Masques and Masquerades

Would you like to step into your carriages, drive down memory lane and attend a masked ball in Cornwall?

Mr Darcy is wretched. Mere hours earlier, his offer of marriage had been rejected. Worse still, he is plagued by fears for Elizabeth’s safety. Had she put her trust into a dangerous man?

THE FALMOUTH CONNECTION

(Excerpt from Chapter 15)

She did not notice his approach until Mrs Pencarrow prompted her with a nod to look in his direction. She finally did so and smiled – only to rob him of the remainder of his senses. Her lips looked fuller and rosier still, under the cream satin of the mask. Behind it her eyes glittered, their shape concealed, but their sparkling light as wondrous as ever.

Words failed him and Darcy could only bow, to receive a curtsy.

“I was not expecting you to return so soon, my lord,” he heard her say. “Were you not about to seek Mr Penderrick?”

Acute pain slashed through him at her words. Of course. The similar attire and the blasted mask. Not for him, that smile, the warmth in her eyes, the light repartee. She thought… His insides twisted and, through his agony, he forced the mandatory apology out.

“Forgive me for the disappointment I have unwittingly caused, Miss Bennet, but I am not his lordship,” he quietly replied, his words barely above a ragged whisper.

Her head snapped up at that and he could hear her gasp:

“Mr Darcy!”

The fact that she had recognised his voice brought a bittersweet ache into his hollow chest. But the small measure of comfort that came with it was blasted by the audible shock in her faltering tones and the discomfort she betrayed as she bit the corner of her lip.

“My apologies, Sir,” she resumed with feeling. “I did not imagine— I thought you had already left the country…”

“I was about to,” he retorted, his own deep discomfort making him sound stern, which was not his intention. He worked to soften his tones as he swiftly added: “I was prevented by a circumstance beyond my control. Miss Bennet… might I have a private word?” he tentatively requested and, with a conscious nod, she indicated her willingness to comply.

They took a few steps further away from her relations and, as soon as he felt he could do so with impunity, Darcy began without preamble:

“You see… a few hours ago Bingley has arrived. He feels – we both do – that his presence ought not be sprung upon your sister without warning. Would you be so kind as to find the best way of informing her?”

“Oh,” she gasped again, and her glance shot up to him.

Devil take the wretched mask! Would that he could see her eyes without its damned encumbrance, see her face, and gauge what she was thinking!

“Is Mr Bingley here now?” Elizabeth asked at last.

“He is. Across the room, next to the second pillar,” he instructed and, guided by his words, her gaze drifted towards the solitary figure looking forlorn in its isolation – a gentleman in an ill-fitting coat, too broad-shouldered for him and a tad too long.

“I see,” she whispered, then looked up at him again. “I thank you for your thoughtfulness, Sir. I shall— I must leave you now… find my sister…”

“Of course,” Darcy replied with a bow.

She did not leave at once, but seemed inclined to say something further. She did not. At length she curtsied and turned away, and there was nothing left for him to do but bow to her relations from a distance, then walk off to find Bingley at his outpost.

“Well?” his friend anxiously questioned.

Darcy sighed.

“She is gone to find Miss Bennet,” he tiredly imparted and followed his friend’s glance, knowing full well that it would guide him towards Elizabeth and her eldest sister.

He was not mistaken. He could see them now in a distant corner in eager conversation. The hated masks ensured that naught else could be seen, yet he could not tear his eyes away and, he assumed, neither could Bingley.

After a horribly long time the ladies stood at last and made their way towards what seemed to be an open door leading to a terrace.

“Come,” Bingley urged and at the same time Darcy moved to follow, not needing his friend’s prompting. He had already caught Elizabeth’s glance and the nod that seemed to convey an invitation.

They crossed the ballroom with unseemly haste and by the time they reached the doorway the sisters were already outside, standing together next to the stone parapet. As they walked through the door Darcy could see them clasp each other’s hands in a heart-wrenching gesture of tender reassurance, and he drew a ragged breath that ended in a sigh. How could they have made such a dreadful mess of the entire business, he and Bingley? They desperately wanted to keep them safe and happy – yet all they had achieved, with error after error, was to distress them so, and make them wary.

At his side, Bingley must have thought the same, or he must have been steeling himself for the encounter, for he too drew a steadying breath and, removing the darned ornate contraption that concealed his features, he walked steadily on to meet his fate.

Elizabeth withdrew towards the door at his approach to let the other couple talk in private, and Darcy walked up to join her, removing his mask as he went. He could not tell if Miss Bennet had seen fit to do the same in response to Bingley’s gesture, but unreasonably his own anguish softened somewhat as he perceived Elizabeth trying to rid herself of hers. Yet she seemed to have come to some difficulty, for her gloved fingers laboured ineffectively with something at her temple. She sighed in obvious exasperation and removed her gloves, but before she could resume her efforts Darcy spoke.

“Would you allow me?” he quietly offered, and at her silent nod he cast his own gloves on the wide top of the parapet and reached to find the catch, in the same spot where he had seen her seek it.

He swallowed hard as he felt the softness of her curls under his fingertips – the softness of her skin, just underneath her temple. His fingers slipped gingerly beneath the ribbon, then around the edge of the smooth mask, and breath caught in his throat as they brushed over her cheek. The urge to prolong and savour the intimacy of the moment was stronger than him – a great deal stronger – so he allowed himself a few more fleeting seconds of stolen pleasure before he reluctantly sought the catch again.

