Chapter 8

8

'Tis true: there's magic in the web of it.

Othello, Act 3, Scene 4

Maggie was distracted and cloud-headed while she and her sisters dressed. She avoided their questions, which upset Winny and made Violet more and more determined to know what bothered her. Inexhaustible, Violet had nearly gotten it out of her when Aunt Eliza appeared to collect them so they could all go down together. The appearance of their aunt quelled the mischief, and Maggie in particular knew she was being watched.

"Your Aunt Mildred tells me there are several gentlemen eager to make your acquaintance this evening, Margaret," said Aunt Eliza. She had very wisely chosen her mask and gown to mimic a doe, and she did have that long-limbed, graceful quality about her. "Isn't that encouraging?"

Winny and Violet giggled behind their masks (Violet, frivolous and self-assured, a peacock, and Winny, shy and thrifty of opinion, a powdery white moth) while Maggie diligently smiled and nodded and kept her true thoughts to herself. For the occasion, Maggie had chosen to be a golden owl. To match her feathered mask, she had donned an amber silk gown embellished with dark brown embroidered leaves and flowers along the neckline.

In the time it had taken Maggie to rest, fret, and dress in her gown and mask, the main floor of Pressmore had undergone a startling transformation. Arm in arm, the Arden girls descended with their aunt into a fairyland.

"It could be Titania's kingdom," she heard Winny whimper on an inhale as they descended from reality into dream.

And so, the young lady had it just right. To Maggie, it felt as if Pressmore had sunken through time. The estate had always held a primal power, the gardens whimsically overgrown, the park their sparse counterpart, dotted with fountains and statues nestled among the manicured hedges. But this was the home in its full wild glory, all windows and doors thrown open to the cool night air, lanterns glowing on benches and tables, hanging from trees, each sparkling with mischievous promise. The air hung thick with lush honeysuckle and rose, the source of which became obvious as the family reached the bottom of the marble staircase—fat, glossy blossoms decorated every corner of the place, so fresh and obliging they seemed to radiate dew. Laughter danced on the garden-scented breeze, and guests danced, too, their identities hidden behind all manner of masks. Here a swan, there a wolf. Two columns of dancers wound through the landing, traveling with light allemande steps, buoyant silken soldiers.

Or perhaps sheep in slippers, shepherded only by a fancy borne on the wind.

Ann had declared that she wanted this event to rival the lavish masquerades of the Argyll Rooms and the Pantheon. Maggie could say confidently that she had accomplished just that.

"My! Ann has outdone herself," Maggie heard Aunt Eliza say, not entirely approvingly. Weddings were generally small, private affairs, and to celebrate this uniquely and ostentatiously was not necessarily the fashion.

Maggie didn't care. It was wondrous. She couldn't stop gazing around, amazed. "I think it's enchanting."

Aunt Eliza wore a frozen grimace. "Enchanting, to be sure, but bold, too." And bold, of course, was bad. Tapping Maggie on the forearm with her fan, her aunt added quietly, "Do not be too free with your thoughts this evening, my dear. Let the men set the tone of conversation. They lead and you follow."

Maggie did not reply, and also tried not to let it dampen her spirits. At the bottom of the stairs, she felt so small, overwhelmed, and engulfed by not only the number of guests but the wild, lavish decorations. Though she be but little, she is fierce. To recall A Midsummer Night's Dream in such surroundings seemed perfect, and she let it bolster her. Nobody was announced. All formalities had been done away with, leading Maggie to feel even more strongly that she had gone to change upstairs in one world and awoken in another.

"What are we waiting for?" Violet asked, whisking her sisters away from the landing—to Aunt Eliza's visible chagrin—following the trail of the dancers. She called some warning after them, but Maggie did not hear it. None of them did. The dancers led the young ladies to the dining hall, positioned at the heart of the house. Garlands hung low from every doorway, playfully brushing cheeks and foreheads. By the time they stood before the great feasting table, Maggie had been anointed by no less than three plunging, flowered boughs. So many people had come to Pressmore for the day she could hardly believe it, and with the profusion of masks, it made one feel as if anyone could be anyone.

