“You may need spectacles, Selina my dear. Like Clara herself, it’s small, but perfectly formed.”
It was rather a risqué thing to say, but many a lady sighed at the compliment, and Selina’s smile thinned in anger. “I’ll read it for you,” Rook continued:
“My first may hide me from thine eyes,
My second, your soul should be,
Whole, you may display your treasure,
For all to cherish and see.”
Clara wished she had never written the charade now. She knew plenty of boring ones, even some very clever ones, but instead, she had invented one with cryptic reference to her current situation.
Jack was eyeing her with a suspect eye, and she smiled innocently at him. He turned back, but not before Clara saw him wink. Did he know? Clara’s breath stuttered – she had never considered that Rook may have confided in Jack. Jack often saw things, she realised, in broader terms.
“Jack, I…”
“Shush,” he said without turning. “I like seeing Rook work things out.” Clara had to be content with that enigmatic statement.
In the end, it wasn’t Rook or Jack that guessed her charade, but Dill, who shouted out, “Mantelpiece.” Her aunt patted his hand, for she was now always firmly ensconced next to Dill.
The game continued, until Hestia announced, “One more, and then we will conclude.” Everyone agreed that Hestia should read the last charade.
“It’s Rook’s,” she said surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you write a charade.” Rook smiled at her – an uncompromising smirk.
“My first, it welcomes me within her,
My second gives me wine, food and dance,
My whole, it may spur a man to drink.”
There were murmurs at the incorrect structure and the lack of rhyme, followed by some near-guesses, but Clara knew it straight away.
“House party,” she mumbled.
“What was that, lovey?” Jack asked.
“House party,” she said louder, and Jack looked back at her all smiles.
“Of course,” he responded much louder. “Clara has it, ‘house party’.”
There were roars of laughter and musings over the clues. Hestia was glaring at Rook, wishing him to hell, and Jack was wiping tears from his eyes. Only Nathan was unimpressed, as he had fallen asleep in the corner: his whisky consumed.
Clara lay in bed, restless. She had retired soon after the charades: she felt exhausted in Rook’s company. She wanted to savour his attentions and to hope that Rook felt something for her, but the masquerade woman always stood between them.
Sometimes, she forgot that shewasthe masquerade woman. It felt like another being, an ephemeral version of herself that she had no control over. There was only one more night left, and it was to be a dance held only for the guests.
Would Rook declare himself? Certainly, after today, he had acted as though his intentions were honourable. But if he did, would she tell him about her masquerade identity?
ΦΦΦ
