“Marvelous! You all look beautiful.” Lady Rascomb held her hands clasped in front of her, as if she were doing her utmost to remember the moment. Prudence felt a stab of homesickness for her own mother. What would Jane Foster think of this event? She could only picture her mother shaking her head, the indulgent hint of a smile on her face as she went back to her mending. With eight children, there was always something to mend.
Ophelia’s father, Lord Rascomb, entered the foyer from the passageway that led to his study, dressed in Germanic lederhosen. His plain black mask was in his hand, the black ribbons dangling freely. “You all look incredible. And those mountains are recognizable from here!”
Tristan Bridewell, Ophelia’s brother and Eleanor’s husband, was walking while trying to affix his minimal white lace mask. He clearly could tell which one was his wife, and openly stared, jaw dropped.
“Close your mouth,” Ophelia scolded her brother.
“Close yours,” he countered. “That’s my wife, and she is stunning.”
Prudence glanced back at Eleanor, whose neck was flushed pink, and her lips were curved into a smile.
The evening was to commence with the women of the Ladies’ Alpine Society posed around the ballroom. After the first half-hour, they would change position, taking the opportunity to dance with members of the ballroom, and then go to their next position. So they would rotate, dancing more and posing less, until the culmination at midnight, when the auction to reveal their identities would take place.
Prudence couldn’t imagine they would raise much money, but she looked forward to taking off the mask and the wig. She didn’t feel in her element here—she much preferred being out of doors, in the prairie or the woods. Like when she was at the Thornridge cottage. She cringed. She shouldn’t think of Leo now. It wasn’t helpful.
“Last chance for a nibble or a drink,” Lady Rascomb said as Prudence and her friends filed past her.
She’d barely eaten. But she couldn’t manage another bite. She was glad for the mask now—she’d keep her expression hidden.
The arrivals were slow. But their entrances brought joy. Each couple announced by the majordomo gasped as they entered the Rascomb ballroom. The embroidered ombre banners made the room shimmer with otherworldliness. The small orchestra played older pieces before the dancing commenced, which helped with the strangeness, because their world was familiar and different all at the same time. Beeswax candles were everywhere, which did give a lovely aroma to the room.
The Matterhorn construction at the deepest end of the ballroom was surprisingly well-done. Prudence hadn’t much hope, but the sculptor they’d found did an accurate job. Standing at ten feet tall, the replica had the same iconic scooped-out peak that anyone would recognize. It was painted in the same shadesas the banners and their dresses, glittering with silver accents. There was a rope affixed (by Eleanor, so they knew it was safe and secure) to the top, allowing any would-be adventurer to wrap the looped end around their waist and attempt the climb.
Dinner was prepared in the next room, and the stockpile of ice in the kitchen was brought in by the wagon full. Everything was as lovely as it could be. All the hard work and planning was complete, and Ophelia had instructed them all to bask in the glory of their work. But Prudence felt empty. She could fake her satisfaction, of course. It wasn’t the first time any woman had thought that, she mused as she took her place on a dais set up opposite the banners.
Ophelia, of course, began the evening at the Matterhorn peak. It was only right, since she was the leader of their expedition. Justine was nearest to the entrance, opposite of Prudence, and Eleanor was against the mirrored end wall, opposite of Ophelia.
In the end, they’d opted for simplicity, and Prudence was glad of it, as it lessened the complications of the evening by quite a bit. This had been done on a budget, and they were well under, thanks to the advice of Mrs. Moon.
Prudence wished for Mrs. Moon to appear. She missed the older woman as well. How had her life been so upended by those two people?
The crowd swelled, and the chatter became quick enough that she could no longer hear the majordomo announcing the guests. But without a doubt, she spotted Lord Grabe. His enormous shoulders were a dead giveaway. Perhaps she could be distracted by him this evening, if she could make him part with the throng of married women who followed him about.
His mask was half blue and half green, accenting his different eye colors. Prudence almost laughed. He was so vain, but if she were that beautiful and unusual, perhaps she would be as well.
A gong crashed from the orchestra, the cue for the dancing to begin. The women descended from their heights, ignoring all attempts at chatter, and headed to the dance floor. They opened the dancing with a minuet.
Ophelia danced with her father, Justine with her brother Francis, Eleanor with her husband Tristan, and Prudence was paired with the eldest Rascomb son, Arthur, the baron Berringbone, who clearly wished he was dancing with Lady Emily rather than Prudence, given the longing glances he cast the woman’s way.
Prudence didn’t mind. She hadn’t found anyone she thought could be Leo, and no older woman with a cane had yet hobbled through the entrance. The dance finished, and Prudence wobbled under the weight of her wig as she curtsied to Arthur, Lord Berringbone. As she maneuvered to her position at the mirrored end of the ballroom, she purposely walked by Lord Grabe, giving him a daring wink as she passed. He stopped mid-sentence and grinned back at her.
At least that was something. She climbed up the black dais and posed. She was Ben Nevis. The feared, mercurial Scottish mountain. Which she didn’t feel akin to at all. As the ballroom filled out with latecomers, people filed past staring at her, whispering. Prudence wasn’t sure if they were whispering about her dress, her wig mountain, or her identity. It didn’t matter. She felt nothing. In this ice-themed ballroom, Prudence could blend in.
The next bell sounded, and Prudence descended. This time, Lord Grabe was on hand.
“I’d like the next dance, Miss Ben Nevis,” he said, offering his arm. She looked up at him the best she could, the wig dangerously toppling back. She nodded as well as could be expected and smiled. “Will you not talk with me?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head no. They’d agree not to speak while in mountain costume. After all, mountains were silent, and besides, Prudence’s American accent was a dead giveaway.
“A mountain full of mystery, I see,” Lord Grabe said, his voice light and flirtatious. They made their way through the crowd, people staring as they passed.
Were they watching her or him? She was a spectacle—staring was the point—but Lord Grabe was handsome, wearing trousers that tightened at his powerful thighs and a coat cut to accent his broad shoulders. His duo-toned mask was barely a mask, which was likely so because the rest of him was so easily recognizable.
They took their place on the dance floor, and he smiled down at her. “You know, the one thing I can say for certain is that I’ve never kissed you.”
The thoroughness of her mask made it impossible to reply, even with a facial expression.
“For I have not kissed any of the mountain girls. Not even Prudence Cabot, whom I had the pleasure of escorting to the opera.” His hands were warm on her waist, and there was something comforting in him that made her want to put everything down and curl up next to him and cry.