The staff rushed by, tending to the endless table of delights glistening below decorated chandeliers. They wore brightly colored turbans and masks as they replenished deep porcelain dishes heaped with rice and soups, fragrant with spices Maggie had never encountered. Lane and Ann emerged from the dizzying swirl of masquerading guests. There was no mistaking Ann, radiant in gold, with a matching veil swooping down from her equally striking hawk-beaked mask. Tiny stars and moons sparkled on the veil, embroidered with unparalleled delicacy. And naturally, Lane was at her side in a smart blue jacket with a yellow cravat, his mask a simpler version of hers. He smiled out at them from under his disguise, a jaunty collie of a man, unconquerable, a man who did not so much speak but breathlessly erupt.

"Ladies!" he crowed. Unless Maggie was mistaken, his lips were already lightly stained with punch. On his left side, his sleeve was empty below the elbow and pinned to the shoulder with a gallant star-shaped brooch. "Dear, dear cousins, welcome to our modest celebration."

"Modest for a fairy queen, perhaps," said Maggie with a grin. She peered over Lane's shoulder. "Are we not to dine in the usual way?"

Normally, there would be dancing and merriment, then a break for the guests to sit and eat. Already, she saw folk coming and going, eating at various round tables throughout the dining hall and then leaving to partake in the other amusements sprinkled throughout Pressmore. She itched to explore such things herself, though the table exuded a mouthwatering scent. Ginger, she detected, and rose water, but also a mélange of spices she had no names for.

How was she supposed to behave herself and follow, not lead, in such circumstances?

"Oh, we have dispensed with all of that," Ann said lightly and with a twinkling laugh. "Our guests may drink when they like and eat when they like, and dance until the morning light chases us back to our chambers. Tonight, we are not in England, we are simply together."

"My wife." Lane beamed. "The poet!" Behind his mask, he winked at Margaret. "Though she is perhaps not so skilled with words as some who are present. By the end of this evening, I feel certain all shall be turned on its head, and even shy Margaret Arden will have found herself a fine and true love."

"Please!" Violet clapped. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

"What smells so intriguing?" Maggie asked, navigating them away from that topic. It made her anxious to think she might become the center of attention. This was Ann and Lane's evening, not hers. Ann pursed her lips knowingly, her husband saying, "Ann has had her cook from Calcutta to stay, and we are to experience the tastes of her home."

"One of my homes," Ann gently corrected, leaning into her husband. "Arjun has prepared mutton curry, minced lamb with ginger, cinnamon, and coriander, potatoes in a spiced gravy, lovely little flatbreads, and aubergine stuffed with onion." It was clear she could go on for far longer but paused and cleared her throat primly. "Later there will be sandesh and roshogolla. And of course, more customary treats are available for the less adventurous among us."

"There's one now," remarked Violet, observing a willowy lady in an elaborate ivory mask sniffing distastefully at a miniature plate bearing curry and yellow rice. Even with the disguise, Maggie recognized the young woman to be Regina. "Ooh, she didn't seem to like that. Hardly surprising. With a scowl like that I wonder if she would find fault with the prince regent himself."

Violet had no patience for primness and modesty, both of which Regina exuded.

"Violet, be kind," Maggie chided in an undertone. She still didn't know what to think of Regina, but she had to admit that she was gazing around with a chilly, imperious air. Maggie couldn't imagine holding her nose up at all the delicious-smelling food Ann's cook had prepared.

"Perhaps Miss Regina will find the white soup more to her liking," Lane commented with his usual congeniality.

"Perhaps she is white soup," Violet muttered, thankfully only loudly enough for Margaret to hear, and for it, she took her place as older sibling and nudged Violet sharply in her side. "What? I hate snobbery."

"She is very rich now," Maggie replied. "She is allowed to be snobby."

"Encouraged to be, even," added Winny, who almost never said a cross word about anybody.

