The next week crawled by on wheels of stone and mud. It had been years since I found my work so onerous and almost distasteful. When Monday came around I almost bounded out of bed, and dressed quickly in my only non-work dress. It was plain and well-worn, as was my bonnet, but I set out on foot with a light heart.
I found Mrs. Gainswood’s house easily enough. Summoning my courage, I plied the knocker. A stately butler appeared. Flushing under his gaze, I tried to assume my best Countess manner. “Please tell Mrs. Gainswood that Miss Linder is here to see her,” I told him loftily.
To my great relief, he immediately moved aside. “Madam is expected you,” he intoned. “If you will follow me, I will bring you to her.”
I found my godmother gleefully partaking of tea while discussing dress designs with her personal dresser. Seeing me, she jumped up and embraced me. “My darling girl!” she said, twinkling at me. “We have such a day ahead! Let me introduce Jesson. She does wonders!” The pump woman bowed composedly. “Now,” she continued, as she brought me in and plied me with tea and cakes, “I have arranged to have everything the most discreet. London’s most famous dressmaker is actually coming here with a collection of choices. She never does this, of course, but for me, because I buy a lot of clothing and always pay promptly—for me she will do anything!”
So it appeared. By the time I trod my way home that night I felt that I truly had been transformed into another woman. Standing before a long mirror in a succession of exquisite ball gowns, I saw myself for the first time—not as Ella the step-daughter, Ella the servant, but as the Lady Elisabeth Travers, with rich blue blood in my veins and the face and mind to go with it.
Then I put on my faded gingham dress and walked home to my small shared room, and when I woke up again I put back on the guise of a maid, but all day long I dreamed of ballrooms and sweeping skirts and handsome men bending to kiss my hand. I was, I suppose, very silly, but then what girl is not, at some point in time?
On the night before the masque, I waited for everyone to fall asleep and then crept up the back stairs, and into the attic. I had one treasure box hidden up there—one small chest I had managed to keep from her, stuffed behind rag boxes and broken furniture. Lighting my lantern, I dragged it out, then kneeling in the dust and cobwebs, I opened it.
A very few precious things: a miniature of my mother, and another of me as a child. A few jewels—oh, nothing very valuable, all those had gone to the second wife—but just pretty trinkets my father once gave me from her. I found a delicate diamond necklace and matching earrings, and set them aside. There was one dress—the last party dress she’d worn, faded and still faintly redolent of her perfume. When I smelled it, I suddenly remembered her again, as she had looked in that dress, laughing and twirling so I could see it, then taking me in her arms and kissing me, heedless of her skirts and hair. I had wanted to be just like her.
On top of the delicate fabric sat a pair of shoes—slippers, really, stitched all over with mirrored bits of glass. My father had had them made especially for my mother, so that she would glitter as she danced, he said, but she had never gotten to wear them. They were a bit outdated now, but so pretty, and they looked the right size for my feet. I set them aside too.
Sighing deeply, I closed and locked the chest, and pushed it back in its place. Then I crept every so carefully downstairs to my narrow bed, carrying my treasures wrapped up in a bit of burlap.
The next day I was in a fever of excitement. I dropped two plates and Cook threatened me with dismissal, but all I could summon was a wavering smile and muttered apology. I had to finish scouring all the pots and pans before I could leave, and the job had never seemed to take so long. Regretfully, I looked at my red and work-hardened fingers. Those weren’t the hands of a lady.
Finally I had leave to go. I gathered my belongings and scattered thoughts and hurried through the streets. Again the knocker on the door and the same unbending butler who brought me in. Mrs. Gainswood met me at the bottom of the stairs this time and took me up herself, to a back bed chamber. There the robing process began.
We hit our first road block when Jesson let my hair down. She ran her hands through it approvingly. “As beautiful a head of hair as I’ve yet to see. But over long, of course. It will need to be cut before I can dress it properly.”
I made an split decision. “No.”
“What, miss?”
“I don’t want my hair cut.” My eyes met Mrs. Gainswood’s in the mirror, half appealing, half stubborn. “There must be some way you can dress it as it is.”
“But, miss—” Jesson turned to Mrs. Gainswood.