He found it easily and also found the tangle. The end of the ribbon had twisted around a hairpin, or perhaps around the stem of one of the small flowers braided in her hair. With great care, he tugged it loose until the fastening was fully disentangled.

Held in place no longer, the mask fell off her cheek, revealing a sliver of her beloved features. Her eyes flew open – why had they been closed? – and she instinctively reached to catch the mask before it dropped off to the ground.

Just as reflexively, Darcy did the same, but she was quicker. Her hand closed on the mask. His fingers closed on hers. Unconsciously, his hold tightened. Soft, warm hands, and very small. Her fingers, curled around the satin-covered shape, were all but hidden underneath his own.

At her faint gasp of surprise or perhaps displeasure, enough sense returned, and he let his hand drop.

“I thank you,” Elizabeth whispered softly, though whether for his assistance with untangling the knot or for releasing her fingers, Darcy could not tell.

She pulled the contraption fully off her face and cast a troubled glance towards her sister. Yet there was nothing she could see. The other pair had retreated to the far end of the terrace and their backs were turned as they stood close together in earnest conversation, or perhaps one-sided discourse, for it was only Bingley’s voice that could be heard in eager, steady murmur. As for the words, none could be distinguished; not that either of them would contemplate eavesdropping.

Despite her concern for her dearest sister, Elizabeth glanced away, clearly disinclined to pry. She looked down at her hands, twisting the satin mask this way and that, and it was dreadfully plain to see that she was most uncomfortable in his presence.

Darcy sighed. What else did he expect? Of course she would be ill at ease now. Silent. Troubled. She had refused his hand in marriage less than twelve hours ago.

He winced. It was hard to believe it had been mere hours. He seemed to have lived through a lifetime of misery since then.

Suddenly, she dropped the mask on the parapet alongside her gloves and his, then glanced up at him and began speaking in a low, strained whisper.

“I must thank you, Sir, for your concern for my sister’s feelings. I know it must have been very difficult for you to— ”

“Pray, do not regard it,” he interjected earnestly. “I would do anything— ”

Darcy stopped as her troubled countenance softened once more in compassion, and he fought the urge to beg her not to look at him this way.

He drew a deep breath, acknowledging that it was a churlish thought and worse still, untrue. He would rather she looked upon him with compassion if that was all she had to offer – and not the anger she had shown in Basingstoke.

“Miss Bennet,” he brought himself to say, “you must have long been desiring my absence. No, I am not necessarily speaking of this moment,” he added, as her turn of countenance suggested she was about to utter some form of civil protest, “but of my departure from these parts. Forgive me, but I cannot leave as yet. There is— ” He stopped, then forced himself to press on with the terribly awkward topic. “I fear there is devilry afoot, and Lord Trevellyan is no stranger to it.”

There! He finally said it.

And yet no sooner had he begun to feel a measure of relief at having brought it out into the open than her mildly reproachful tone made his insides turn, for the age-old reason.

“Mr Darcy, your prejudice against his lordship— ”

“This is not a matter of prejudice!” Darcy burst out, without allowing her to finish. “You must believe that I am not trying to poison you against a… a rival. As of this morning,” he added with difficulty, “that would be… quite unnecessary, and I have no rights. But— Pray allow me to continue, Miss Bennet,” he urged, at her evident desire to stop him. “Just before the ball, I heard him speak to one of his men about keeping watch on all who set foot at Landennis and of the fact that he has had the place surrounded. I know not what he is about, but I urge you— Nay, I beg you would allow me to protect you!”

As he finished speaking, he found that her hand was in his, although he had no recollection of just how that might have come to happen. Yet she did not withdraw it, nor did she step back, but remained there, silent and very still, for a length of time that neither of them thought to measure. When at last she spoke, her voice caught and faltered and was so quiet that he could barely hear it.

“I thank you. You are very kind. Too kind. Yet I do not wish you to be burdened with such concerns which are… must be for naught. There must be a reasonable explanation for your overhearings. Presumably measures similarly intended for protection. Mrs Pencarrow’s protection, that is to say,” she swiftly added, in a touching attempt to spare his feelings. “I understand there is a longstanding friendship between my great-aunt and Lord Trevellyan. I cannot imagine her trust to be misplaced. So I thank you again for your solicitude, but you need not fret, Sir. Twice in one day you have done us great kindness, and you have received little for your efforts. Pray, Mr Darcy, do not trouble yourself further on our account – on mine. You have done more than enough already.”

Her voice gathered strength as she proceeded and, towards the end, it grew warm and firm. Yet it was not her heartfelt entreaty or her compassionate concern that robbed him of his breath, but the barely perceptible touch, the fluttering caress on the back of his fingers.

Darcy swallowed as he looked down at their joined hands – and at her free one, moving as though without deliberate intent, fingertips lightly stroking his suddenly tingling skin, and he bit his lip, wondering how in God’s name he was to overcome the desperate need to kiss her.

“Elizabeth…” he whispered hoarsely, not even realising his faux pas, and at the sound of his tortured voice she started, withdrew both her hands and brought them to her temples.

“Forgive me!” she burst out. “I am not— What am I doing?” she exclaimed in accents of the deepest contrition. “I beg you would excuse me, I must return to the house.”

* * * * *

If you haven’t read the book or you don’t remember what happens next, don’t worry, soon things will get better for our favourite couple (don’t they always? 🙂 )

I’m thinking of writing about another masked ball, but this time it won’t be so far off the beaten track. Bye for now, have a lovely spring, and see you soon!

(Featured image: created from an image by Matthias Lipinski – Pixabay)