Chapter 2
Two
It was strange, in hindsight, how the night had begun entirely as usual.
Rosalie sat by her mother at the edge of the ballroom, engaged in a conversation with Lady Winthrop and one of her many friends, Lady Simon-Downs.
Her mother was gregarious to a fault, her father always said, which was why it was so peculiar that they had borne such a private second daughter.
Rosalie smiled cordially as her mother’s friend addressed her, asking her how her Season was progressing. The question was charged with more than well-meaning interest.
“Do you think this will be the one?” the woman asked, leaning across Lady Winthrop to take Rosalie’s hand. Lady Winthrop placed hers on top. Rosalie stared down at the tangle of gloved fingers on her knee, stifling a laugh.
“We can but hope,” Rosalie said, nodding. “But I am perfectly content to remain with Mother and Father for the time being. I shall never want for anything so long as I am with them. And Mother,” she turned to Lady Winthrop, “you do so like having me around, don’t you? You say so all the time.”
“The day Rosalie marries shall be the best, worst day of my life,” Lady Winthrop joked, finally yielding the friend’s hand and consequently freeing Rosalie’s hand too.
That was always how she described it, the best, worst day; the day when, after four Seasons, Rosalie Winthrop finally met her match.
There would be fanfare, certainly. They had spared no expense for her elder sister’s wedding to Viscount Howard.
And when Rosalie married, her mother always said, they would have twice as many guests and twice as many cakes: “What good is all our wealth when our girls are gone and their dowries paid?”
Rosalie refrained from arguing that there were many things her father's wealth could be used for. And it wasn’t like her parents led an economical life.
Their trips abroad were unending. Her mother’s passion for art cost three times as much as her works generated.
Rosalie would build a library with that sort of money.
She had already begun. A life curating books was not so terrible.
Life without love was fine as long as she had stories.
“And what are you working on now that you have returned from your trip, Lady Winthrop?” asked Lady Simon-Downs, releasing Rosalie. “Those watercolors of Cork?”
“Oh, no,” Lady Winthrop protested, placing a hand on her chest. “That collection is quite finished with.”
“They were on display at Somerset House last autumn,” Rosalie put in for good measure, though her attention had drifted to the dance floor. She was searching for Emily, but if her friend was dancing, she must have been in the thick of things where Rosalie couldn’t see her.
Something had seemed off about Emily earlier that night, and she hoped to discover what before the party was over.
“Only for a week,” her mother said through a shy laugh, though she really loved the attention. “I must say that we met the most handsome man there, a curator. He was very fine.”
“Someone for Rosalie?”
“Heavens, no. The man was married.”
“And yet he did not escape Mother’s attention, or her flattery, much to his dismay,” Rosalie said, remembering the moment in more detail than she wanted.
“I will not apologize for going through life pointing out its fine creations, manmade or otherwise. Speaking of which...” She lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“You have not seen the young Duke of Hartmere, have you? Lady Chipping told us he is the picture of his mother, and was she not a striking woman in her youth?”
Rosalie felt her cheeks go hot beneath her mask. It was one thing for her mother to comment on the outward appearance of a museum curator, and another thing entirely for her to vaunt the good looks of their host while he was within earshot.
“Mother,” she chided, laughing nervously. “He could be anywhere.”
“He won’t be here on the sidelines with us,” Lady Winthrop said. “Unless...” She reached over and lifted Lady Simon-Downs’s mask. “Is that you, Your Grace?” The women laughed, and Lady Winthrop performed the same joke with Rosalie. “Or perhaps he is under here?”
Rosalie covered her mouth and rose, shaking her head. “I have had quite enough of you. May I be excused? I would like to go and find Lady Emily.”
Her mother waved her off with a kiss. Rosalie had only walked three paces before she looked back and found that her mother and Lady Simon-Downs had vacated their seats and were gone.
She let out a breath and stared down at her dance card.
She had only danced once that evening with the married son of one of her father’s writer friends.
His wife was in the country, heavy with child and abed.
He had come dressed as a country mouse, so she had written him down as “shrew” on her dance card.
The rest of her card was empty. She preferred it that way and tucked it into her glove for good measure.
“What are you doing?” she heard from behind her and turned quickly on her heel.
