Elizabeth Mansfield (24 page)

Of course, Harry had admitted that his artist-ancestor was an amateur. He and his grandmother were not seeking a work of art but a portrait of a kinswoman. And Kate had to admit that the girl in this painting was prettier. She was fair-haired and light-eyed, and she gazed in wide-eyed adoration on all who looked at her. One could never take a dislike to such a sweetly innocuous face, the way one could toward the arrogant girl in the Persian shawl.

Charles was studying the painting, too. "I don't see any signature," he remarked. "How did Harry know this was the right one?"

"He had a very detailed description. I don't think there's any doubt of its authenticity," Lady Ainsworth said complacently.

"Do you know what I think?" Madge exclaimed in delight "I think she looks a little like Deirdre!"

Lady Ainsworth cocked her head and gazed at the portrait through narrowed eyes. "I hadn't thought of that before," she said, "but now that you mention it I can see a slight resemblance."

Of course there's a resemblance,
Kate thought
Harry must have seen it at once, and that's why he decided it was the work he was seeking. Love makes one blind.

Lady Ainsworth turned to Kate. "Well, my love, now that you've seen it, what do you think?''

"I think the girl is very pretty," she said "Far prettier than the girl in the painting Harry wanted to buy from me."

* * *

Just down the hall, in a small sitting room, Leonard discovered Deirdre curled up in an armchair, her shoulders shaking. The tremors were caused by her attempt to keep the sobs that were filling her chest from bursting out of her. After all, it would not do for the affianced bride of the host of this party to be discovered weeping on the day before the official announcement of their intended nuptials. If Kate, for one, found her like this, she might very well give her another shaking.

Leonard came up to her, knelt down, and reached for the hand that was covering her face. "What's the trouble, little girl?" he asked softly.

She buried her head deeper into the back of the chair. "I c-can't tell you," she said, a bubble of tears in her mouth.

"Then let me tell you. You don't want to go through with the betrothal, but you're afraid to admit it."

She lifted her head and gazed at him wide-eyed. "How d-did you know?"

"I know you, Deirdre. You can't seem to stay in love with anyone for very long."

"That's v-very unkind of you," she said, pouting. "Are you going to c-call me a capricious, f-faithless, rattlep-pate, as Kate did?"

"No, of course not. But you must admit that you've been behaving in a manner that any objective observer might consider faithless and rattlepated."

"I suppose they might," she admitted. "But Leonard, there is one thing in my favor.

"Oh? And what is that?"

She leaned toward him with a tremulous smile, "I always seem to c-come b-back to you in the end."
 

"As now?" he asked.

"Yes, as now." She looked at him pleadingly. "You do believe that it's you I love, don't you?"

"I believe that you do at this moment."

"Always, I swear it!" She tried to embrace him. "I do truly love you so!"

"You've said those words to me before," he said, holding her back. "Before Harry, and before Percy, and before Harry again. Who, I wonder, is coming next?"

"No one, I promise! Please, Leonard, believe me. I've never loved anyone as I do you."

"I wish I could believe you, Deirdre. I love you to distraction, you know, even when you're a capricious rattlepate."

Overjoyed at those words, she threw her arms about his neck. "Then my dearest," she asked hopefully, "will you be my betrothed again?"

"I hope so," was his calm response. "Some day."

"Some day?" Her lips began to tremble again. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my love, that I will be your faithful suitor, as I always have been, for one more year. If at the end of the time, you have managed to avoid tumbling top-over-tail for another man, I shall offer for you again. But if you should be tempted even once to turn your thoughts in another direction, you'll see the last of me."

She opened her mouth to argue, but she closed it again. After the muddle she'd made with her foolish infatuations, she had to admit that his decision was reasonable. "Oh, very well," she sighed. "Now, stop looking so stern and kiss me."

"No, you must do something first. You must tell Harry the truth."

She snuggled close to him and fingered his neckcloth. "Can't you do it for me?"

"No! You must behave like a grown-up, sensible woman and tell him yourself."

"All right, I will. When?"

"Right now!"