That lady, trying in vain to stare me down, relaxed and smiled. “Very well,” she conceded. “She will be unique, Jesson. She will set fashions.”
So my hair was pulled back without the profusion of short curls that were so popular. Jesson braided and twisted and pinned until somehow it was all up there, graceful and intricate.
All the clothes were new, even the under things: silk stockings and cambric petticoats. And then the dress. It was a deep, almost mid-night blue, cut simply, but breath taking in its effect, I thought. I had already shown them the shoes and jewels. “I want to wear these,” I said firmly. They let me. Then over my face went a velvet mask, in the same dark blue. Staring at myself in the mirror, I thought I looked like some kind of an exotic princess.
Mrs. Gainswood was obviously pleased. The whole time I had been getting dressed she kept chuckling and nodding, and now she clapped her hands. “Perfect!” she cried. “Everyone will be dying to know who you are!”
“No!” I cried.
“No, no, of course not! I won’t say a word—not unless you give me leave! Now, come, you must eat something before you go.”
“Isn’t it customary for ladies to have an escort to parties?” I asked curiously as we ate the supper that had been brought up to the room for us.
“Well, yes,” she admitted, “but we shall have to do without, shan’t we? Besides, everyone relaxes the rules a little at a masked ball. It will only add to your mystique.”
Bowing through the shadowy streets in her carriage, I repeatedly smoothed the long white silk gloves. “Keep them on,” I had been warned, “no one must see your hands.” They were the only white I wore.
I felt like I was entering a dream as I stepped down before a large, well-lit house set on gracious lawns. I slipped inside as quickly as I could, and followed the streams of couples to the ballroom. A large, bluff man stood by the door way, greeting everyone who went it. “Well, hallo, who have we here?” He asked, taking my hand and looking me over. “Where has your young man gone, eh? Well, never mind you’ll soon find another, I’ll warrant. Save a dance for me, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” I said, finding my voice, and fled.
I was truly dazzled by the sights within. The flocks of gaily dressed people, the music and food and the press and the dancing and the lights all overwhelmed me. For some time I just drifted in a circle around the room, talking to no one, just looking. I saw many curious gazes directed at me, male and female alike, and just smiled slyly at them. Secure behind my velvet mask, I began to enjoy myself. I even dared to make conversation with an older gentleman standing by the fireplace who spoke to me. He made me laugh, and I could tell I aroused his interest.
It was while I was giggling over a glass of lemonade he brought me, that we were approached by a younger man wearing an unassuming but handsome grey suit and black mask. He was blond, with close-cut hair, and looked very tanned. My new friend turned immediately when he saw him coming. “My dear,” he said to me, “you must allow me to present you with a desirable dancing partner. A lovely young thing like yourself should not be standing here talking with an old man like me. And you, sir,” he said to the stranger, “shall thank me, for I have found a most charming creature who refuses to tell me her name. And since you are also going nameless tonight, you and she should mutually enjoy your mutual namelessness together, and neither one take offense at the other’s reticence.” And with a last absurd flourish he placed my hand in the stranger’s, and retired.
We looked at each other awkwardly, then I saw the gleam of laughter in his eyes, and started to giggle, and he chuckled, and we both were laughing. “You must forgive my friend,” he said, retaining my hand and drawing it, perhaps unconsciously, through his arm. “He loves to place people in awkward situations.”
“I like him,” I said shyly.
“So do I.” He smiled down on me. “Now, shall we dance?”
I had been afraid to dance. Mrs. Gainswood had had a dancing master over on Monday too, and I spent the afternoon practicing steps with him, but I felt far from sure of myself. It seemed only fair to this unknown gentleman to give him some warning. “I’m afraid I may not be a very good dancer,” I told him, as we took our places.
He glanced down, raising his eyebrows. “You surprise me! Why?”
“Well I haven’t precisely danced much recently.”
At that he grinned. “Well, neither have I,” he said, and away we went.
I am sure we were far from the most graceful and skilled dancers on the floor that night, but we did well enough for each other. It seemed the more we stumbled the more we laughed and when once we actually crashed into another pair on the dance floor it was several moments before either of us were able to speak again. After that it is not surprising that our reserve seemed to drop away. As the dances progressed we improved, and soon were able to engage in conversation about something other than our feet. At first this took the form of sly comments on our fellow ball-goers’ various costumes, but eventually progressed to a more personal note.
