A sudden voice sounded from the salon’s open double doors and her feather-light fingers fell away. Their privacy fled.
“You look as though you’re about to dance.” Thecomte’s smile softened his features. “I would join you if my rheumatic legs would allow it.”
Brielle moved across the salon to kiss him on both cheeks. “We were admiringMamanand discussing the comingfêtewhile awaiting the dance master.”
“Ah, the masquerade ball that will last all night and introduce you to much of society except those unfortunates frolicking with the king and queen at Versailles.”
“Is your ballroom big enough?” she asked as they moved toward Bleu.
“It can accommodate a few hundred,” Grandfather replied. “Mercifully, there are many doors that open onto the terrace so guests can be outside in the fresh air should it become too crowded.”
“Will you be my first dance, then,grand-père?” she asked, a smile in her voice. “My last is already taken.”
The masked ball began beneath a full moon that turned the Loire into silver ribbon. The incessant sound of carriages on cobblestones reached Brielle in her suite. Stifling a yawn, she waited for the ordeal of dressing to be over as it seemed she’d been preparing since breakfast. Now evening and swathed in apricot silk and Chantilly lace, she turned before a looking glass to admire the garment that rivaled Parisian gowns, the seamstress said. Half a dozen maids encircled her, ready to adjust, snip, and pin every part of her ensemble. Brielle lost track of who said what with their effusive chatter.
“Is it true American ladies prefer coiffures like yours?”
“Others may be powdered and puffed but you make the artificial unnecessary.”
“You belong at the court of Versailles,Mademoiselle.”
Cosette brought her half-mask, its edges adorned with the same Chantilly lace as her gown and embellished with faux gemstones and feathers.
No one knew who she was… including she herself.
She left her boudoir, the odd thought circling round her head as she caught her reflection in a hall mirror by the light of a hundred candles. Such extravagance. Such a charade. She still felt she was playing dress up, pretending to be someone she was not.
Grand-pèrewas waiting, escorting her down thechâteau’sstaircase to the ballroom now teeming with guests, the hubbub already so great she could hardly hear his remarks. Four hundred guests?
Where was Bleu?
All was a fascinating if bewildering blur of costumes—Venus in a rose-wreathed frock, Cupid with powdered pink hair, monks and friars and knights, harlequins and sailors, sultans and shepherdesses, kings and queens and clowns.
Her own mask was itchy against her already heated skin, and she resisted the urge to tear it free. “I suppose I have the extra advantage of being unknown to all.”
“All they know is that a surprise is in store,” Grandfather said, seemingly amused at the ruse. “At midnight when all unmask I shall introduce you.”
And once her mask came off, the imposter she was—the orphaned, indentured tavern maid with callused hands—would be revealed. Or so she felt. These guests had nothing to hide, all aristocrats to the core.
Musicians tuned their instruments as the ballroom filled. Brielle stood by open double doors as the opening minuet ensued and then, despite the challenge of new shoes and being half-masked, partnered with Grandfather for a gavotte. A performance—for that is what it was—every eye on them, especially her, the mysterious stranger. The crowd’s swelling merriment gladdened and drained her all at once, but the press of guests seemed incomplete as she searched and discarded the costumed men in the immense room.
None compared to Bleu.
Frustration sparked. Had he decided not to attend? Was he unwell? Or was it simply the fact he was disguised and somehow she overlooked him?
The air grew sullied by spirits and sweat, the laughter almost maniacal in places, the stares of so many unsettling. She drank a cup of punch, joined three other couples for a cotillion, her fully masked partner dressed as a Venetian, or so he told her. More dancing ensued, other partners trying to guess her identity and provoke her into removing her mask too soon.
In time they adjourned to the buffet—no less than six supper rooms—overflowing with a dizzying number of dishes.Ragoût de veau?Gateau mille-feuille? Meringues and blancmange baskets of fruit she recognized but the rest? Overwhelmed as she was, she had little appetite.
Again, her eyes roved the rooms she walked through, drawing attention wherever she went. Was it her gown? The intrigue of her presence? Before she could ponder it further she was blocked by a gentleman in a black half-mask dressed as a buccaneer, cutlass and all.
“Mademoiselle…” He bowed low, sweeping his wide-brimmed hat to one side, its ostrich feather plumes brushing the polished floor.
Onlookers encircled them as if he was more prince than pirate. When he straightened, he took her gloved hand and kissed it to the titters of more than a few fan-fluttering ladies. Next she knew they were dancing, he having returned her to the ballroom.
At midnight the music quieted for the unmasking. Though the mysterious buccaneer was still by her side, Brielle hadn’t stopped looking for Bleu. Finally themaître des cérémoniesbrought the room to a standstill and then, at the trill of a violin, every mask came off, laughter and talk punctuating the dramatic moment. Brielle’smasquedangled from her hand as she looked to Grandfather who had removed his though surely all knew the identity of their host.
He took her hand with a proud smile, his voice carrying as he introduced her. More murmuring ensued, even applause and a gasp or two, and the musicians struck the next dance. The hour she’d waited for had arrived and she needn’t search any longer. Her beloved Bleu did not disappoint. Wearing a simple domino—a black silk cloak—over his suit, he walked toward her as the floor cleared for dancing. Her heart gave an answering leap at his brief, flawless bow and she curtsied, unable to mask her elation.