FORTY-ONE

On the morning of the day of the costume ball, the house guests woke to the sound of torrential rain. This did not trouble the women, all of whom intended to spend the day indoors anyway. It would take them all day to ready themselves for the evening. There was so much for them to do—last-minute adjustments to their costumes; designing and redesigning their hairstyles to conform to their chosen roles; bathing in a tin tub, for which one waited one's turn, as the harried housemaids had to drag the tubs from room to room; applying lotions and ointments to arms and faces; and, when all that was accomplished, painting their faces white, blacking their lashes and eyebrows with burnt ivory sticks, and applying reddened lip salve to their mouths. Only then would they begin to dress.

For the men, the rain was a greater annoyance. Because their costumes were simpler—most choosing merely to wear loosely fitted, hooded dominoes over their evening clothes—costume preparation was much less time-consuming for them. Thus, free of the constraints of women and time, the men had planned a hunting party for the day. The heavy rain made that excursion impossible. They were forced to amuse themselves with the milder diversions of piquet and whist.

Fortunately, by nine in the evening, the rain had stopped. The guests who were arriving by carriage could emerge and climb the steps without fear that their costumes would be soaked. The grand ballroom began to fill. Soon the glinting lights of hundreds of candles sparkled on a colorful display of fifty masked revelers. Among them were several Marie Antoinettes, at least three pantalooned harem women, a good number of clowns and harlequins, an African princess, and one well-stuffed, hairy brown bear complete with a lifelike head.

Sir Edward had not told Isabel what he would wear. She hadn't told him, either. Since she'd been busy putting finishing touches on the magnificent Persian shawl, she didn't decide until late in the afternoon what her own costume would be. In a last-minute inspiration, she chose to dress herself in Edward's own fashion. She strapped her bosom flat and covered it with a starched shirt and neckcloth borrowed from the butler. Then she put on a red vest, a pair of black knee britches, a wide-cuffed coat, and a powdered peruke tied back with a black ribbon. These were all borrowed from Charles, except the wig, which the ingenious butler had managed to procure for her.

After she'd dressed, she looked at herself in the mirror. Though her face was still womanly, the rest of her looked properly masculine. Pleased with herself, she took up a cane (also borrowed from Charles) in one hand, a lacy handkerchief in the other, and sauntered across the hall in the mincing manner of an eighteenth-century dandy to show her manly costume to her daughter.

Kate took one look at her transformed mother and hooted with laughter. Isabel looked down at her plump stomach buttoned tightly into the red vest and joined in. A moment later, however, her laughter died. "Am I too shocking, dressed as a man?" she asked.

"I think you're adorable," Kate said when she'd caught her breath. "But, Mama, is it possible that Edward will think you're making fun of him?"

Isabel hadn't thought of that possibility, but after considering it, she only shrugged. "I refuse to worry about that,'* she said airily. "If he doesn't have a sense of humor, I don't want him. Come now, let's get you into your gown."

A few moments later, Kate herself was transformed. Like the girl in the portrait, her dark hair was piled up on her head, with a profusion of short curls left loose to frame her face, the soft white gown fell in folds from a high, gathered waist, and the ornately embroidered shawl fell over one shoulder and was draped over the other arm. Isabel clasped her hands to her flattened breast and sighed in pleasure. "I've never seen you look so beautiful!" she exclaimed.

"Are you admiring me or your handiwork?" Kate teased.

"You're both my handiwork," Isabel retorted.

"I suppose that's true," Kate sighed as they started out, "but there are fewer flaws in the shawl."

Isabel didn't answer. She was thinking, with growing alarm, of what Edward might feel when he saw her dressed this way. She had not meant the costume to make a mock of him, but he might very well see it that way. She walked out of the room and down the stairs with a queasy feeling in her chest. She didn't like the feeling at all.
Isabel Rendell,
she scolded herself,
you're supposed to be serene!

Kate also started down the stairs with a knot of misery in her chest. For the second time in a few short months, she would have to endure hearing the announcement of Harry's betrothal to her cousin. It was bad enough that first time, when Harry had been no more than a figment of her daydreams. This time it would be infinitely worse.
Damnation,
she swore under her breath,
why did I ever come?