“So what brings you here incognita tonight?” he asked me, as we twirled around in a waltz.
I smiled. “I guess I’m just trying to wet my social feet gradually.”
“Meaning any blunders you make won’t be put to your account later? I can understand that.”
“Well, I don’t know that that’s all of it,” I answered thoughtfully. “The truth is that I’m not sure yet if I want to enter society. Coming here tonight was something of an experiment.”
I saw his smile flash white. “And how are you liking it?”
“Moderately well, thank you,” I replied politely.
He laughed. “You have my sympathies. I’m not sure I want to re-enter society myself, but in my case I have no choice. You could say I am also trying to wet my feet gradually.”
“Re-enter?” I asked quietly.
“Yes—I just got back from the war,” he said with a little constraint.
“Ah.” Of course I should have guessed. His short, sun-bleached hair and dark tan—not to mention that certain set of his shoulders—all spoke of the military man. For some reason I felt immediately closer to him. This was someone, like me, who had been accustomed to a different way of life than this—someone who, perhaps, did not feel entirely at home.
The dance ended. It was our third one together; strangely, I had not even thought of seeking another partner, nor had he shown any inclination to do the same. But just then a man in a jacket and hat with a sweeping feather came up and solicited my hand with a bow. I glanced uncertainly at my partner; he said nothing. This was, I reminded myself, the whole point of the ball, wasn’t it? Hesitantly I put my hand in the other’s; as he led me away, I looked back over my shoulder at the man in the grey suit, trying to smile at him. He watched me go, but did not smile back.
My new partner was a better dancer than my previous one; very smooth and skilled on the floor. I was grateful that I had had some practice before trying to match him. His conversation was also different—and much less to my taste. He paid me provocative compliments in a light, bantering tone and watched to see how I reacted to them. He was trying to make me blush or laugh, but he succeeded in neither. At first I was a little amused by him, but as the dance went on I found myself growing colder and colder toward him. I had been treated this way before—by footmen and grocer’s boys. I had thought to receive better at the hands of the upper class. I found myself looking around for my old dance partner, and glimpsed him, once or twice, dancing with a lady in a pink dress and blonde curls. I wondered if she was a better dancer than I had been.
By the time the music ended I was heartily sick of the man with the feathered hat, and ready to be rid of him. But somehow, before I knew what was happening, he had drawn me aside, and with a firm grip on my arm was compelling me toward a small curtained room off to the side of the ballroom. I was reasonably sure that I could not break free of him without causing the kind of struggle designed to attracted unwanted attention, so there seemed nothing to do but submit with what dignity I could.
The moment we were in the room I turned to him. “Sir,” I said, as haughtily as I could manage, “I do not know your purpose in bringing me here, but I demand that you let me leave at once!”
His eyebrow went up. “Leave?” he asked, catching my hand again. “Before I’ve had a glimpse of your pretty face? Come now!”
I snatched my hand back, and retreated several paces. “Leave me alone!” I hissed, dignity forgotten.
“I’ve had my eye on you all night,” he said with a leer. “And though you seem to prefer that other fellow, I know you didn’t come with him. In fact, you came alone, and that means you need a protector.” He advanced toward me, and caught by my hands, pulling me toward him. “Come now, I’ll not hurt you! I just want to see what’s under that mask of yours!”
I struggled, but he was stronger than I was. I was just contemplating screaming (and wondering if anyone would hear me), when my assailant was unceremoniously hauled back by the scruff of the neck by the man in the grey suit. I gasped with relief to see him.
“Hey, what the—!” the man in the hat swore, and tried to swing, but my friend evaded him easily.
“Oh no, you don’t!” he said. “Now are you going to leave, or I am going to have to knock you down?” There was steel in his voice, and he clenched his fist menacingly, still holding the fellow easily in one hand.
It was evident that the man in the hat was a coward. He looked like he was going to take the challenge for a moment, then he pulled himself free, straightened his collar angrily, and darted angry glances at the both of us. “Oh well. She’s probably ugly anyway,” he said deliberately, storming out.