Violet had already forgotten Regina, gently leaning in to Maggie to whisper, "Don't look now, but our aunts are coming."

"Oh dear," Maggie breathed, but they were hemmed in by tables and guests on all sides, and there was no escaping them.

Like Eliza, Mildred had acquired a doelike mask for the event, and even their gowns were similar. Mildred's was the more elaborate and expensive, but otherwise they might have been twins.

"What a triumph, eh?" called Lane to the two older women.

Aunt Mildred made a quiet sound of half agreement and dodged away from Ann. "It will be a triumph if everyone behaves themselves this evening."

"What fun would that be?" Violet muttered.

"Come, niece, there are some uncommonly fine gentlemen I would like you to meet." With that, her aunts tore her away from Violet, enveloping her in silk and perfume. Once more she felt small, squeezed between them, all but marched away from the familiar faces in the room. Queasy and warm, Maggie retreated behind her mask for safety. It served her well, for Eliza and Mildred toured her about the first floor, stopping here and there to make introductions. It was hard to know if the gentlemen were handsome or repugnant, though one had a cleft in his chin so deep that a morsel of food had gotten caught there. Maggie couldn't stop staring at it while he went on and on about the punch.

She remembered a quarter of the names (Mr. Stanley, Mr. Gibson, etc.) and, an hour later, it was over. Her aunts encountered an old friend who had come in from London, and the distraction gave Maggie the perfect opportunity to slip away. Which she did, finding Winny and Violet had been following and watching from the shadows. They reunited inside an airy gallery running along the outer edge of the home. Gauzy white curtains billowed, stirred by the breeze cavorting through the corridors. A few short marble columns had been moved into that hall and topped with various plasters and Greek busts.

"Thank goodness we have you back," said Winny, embracing her.

"I have so many thoughts," added Violet, already laughing.

"And we will be forced to hear them," Maggie teased.

"Delighted, I think you mean. Come now, we have been hard at work!" Violet insisted, turning red behind her mask. "And all for your benefit. Everyone here is already drunk and willing to share everything, so we made some inquiries." She began pointing at the men who had made introductions. "That one hates reading. That one won't have anything to do with yellow-haired ladies. Oh, he is an interesting case, loves reading but despises novels. This one in the stupid hat insists he is promised to a wealthy woman from New South Wales, whatever that is. The fellow with a squirrel mask just seemed generally disinterested in ladies."

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. "Violet, that's a bear."

Violet shrugged. Her eyes caught on something moving toward them, and Maggie followed her gaze. "Here comes one with all haste. Shall we inquire after his reading tastes?"

Before Violet could embarrass them both, the man, large and menacing, charged right by them like, well, a bear. His mask, however, was green and freckled, and not skillfully sculpted. Perhaps it was meant to be a kind of serpent. There was a vaguely familiar aura about him, but he came and went so quickly that Maggie did not have time to interrogate her memories. He shoved his way between them clumsily, leaving behind an imprint of sweat and stale liquor. Bumbling down the corridor, he spun in a complete circle, then seemed to find what he was searching for—a stone bench under the third archway of the open-air gallery. There was a cracked vase sitting at one end of the bench, a splash of pink roses blooming from the pot. As the girls watched surreptitiously behind their masks, the man slid a note under the vase, leaving the tiniest corner exposed. Then, with that same chaotic gait, he trundled back into the crowd.

Immediately, Violet trotted over to the bench.

"Violet, that isn't meant for us," Winny chided, catching up.

"Don't be boring," her sister muttered. "Oh, come along, you both want to know what it says, I won't accept you pretending otherwise."

"Just be subtle," Maggie replied, while she and Winny shuffled together to form a barrier of skirts while Violet did her peeking. "What does it say?"

"Instructions for a clandestine meeting," said her sister. Violet popped back up in front of them, grinning with devious delight. The bright feathers on her mask wobbled as she leaned in to whisper: "Blue and gold, our plan unfolds. Find me at midnight."

