“But, Cordy,” argued Aideen, aiming for some propriety, “what if you are seen? You’ll be ruined. You spoke of Oakdean’s grandmother–”
“I’ve been reconsidering, and I never should have succumbed to that blackmail. If Oakdean loved me, he wouldn’t care about lamb poems sent by a foolish child.” Cordelia twisted, face defiant. “I am taking a leaf from your book, my dearest friend.”
Oh, Beelzebub, thought Aideen, please no. “Erm, that might not be wise.”
But Cordelia shook her head, ringlets bouncing with enthusiasm. “I saw how your husband gazed at you on your wedding day. As though you were cake, but Oakdean is always so…polite. He kissed my forehead when we became engaged – my forehead! – as though I was but twelve years,” she ranted.
Never having seen this side of Cordelia, Aideen was both impressed and worried. “But what happens if you are recognised? Your pristine reputation will be in tatters.”
“No one shall recognise me as my costume will be superb, and I shall tell Mother I am staying the evening with you. But if I am identified and Oakdean is disgusted, then I shall voyage to Egypt as companion to your mother-in-law.”
“Oh. Has she asked you as well?”
“Actually, she said we could all go together. I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids.”
Cordelia picked up the tail and continued to stitch, humming.
And that was that, it seemed.
∞∞∞
The mantel clock chimed eight as Aideen nervously pulled her satin black gloves tight. She and Cordelia had torn apart an old fan, using the bone sticks to create wicked claws sewn onto the fingers, and Aideen had to admit they did look grand.
Not only that, but any gentleman that dared to take liberties would find a claw in their neck…or indeed any appendage that presumed to stray too close. Perhaps she ought to draw a picture for Uncle Seamus and he could incorporate them in his fiendish designs.
She meandered to the long mirror and perused her form.
A midnight-black silk dress sheathed her, colourless except for her pale skin. She twisted and smiled at the long tail emerging from the rear in a sensuous curl.
The ebony mask was also a wonder. Cordelia had proved a dab hand at painting silver scrolls around the eyes and a glittering nose. Long whiskers, crafted from the shafts of feathers, had been affixed and they danced and bobbed with any slight movement.
Lastly a small pair of pointed velvet ears sat atop her head. They were a little skewwhiff as Aideen had sewn them as an afterthought when Cordelia had departed to organise her own costume.
She laughed at the sight in the mirror, but her tone was forced, and she knew that if she dwelled upon her thoughts, the black attire suited her mood.
When she’d married, she had presumptuously assumed that Rakecombe did essentially like her. That they would spend time together. At the very least breakfast. But for the past two days, he’d continued to avoid her as though she’d the plague.
Barely one week married and already they lived separate existences.
And absence did not make the heart grow fonder. She could feel hers freezing over like Father Thames last February.
She tried to remember the day he’d proposed, the words he’d used. Rakecombe had proclaimed want, may even have starved after her like cake as Cordelia had suggested, but it appeared he’d now eaten it whole and didn’t want seconds.
So, damn them all.
Dancing. Champagne. Lobster patties. The important things in life.
“Aideen?”
The voice quivered from the doorway and she spun.
Saints in their stockings. A sheep.
In stark contrast to Aideen’s black, Cordelia was clad entirely in pure white. She had hoped they’d be able to enter the masquerade unseen, but she now suspected they’d be…noticed.
A white wig complete with huge floppy ears – better formed than her own – covered her friend’s usual honey-blond curls. The mask was also white except for black smudges around the eyes and a button nose. Woolly stuff had been attached to the décolletage, the waist and hem. An exceedingly long tail was draped across her arm.
Surely sheep had shorter tails?
