“I cannot believe that Rose Abernathy thought to dress as Marie Antionette,” Catherine complained as they finished their circuit, and glared back at the lady in question. “It is positively traitorous—and to wear a robe de gaulle to a ball, of all things. That dress is little more than an over-long chemise.”
Jennet surveyed Miss Abernathy, whose airy white cotton gown looked quite comfortable compared to the stiff silk of her own costume. She had also foregone the expected powdered wig in favor of a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with a few silvery plumes. Yet she knew what lay beneath all that finery, thanks to the unpleasant encounter she’d had with her at the haberdasher’s shop.
“I believe she imitates a rather famous portrait of the queen,” Jennet told her friend. “I imagine young ladies who have not lost a relative to war still admire her sense of style.”
“I have reminded you of your poor father, how wretched of me.” Catherine gave her a rueful look. “I should not revile her. Someday this war will end, Jennet, and our men will come home victorious at last.”
“Until the next war breaks out.” Jennet felt an odd sensation of being watched, and resisted the urge to inspect everyone near them. “Do you see Mr. Pickering?”
“Not since we came through the line.” Her friend stood on her toes and looked around them before she pointed at the front of the reception room. “There, he is just leaving.”
“I will return in a moment,” she told Catherine before heading after him.
She caught a glimpse of the straw man as she came out into the center hall, but as she turned to the right all she saw was a wall painted with a large, faded chinoiserie depiction of a garden beyond a white iron fence. As she turned away she saw a shadow appear on the painting, and went closer to discover a pair of door handles painted in such a way to look like part of the gate.
“Very clever,” Jennet murmured as she tugged on one handle, opening a door-size panel in the painting that led into another room. She stepped inside.
The scent of beeswax came from an elaborate silver candelabra in the center of the long dining table. It held a handful of candles that partially illuminated the remarkable décor of the room. Every wall had been fitted with a carved, inlaid panel of dark wood painted with murals. Between them very fine marble columns rose to the ceiling, giving an effect of standing inside a temple.
Jennet picked up the candelabra and carried it over to the nearest panel, which had been painted with a mostly-nude, very strong-looking ancient warrior holding three golden apples in his hand. Behind him three ladies resembling rather peevish nymphs glared at the back of his head. It reminded her so much of the scene with Rose Abernathy she smiled.
“I know precisely how you feel,” she murmured. “I had what they coveted, didn’t I?” Or at least she had for a time.
The door behind her creaked as the shepherd cautiously entered.
“Forgive me the intrusion,” he said, bowing to her. “I thought I might slip in unnoticed to admire the panels.” He glanced around, his mouth bowing. “Why, this is incredible.”
“I think it a tribute to the labors of Herakles, Vicar,” she told him. “He was set the task of stealing the sacred apples from the Hesperides. It required quite an effort on his part, as I recall.”
“Yes, in pursuit of his prize Atlas tricked him into holding up the world for him, at least until he duped the god into removing it from his shoulders.” Jeffrey Branwen removed his mask. “I am glad you recognized me, Miss Reed. I had hoped to speak to you again in less crowded company.”
“So, I have not deceived you, either,” she said as she tugged down her mask.
He chuckled. “Your costume is very good, but you did not conceal your hair. No one else in my parish possesses such a singular shade of red.”
Jennet already knew why he wished to talk to her. “Miss Tindall told me that William Gerard has returned to Renwick, or I should say, Baron Greystone. I believe he is to attend the masquerade tonight as well. That is why you followed me into this room, is it not?”
The vicar nodded. “I have no desire to pry, my dear girl, only to offer my consolation, if you have need of it. Or a willing ear. Often it is good to talk to someone when such unhappy situations arise.”
“Have you known me to be in such need of late?” Jennet asked.
“No,” Jeffrey admitted. “I am not satisfied that I did enough for you after William left. There has always lingered an uneasiness in me on that account.”
A week after Jennet had been abandoned by her betrothed, the vicar had called at Reed Park. A sensitive man, he had probably thought to give her time to get over the first, worst part of being jilted. She remembered sitting with him and Margaret, cradling a cup of tea until it went stone cold, and hardly saying a word to either of them. That tableau had been repeated several times.
“You were very attentive, and a great help to my mother,” she told him. “I am sorry I was so silent at the time. I fear I had nothing to say that would have been acceptable or even rational. Indeed, I spent the first week imagining how I might kill him if he ever returned.”
He nodded, completely unperturbed by her malevolent admission. “Knife in the back, or a bullet through the heart?”
“Poisoning,” Jennet said. “Much tidier, and I would not have to be there.”
“I have been pushed to such thoughts myself on one or two occasions.” Jeffrey glanced at Herakles before he said, “Often life demands of us heroic effort in the worst of circumstances. I think that is when we are most capable of it, and when we become the best versions of ourselves. That I learned from my dear sister, Lucetta, who is quite a hundred times the best of heroes.”
“You are fortunate.” She thought of the ugly scene she’d had with Charlotte Fletcher. “It is not always possible to be a hero and human. Sometimes we become the worst instead of the best.”
“Happily, there is almost always another chance to prove ourselves otherwise.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you back to the ball?”
Chapter 7
When Jennet returned with the vicar to the reception room, she noticed an older woman wrapped in a colorful shawl sat on one side of a small, black-draped table by the hearth. An embroidered scarf tied back her frizzed hair from the face she had painted so heavily it looked like a crackled mask. A pair of wide-eyed young ladies, whom Jennet recognized as two of her neighbors’ youngest daughters, sat on the other side of the table. Between them and the older woman lay a battered deck of tarot cards.
“Alas, despite my best efforts there remains much enthusiasm for certain pagan practices,” Jeffrey said to her. “And my dear wife now looks ready to dance, or smack me with her crook. I should attend to the former before she resorts to the latter. Enjoy your evening, Miss Reed.” He bowed and then headed across the room.
Jennet remained where she stood to watch the fortune-teller. During the summers a band of Romany were permitted to encamp at Reed Park when hired to help with the sheep shearing, thanks to Jennet’s mother, who had a soft spot for the nomadic people. Every year Margaret would take her to the field where they kept their gaily-painted caravan wagons. There she would greet their ladies and assure they had all they needed for their families. From that long familiarity Jennet knew the travelers to be mannerly and quiet. They dressed in practical garments and kept to themselves.