Emily appeared at her side with her rose-colored mask on her forehead, her face red and glistening from the exertions of her quadrille.
She was very fair, with dark brown eyes like a doll, and they were presently rounded in horror as she looked down at the dance card stuffed into Rosalie’s glove. “That is not very ladylike.”
“Only you would ever notice what I have hidden up my sleeve,” Rosalie said, taking Emily by the arm and leading her toward the refreshment table. “Why is your mask like that? You should put it on properly before more people see your face.”
“I will be sick if I have it on for a moment longer,” she protested, fanning her face. “Isn’t it so warm here? My dance partner was a devil. He spun me round and round until all I could see were stars. Were you watching me dance?”
“I tried to watch you,” Rosalie said as they reached the refreshment table. “But my mother engaged me in her usual socializing, and I was distracted by Lady Simon-Downs.”
“She better have been delicate with you, or I will have words with her myself.”
Rosalie winced, disliking the implication that the matrons of the ton were typically unkind to her and she needed to be treated with kid gloves. Taking a glass of water, she offered it to Emily, who thanked her and drank greedily from it.
“I want you to dance with me,” Emily said, returning the empty cup to the table and seizing Rosalie’s hands. “You are such a fine dancer, and a cotillion is coming up next. You are the best cotillion dancer I know. Let’s find a partner for you. My brother must be nearby.”
“To be frank, I am rather tired of dancing with your brother,” Rosalie said. “He always steps on my feet. Besides, he will not want to take me as a partner again. The other guests will start to suspect us of courting.”
And no doubt that will make some of them suffer apoplexy from shock.
“That’s what the masks are for,” Emily replied, resolute. “Nobody will know who you are.”
Rosalie felt her own mask with the tips of her fingers. She and her mother had spent weeks on their masks. Hers was light pink, decorated with small white beads and paper flowers, matching the floral-embroidered dress she had chosen for the evening.
“I shall know,” Rosalie said, “and then I will be thinking about it all evening. Your brother is quite in love with Miss Tiffany Warwick, and I do not want to stand in his way.”
“Miss Warwick is spoken for, if what I have heard is true, so you may as well keep my brother company while he licks his wounds, but only if it’s on the dance floor with me.”
Rosalie knew when she had been beaten. But she also knew that Emily’s attention was prone to shifting quickly from one interest to another.
She agreed with a nod, and Emily cried out in joy.
Grabbing Rosalie by the hand, she led her into the fray of guests circling the dance floor, hoping to find a prospective partner for Rosalie.
They had walked half the length of the ballroom when Emily suddenly stopped in her tracks. Rosalie narrowly avoided crashing into her, gasping as she came to a stop.
“What is it?” Rosalie asked.
When her friend turned around, she quickly pulled down her mask. “I have just seen my mother,” Emily said, breathlessly.
“Is that such a terrible thing?”
“She is speaking with a gentleman.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes. Oh dear. That can only mean one thing. She wants to make an unnecessary and painful introduction to another boring gentleman she thinks I should marry.” Emily sighed dramatically and pressed her lips together.
“I can’t stand it for a moment longer. Come with me, Rosalie.
There is something I must tell you before it’s too late. ”
She gestured toward the nearest door. It led into a parlor where some of the older ladies were eating and laughing, having, for the most part, discarded their masks.
It was a large room but still much smaller than the ballroom.
The chandeliers overhead were slowly dimming, the room filling with the sweet and woody smell of beeswax.
Emily sat down at an empty table in the corner, and Rosalie sat beside her. She pushed away the empty plate and cup in front of her and reached for Emily’s shaking hands on the table.
She did not need to ask what had happened. Only one thing, one person, could make Emily so jittery.
“It’s Thomas,” Emily whispered. “Did you know he was here tonight?”
Rosalie tapped her mask. “How could I know when we’re disguised?”
“I thought maybe I told you he would be here. Oh, it’s all such a mess.
My head has been spinning for days,” she sighed.
“He wrote to me two days ago and said he would be attending tonight. I saw him by the doors earlier, wearing some sort of ghastly black mask, but I have no idea whether he saw me. I think he was standing with his uncle. Yes, it must have been his uncle. There’s no one else who would have come with him.
” Emily put her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?”