In the crowd that milled about at the entrance to the ballroom, Kate and her mother became separated. Kate, gazing about with fascination at the splendor of jewels and the dazzle of colors around her, blundered into Deirdre. The two young women eyed each other awkwardly, Kate still angry and Deirdre filled with guilt. "Good evening, Kate," Deirdre said. "I love your costume. You're the Persian shawl painting, aren't you?"

Kate had to smile, "And you're the painting in the library! You look as lovely as she."

And indeed she did. In the soft white gown with the blue pelisse, and with her golden hair left to fall in natural simplicity, Deirdre's face shone with its innate sweetness.

"You look lovely, too," Deirdre said hastily, and, not wishing to answer any questions that might lead Kate to guess that she'd broken off with Harry, she turned and disappeared into the throng.

Kate gazed after her, brow wrinkled. Beyond her embarrassment, Deirdre seemed to be radiating happiness. Why? Did she decide she wanted the betrothal after all? Had Harry done or said something to make her fall in love with him again? He was quite capable of winning back her affections, Kate was sure of that.

At that moment, a pirate with a huge painted
mustachio
over his hp bowed before her. "The music is about to begin," he said in a growling voice. "By my sword, I demand the right to stand up with you."

The tricorne he wore, with a skull-and-bones painted on it, made the pirate look almost as tall as Kate, but she was not fooled. She laughed. "Of course, Benjy. Didn't I promise it to you?"

"You look smashing," he said to her with boyish enthusiasm.

"So do you. Quite a convincing cutthroat. I hope you won't make me walk the plank."

He led her to the dance floor. Kate soon discovered that he'd mastered the steps of the quadrille quite well. She was truly enjoying herself until they broke apart

for movement of the dance, when she caught a glimpse of Deirdre, dancing with a knight in full armor and gazing up at him with adoration. The knight was Leonard, of course. Kate bit her lip in concern. What was that little minx up to?

* * *

Meanwhile, Isabel discovered Edward standing in the far corner of the ballroom, scanning the crowd. To her surprise, he was dressed in the same manner as she: old-fashioned coat, knee britches, and powdered hair. He'd evidently felt that his eighteenth-century garb was costume enough. She adjusted her mask and, swinging her cane and handkerchief, strutted right past him. He barely took notice. She minced past him again, this time raising her handkerchief and brushing it against his cheek. He looked up after her, eyebrows raised in annoyance, but it wasn't until she turned her face toward him that he gasped in recognition. "Isabel! Good heavens!" And he broke into a spasm of laughter.

She came up to him, smiling broadly. "We seem to be of the same mind," she chortled. "We might pass for twins, if I were slimmer."

"No," he said, "you've too pretty a face to be my twin. But we might pass for brothers."

Isabel took his arm. "Would it be possible for brothers to dance together?"

"We'll surely raise a few eyebrows," he answered, leading her to the dance floor, "but I don't care."

The evening was well advanced when Harry, dressed casually in a domino that he hadn't even bothered to close over his evening clothes, found his way to Kate's side. He took off his mask so that he might get a better look at her. "Good God!" he said admiringly, "you're the portrait to the life!"

"If you remember what you said when you first saw the portrait, my lord, you will realize that is not a compliment," Kate pointed out.

"If I said anything other than 'the girl is lovely,' I have no recollection of it."

"You said she looked arrogant," Kate reminded him.

"Ah, but you knew I lied. You accused me of belittling the work to get a lower price."

She lowered her head. "Yes, I did. I'm sorry. I did not then... know you."

Harry grinned broadly. "Well, well, do I hear an apology from the oh-so-strong-minded Miss Rendell? I am overwhelmed. Shall we celebrate by standing up for the next dance?"

She took his arm, and they joined the couples on the floor. "Lovely as you are, Kate, draped in that magnificent shawl," he said as they took their place, "your mother and Sir Edward are outshining you. Everyone is smiling at the sight of them."

"Yes," Kate said as they parted for a figure. "Tweedledum and Tweedledee."