they moved through the first figure of the dance, "why are you telling me?"
"Because I do not wish to see a man I respect end his life in a New Orleans prison. Whatever your reasons for being here, they must be more than simple greed. You are too proud for that."
"I am a soldier, Miss Bennet," Darcy said. He had nearly said her name without the prefix, and the near-slip seemed to discompose him more than the confession itself.
"And what of your sister? Would she be proud of this? Of the lies and the secrets?"
The tension of the moment tightened. The mask hid his eyes, but it could not hide the sudden rigidity of his mouth. "She would understand duty," he said. "She understands that sometimes we must do things that are unpleasant to protect those we love."
"Is that what you are doing?" Elizabeth asked. "Protecting someone?"
"I am doing what I must," said Darcy.
They came together in the center of the circle, their hands meeting. The music was a physical pressure, a force that pulled at them. Darcy's gaze was intense, searching hers as if he were trying to find a reason to trust her.
"The war is coming," Darcy said. "I can feel it in the air. The Americans know it, the British know it. And when it comes, this city will be the prize. I am here to see if the prize is worth the cost."
"And is it?" Elizabeth asked.
"It is a beautiful city," Darcy said. "But it is a city built on a swamp. It is fragile. Like a mask that can be broken by a single careless word."
"Then be careful with your words, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said.
The dance ended, the music trailing off into a light, airy finish.
Darcy bowed to her, his movements stiff.
He did not let go of her hand immediately.
For a heartbeat, he held it, his thumb grazing her knuckles.
Then he released her hand as though the contact had burned him and stepped back to a formal distance.
"Thank you for the dance," Darcy said.
"Thank you for the truth," Elizabeth replied.
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of Harlequins and goddesses.
Elizabeth stood on the edge of the floor, her pulse quickening.
She had stepped into a world of shadows, and she knew that there was no going back to the simple daughter of a country gentleman.
She looked at her fan, the emerald feathers shimmering in the light.
She had given him a warning, but she had also given him a piece of herself.
She had admitted that she respected him, and in this city of masks, that was the most dangerous truth of all.
She found her father by the punch bowl, his domino slightly askew.
"You look as though you have seen a ghost, Lizzie," Mr. Bennet said.
"Not a ghost, Papa," she said. "He was a soldier."
"They are much the same in the end," said Mr. Bennet. "Come, let us find some of those little cakes. Rebellions always make me hungry."
Elizabeth followed him, but her mind was still on the man in the black mask.
She knew that the masquerade was only beginning, and the dance they were engaged in was far more complicated than any quadrille.
The dark water of the river was rising, and she did not know if they would be able to stay above the tide.
Her thoughts turned to the letters that had yet to arrive, the whispers of conflict that were growing louder with each passing day.
New Orleans was a city of secrets, but she was beginning to realize that the greatest secrets were the ones she carried in her own heart.
She looked out at the courtyard, at the flickering lights and the moving shadows, and she felt a sudden, sharp longing for the green hills of England.
But England was far away, and the Mississippi was right here, brown, and heavy and filled with the portents of the future.
The night went on, the music grew louder, and the masks stayed firmly in place.
But beneath the silk and the lace, the truth was moving like a current under the surface of the river.
Darcy was not a gentleman; he was a man on the edge of a precipice.
And Elizabeth was no longer a spectator.
She had joined the dance, and she would have to see it through to the end, no matter where the music led.