"Find me at midnight," repeated Winny, gasping. "Aunt Mildred would not be pleased to hear of such things going on at Pressmore."

"She will never find out, because you will not be a prude and tattle on these lovesick fools." Violet stuck out her tongue.

"I wonder what plan they could mean," mused Maggie.

She did not have long to puzzle over it, for Ann had noticed them huddled up and whispering, and came to join them.

"May I steal your sister away? Only for a moment, I know how much you prefer her company," Ann said, and the girls reluctantly agreed. They were off to giggle about the note under the flowerpot, no doubt, and Maggie hoped they would give a full recounting of their speculation. And parting from them, Maggie grew thoughtful. Ann nudged her. "I have decided this is a night for magic, my friend, not for frowns. What has turned your mood so?"

Maggie watched Winny and Violet disappear into the surging crowd. "My sisters," she murmured. "My beloved sisters. I must marry and marry well for their sakes, but I've been so consumed by my book. Some days it's all I think about—and maybe that makes me hopelessly selfish."

Her mind twisted around squirrels and serpents and chins with food stains.

Ann shook her head, leading her to a bench, where they sat. "I see Lane's mother has gotten to you. Maggie, it isn't selfish to want the happiness that speaks to your heart."

"My aunts are convincing, convincing in their dislike for my own mother, who obviously disappointed them. It would break me utterly to disappoint my sisters that way. My heart tells me my aunts are well-meaning but misguided, but they have lived more life than I have. I always gave my father's advice due consideration…" Maggie trailed off, searching the room. If she wasn't thinking about her book and her vanishing dream, then she was thinking about Mr. Darrow, who had gone from horrible, to intriguing, and back to horrible.

"Torn in a hundred directions!" Ann gasped dramatically behind her mask. "I do not envy you; I had the fortune of finding my Lane before the poking and prodding of elders became too onerous. But who do you look for so urgently?" Stroking Maggie's gloved hand, her lips curved into a smile. "Could it be Mr. Darrow? I spied your conversation at breakfast, it appeared quite animated."

There was no point trying to deceive Ann, who was altogether too sharp. "I do look for him. I don't know why. Every time we meet, I come away thinking differently of him." If Regina was Ann's good friend, she did not want to speak badly of her or gossip, and so kept the details of their discussion to herself.

"He is a man of good humor and better sense, I think, though prone to isolation. There is a sadness about him I have never understood, but no man is perfect and any who claims to be is proved deficient."

"I thought my opinion of him was improving," Maggie said slowly. "But I have heard information that gives me pause."

Ann leaned in to her, nodding. "You have already been heaped with thoughts and advice, but—do forgive me—here is rather more: Your own mind must always be the decider. What, dear Maggie, do you think?"

It was hard to be clearheaded among the music, the twinkling lights, and the warmth of so many bodies clumping up to chat and dance. But Maggie drew in a deep breath, staring down the length of the pillared gallery with her heart set on calmness. In and out, her chest rose and fell, and she felt the tumult of the party return to its former magic, when it was beguiling and inviting, rather than too much. By and by her eyes settled on a man striding toward them, cutting a fine figure in a gray coat trimmed in muted gold, an ivory cravat knotted neatly beneath his strong jaw. Dark hair curled above his mask, which was fashioned after the face of a Greek bust, shot through with glittering cracks, as if the face had broken and the scars healed bright.

It was Mr. Darrow, and he had arrived at the masquerade armed with a piece of paper. Tattered and stained, she knew it belonged to her book. She had heard gossip all through the evening about the missing pages, and Ann had put about that it was a sort of game, and any found pages should be returned to staff. In return, guests were given little meaningless trinkets, but at least it provided a kind of explanation. She might even have it all back eventually, and she couldn't help but watch Mr. Darrow approach with parted lips, wondering what piece of her art he had brought along.

Vaguely, she heard Ann mutter something about a headache and drift away; Maggie rose to meet Mr. Darrow, full of curiosity and questions, which, she realized with a jolt, was just the way a man ought to make her feel.