Page 61 of Henrietta

‘It’ll be the Opera House, I should think. They’ve got a masquerade on this evening. Not at all the thing.’

It certainly was not. When Hetty thought of the trouble Trixie could fall into – had she truly gone alone? Hetty did not know if that was better or worse than the dubious character of any escort who might have agreed to take her on so ill advised an excursion.

Timothy turned questioning eyes to Hetty. ‘What ought we to do?

‘There is nothing else for it,’ Hetty said. ‘We shall have to fetch her ourselves.’

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE first view of the Opera House that evening had made Trixie quite delighted with her decision to come. Even to one inured to magnificence, it presented quite a spectacle, with its richly decorated ceiling – thrown into high relief by the abundance of candles hanging from the dozen crystal chandeliers above – a resplendent dance floor erected upon the stage itself, and its four tiers of boxes all hung with bright draperies. Already, the house was thronging with persons, some in dominoes, some in historical costumes, but all in masks and behaving with a degree of licence Trixie had never seen before. It was a far cry from the comparative gentility of the Argyll Rooms, and just the sort of adventure for which Trixie had hoped.

Captain Edgewood immediately redeemed his promise of dancing, accompanying her through the first three sets before leading her to the box their hosts, Mr and Mrs Creswell, had taken for the evening. Trixie had been very pleased at first to make the acquaintance of this couple in the hackney. Not only were they were full of liveliness; the chaperonage of a married couple had gone some way to reassuring Trixie that she had not acted so very badly in accepting the Captain’s invitation. Upon their entrance to the box, however, the Creswells – under the relaxing influence of several glasses of champagne – began to seem more raucous than lively, speaking to Trixie in an arch sort of way that had her wishing she had thought to give them a false name. Nor did they seem to take exception to the various strangers – mostly young men of an inebriated nature – stopping by to make a nuisance of themselves. Mrs Creswell, indeed, even agreed to waltz with one such gentleman, an act that had Trixie doubting whether this lady’s protection counted for much at all.

Unfortunately, this was a suspicion that would only deepen upon the arrival of the rest of the party: a pair of military fellows familiar to the Creswells, accompanied by two young women whose free manners caused Trixie to wonder uneasily if they were what Timothy might categorise as ‘bits of muslin’. At this point, perceiving her discomfiture, the Captain – to his credit – promptly withdrew her from the box by suggesting they take a stroll along the corridor.

‘I should like to speak to you away from all this noise,’ he confided, and Trixie consented with a great deal of relief – one must, she felt, be permitted to take breaks from adventures, however brave one was.

Behaviour outside the box had deteriorated almost as much as it had within it. On the dance floor, the boulanger had plunged into nothing short of a romp, and wherever Trixie looked she could glimpse some decidedly improper tête-à-têtes amongst persons who had dispensed with the need for disguise altogether. By the time they escaped the crowded hall and spilled into the corridor, she was nearly undone by the bizarre spectacle of a young man dressed as Charles I hot in flirtatious pursuit of a giggling Mary, Queen of Scots.

‘They are related!’ Trixie objected.

‘Not everybody has the same faithfulness to historical record as you do,’ the Captain said gravely. ‘Have I yet complimented you upon your costume?’

‘You have not.’ In the comparative cool and quiet of the corridor, she felt more herself, and gave a toss of her head that was made only a little more difficult by her headwear. ‘It’s an exact replica, you know of the gown she wore in the Hever Castle portrait. Only I’, she added fairly, ‘added the ruff, which she was not strictly known to wear.’

Captain Edgewood, however, was not as interested by this as he ought to have been, his attention instead focused upon a set of empty chairs at the other end of the corridor, where he presently led her. Trixie sat, all the while explaining the origins of Anne Boleyn’s French hood – ‘not a gable hood, which is a common mistake!’ – but trailed off when he seated himself beside her. Something about the feeling of his shoulder brushing against hers made her keenly aware, all at once, of their solitude. In the park, it had often felt as if they were alone, but she had always known her maid was there, however far she had instructed her to trail behind, and there was something very different about being left unchaperoned at a gathering of this nature.

‘I think the ruff a fine touch,’ Captain Edgewood said.

‘Yes,’ she said uncertainly. Then, more forcefully: ‘Well, one must be allowed some artistic freedom and—’

‘I do wonder if it is going to be a little in the way?’

Trixie watched as the Captain removed his mask. Was he about to confess his love for her? It seemed about time he did so, and while she would not have chosen this locality for such a declaration, she was interested nonetheless to hear how he would go about it.

‘How do you mean?’

He smiled at her, leaning forward. ‘One wonders how a fellow is supposed to kiss you around such a collar.’

‘Kiss me?’ Trixie’s brows flew up. ‘Here?’

His hand was upon her chin, and Trixie felt his other hand go to the strings of her mask. She pulled away, or tried to, for they were at such close quarters that it was difficult. ‘I should rather keep it on,’ she objected. ‘What if someone sees!’

‘I assure you, no one would care.’

They were interrupted by a fresh voice, ringing out: ‘I certainly do!’

The Captain started, turning to face a magnificent-looking masked lady dressed unmistakeably as Elizabeth I, glaring at the Captain with as much venom as that great lady might indeed have condemned traitors to death. ‘What on earth were you thinking, bringing her to such a place as this?’

The Captain rose slowly to his feet. ‘Good evening.’ If Trixie did not recognise the lady, the Captain suddenly seemed to, for he was giving his most winning smile as he bowed. ‘You find me, as you see, your very loyal servant.’

Queen Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. ‘You have erred,’ she told him, her voice precise and glacial. She turned to Trixie. ‘Would you like to go home now? I think perhaps you would: you look fatigued.’

‘She cannot leave now,’ the Captain objected. ‘The evening has only just begun.’

‘I shall be taking her home,’ the lady said, ‘and you will let me. You do not, I vow, wish to have me as your enemy.’

They stared at one another for a moment, before the Captain gave a tiny irritable shake of his head that seemed to signify acquiescence.