Page 3 of The Gilded Masquerade

A wig-wearing, masked footman opened the door, holding out his gloved hand to assist her from the carriage. Cloaked from the cold, she stepped down, cheeks chilled by the crisp, winter air. In eager anticipation, she delighted in the warm, welcoming appearance of Pemberley.

Everything seemed to stop as she gazed at the resplendent manor, from the lion’s head Darcy coat of arms above the open doors, the twin holly wreaths upon them, to the canopy decorated with red and white paper lanterns and boughs of evergreen. Below the canopy, a quartet greeted guests with the uplifting strains of “Good King Wenceslas” and a line of footmen wearing powdered wigs and fanciful livery attire waited for guests beside stable boys.

In the lamplight, the soft hush of gentle snow drifted around her like an enchanted tale. Captivated, she felt transported back to the Georgian era of the brilliant Lady Mary Montagu.

“Are you ready, Lizzy?” Uncle Edward asked.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. Her tummy nervously fluttered and she stepped aside for her aunt’s descent from the carriage.

“It’s quite something, is it not?” Aunt Madeline stated matter-of-factly, having seen her share of extravagant homes and balls.

In wide-eyed awe, they entered the grand foyer beneath an impressive crystal chandelier, filling the space with shimmering light and specks of diamond facets dancing on the marble floor. Representing the Christian forethought behind the lavish seasonal decorations, shiny garlands of cheerful holly and spruce branches adorned the grand entry. The fragrant aroma of evergreen from the majestic Christmas tree, at least twelve feet tall and decorated with glass baubles and candlelight, wrapped around her. Moved by the palpable merriment throughout the manor, she was breathless with anticipation, eager to dance as strains of the “Vienna Blood Waltz” tickled her ears above the din floating from the ballroom.

A footman took their cloaks, and another offered tea or chocolate after the chilled carriage ride, which they declined.

There was no reception line, so Uncle Gardiner presented his calling card to the footman at the entrance of the ballroom. Since it was a masquerade ball, there were no dance cards or introductions to the assembly, which suited her and, most likely, her aunt, who worried about the great Bennet/Gardiner deception they were about to perpetrate. Surely, here, on the opposite side of the Atlantic Ocean, Britons had never heard of the inventive—and scandalous—Thomas Bennet. Those foolish New York City society women had no understanding of what they denied themselves in the name of propriety!

“What a grand affair,” she whispered, then gasped at the sight of the soft ivory and gold grand ballroom filled with flowers. Four immense chandeliers hung like teardrops from heaven above the dance floor. Trying to control her expressive amazement at their size and the three celestial frescos in the domed ceiling, she squeezed her uncle’s forearm.

He patted her hand. “I daresay, quite unlike your family home in the Bronx,” he whispered.

“Indeed,” she breathed, lost in the vision of magnificent costumes and finery. The floor-to-ceiling gilded Italianate mirrors on one side of the ballroom reflected the colorful, swaying gowns as waltzing couples glided around the room. Giddy with excitement, she said, “If this is the ballroom, I can only dream of what the library looks like.”

“Ancient volumes, I imagine, but don’t get any ideas, Lizzy.”

“Yes, Uncle. I will resist the temptation at all costs.”

Much like the first time she entered her father’s laboratory, her gaze darted hither and thither, unable to linger long enough on any one ballroom spectacle for analysis. That would surely come tomorrow, but for now, it all—guests, gilding, and Christmas decorations—aroused her curious delight like a child in a confectionery. Some of the guests wore fantastic costumes; others, like herself and Aunt Madeline, wore elaborate gowns and extravagant masks. Most gentlemen, like Uncle Edward, donned fine evening tailcoats and plain masculine masks. She was thankful for her anonymity behind the gold lace and crystal Columbina and also appreciated the softening of decorum by the specter of informality a masquerade commanded. Obeying societal rules, whether in America or England, was tantamount to demonstrating good breeding, even if a splendid, gilded pretense. Anyone, such as herself, could pretend to be something they are not, and tonight, society expected little beyond respectability.

“If only Jane could see this,” she breathed. “Her Christmas would be infinitely happier.”

“Poor dear,” was all her uncle offered.

No one discussed her sister and the other unforgivable faux pas, which caused her family to lose caste altogether, but her sister was never far from her thoughts. “One day, she’ll attend a Christmas ball. I’m sure she will dance again and find the love of her life.”

Uncle offered a sympathetic smile. He loved his eldest niece, but like most people, kept his distance, considering her a permanent “unwanted ill.”

She changed the subject because it hurt her heart too much.

“The costumes, Uncle. Look, that must be Joan of Arc,” she whispered. “And there is Richard the Lionheart!”

Following behind the Gardiner trio, two women seemed to drain all the joyous revelry from the ballroom. Guests parted like the Red Sea to greet—not the Gardiner party—but the women behind them. Many bowed their heads in deference. Her unease at the inadvertent spotlight as they walked through the crowd to the opposite side of the dance floor was unavoidable. Who were the women to command such a greeting? Were they the ball’s guests of honor—titled nobility? There was a tangible display of respect—or was it fear?—of the company. Perhaps the aged woman was Lady Anne Darcy, the mistress of Pemberley, or was she the British equivalent of Caroline Astor? God help the ton if there was an equally formidable woman of diabolical temperament and self-importance, identical to the ruthless New York society matron who spearheaded the Bennet fall from grace. Her aunt would know; she knew everyone—even in England.

Keeping her eyes fixed on their destination and her arm secured within Uncle Edward’s, she dared not glance behind to scrutinize the jewels, the crown, the gown, or the younger woman beside her.

The Gardiner trio had scarcely taken their place near the screen beside the band as the waltz drifted into its final movement when a statuesque, regal woman—resplendent in the guise of a Venetian dogaressa—approached them. At the golden-hair woman’s side stood a tall man with red whiskers, dressed in a military officer’s uniform. His good-humored expression suggested he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

“My dear Mrs. Gardiner—how good of you to come,” the bejeweled lady said warmly. There was no mistaking the mistress by her greeting.

Aunt Madeline laughed softly. “However did you guess?”

“Your fondness for peacocks, of course.”

“So much for a masquerade,” Aunt replied with a delightful smile, as the two women clasped hands. “Lady Anne, I am truly delighted to see you again.”

The hostess’s smile deepened before turning graciously to her and her uncle. “Mrs. Gardiner, although this is a masquerade, you must allow me the pleasure of an introduction to your party.”

“Of course,” her aunt replied, stepping half aside. “Lady Anne Darcy, may I present Mr. Edward Gardiner, my husband, and Miss Eliza Gardiner, our cousin’s granddaughter.”