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He grabbed himself a drink and returned to the space under the stairs, inspected the vintage-style record player, the golden hornlike speaker. It produced no noise, was only therefor aesthetic appeal, but it had been hooked to a surround-sound system by a cord that trailed up the stairs. He followed it through the landing (which guests emerging from the bathroom continually tripped over) and into another room, then moved to the balcony overlooking the court at the front of the house. Watched as more of the guests arrived. They emerged from Lamborghinis, Porsches, an old Mercedes-Benz. He quietly expected to hear the clip-clopping of hooves on the cobbled pathway, the approach of a horse-drawn brougham or chariot, dependent on the number of such a party, with heavily curtained windows, a crack of a black whip in the hands of the coachman. He expected the coachman—or the butler at the front of the door—either would do—to drop the steps before opening the door, to offer his elbow to the white gloved hand belonging to the beautiful girl with golden ringlets, whose green silk dress would glint in the moonlight, who would take in the facade of the house and turn up her lips into a grin. Entitled, bold, she would make her way to the entrance, mask in one hand, dress held in the other. What would the night bring?
Look at me, Bron thought. A body through which I can be both.
He sipped at his third glass of wine, even though he didn’t much care for the taste, and left the balcony in search of an Italian voice. He thought he’d heard it, carefree and loud, but it was only the raised voices of the hired staff, demanding that the canapés be served at once! A young waitress, holding a tray of red wineglasses almost knocked him over as she passed. He took another from her tray and replaced it with his empty one. Tipsiness had reached his head, affected his joints to float. With the net of sobriety loosening its ensnarement, he moved, agile, through the chaos of the party, smiling at anyone who locked eyes with him, as if sharing in their secrets. He thought to look in the library—perhaps he’d find Giovanni alone in there again. But the room stood vacant. The fire was burning within, keeping it warm.
Ada occupied her usual space when it came to parties, crouched at the top of the stairs on the landing, her head betweenthe buffed and polished beams. She was talking to a woman in a 1920s style dress who crouched beside her. Custom to Ada’s desired theme of the night, a feathery mask obscured the woman’s face entirely.At least somebody got the memo …He, too, was wearing a mask of sorts. One that allowed him to explore yet another part of himself. But Ada was quick to recognize him, and shouted his name as he approached. The woman, seemingly unimpressed, darted away.
“Don’t give me away too easily. You promised to keep my secret.” He hugged her. “How are you enjoying the party then, sailor?”
Ada’s olive skin shone against the alabaster-white of her costume, a vintage sailor’s outfit, with a dark necktie knotted around her chest and a hat atop her head. She reasoned that rather than wanting to be a mermaid, she wanted to catch a mermaid. She held a net in her hand, and a mask with a moustache was strung to her face.
“Positively boring. People are having way too much fun.”
But by the way Ada examined his fabric, he believed her to be quite impressed with his choice of outfit, a nineteenth-century extravagance.
Mr. Edwards climbed the stairs toward them, wearing something akin to Highland dress. His tartan kilt was red and green, the bright white socks pulled up to his knees like a schoolboy’s, and the sporran rocking at his waist. Slung behind his left shoulder was a set of bagpipes that swung to and fro as he wound his arm around Ada. She whispered in his ear, and Mr. Edwards looked his way, astonished. “My boy, I almost wouldn’t have recognized you dressed like that!”
“That was rather the whole point, sir,” he replied.
A sudden twitch from the periphery of his vision, and he saw a figure mounting the stairs. He was only privy to his profile, and the way the railings obscured his face meant he couldn’t be sure it was him. But as he watched the figure ascend toward them andthen look back out into the sea of people who danced below, he was certain it was him.
Darcy looked particularly handsome. He wore the same black hat that he’d worn in the courtyard at Trinity, and together with a crisp white shirt that frilled at the collar and dripped from his wrists, it looked all the more costume-like. From the stiff way he was walking, Bron thought his breeches might be too tight to be comfortable, and found himself staring at the way the fabric molded his behind. Perfectly rounded. Darcy’s masquerade accessory was an eye patch, over the eye that slightly drooped.
“Father,” Darcy acknowledged. “Ada, shouldn’t you be in bed by now? It’s getting rather late.”
“Oh no, not yet, not yet!” she begged, and peered around her father’s leg, looking down into the crowd. Bored as she claimed to be, she was captivated by the floating dresses, dazzled by the glamour. “Please?”
“To bed with you, little one,” Darcy said.
“Father?” she begged.
“Darcy’s right, Addie. We let you stay up the last time.”
She turned to Bron in a last attempt, but her eyes already admitted defeat. “Bron?”
When she called his name, Darcy’s visible eye flicked upward, taking in the whole of him, the copious hair, the mustard shawl. Darcy’s face strained, and Bron felt his shaved arms prick. His clothes, which he’d felt comfortable in only moments ago, now felt like what they were seen to be: a costume.
Bron shrugged; he couldn’t argue against the wishes of her family, and now she’d given him away, he was rather annoyed with her. Perhaps her bedtime wasn’t a bad thing. It would help his escape.
“Come on, Ada. I’ll take you to your room,” he said.
“No you won’t,” said Mr. Edwards. “Enjoy the party. I’ll see to it.”
Darcy crouched, nodded his head against his sister’s, and flicked her nose. “Off you go. And don’t sulk.”
Mr. Edwards took her by the hand, and they departed toward her bedroom. He could hear Ada gushing as they waddled away: “Didn’t he look lovely, Daddy? You wouldn’t have even recognized him!” And Mr. Edwards’s agreement that yes, yes he did look quite lovely.
Left alone with Darcy, Bron felt himself move one step forward, and then one back, ready for the oncoming onslaught. Downed his glass of wine. The sudden movement made Darcy turn toward him. He smiled and offered a slight bow. The motion seemed oddly sincere, though comedic, and Bron brought both hands to his cheeks to conceal the blush that threatened to burn through the layers of powder. He was also conscious of the wide hem of his dress brushing the legs of Darcy’s trousers. However stupid and wrong he was to think there’d been power in his disguise, he couldn’t walk away now. He fondled the trimmings that crossed his shoulders, and filled the interval that stretched between them with a low, but short-lived growl.
“Argh.” He curved his index finger, lifting it like a hook. Darcy furrowed his eyebrows and straightened his mouth into a line, considering his actions. Bron hadn’t expected a blank response. “Aren’t you, well … aren’t you a pirate?”
Darcy closed his eye, and rocking on the balls of his feet, tucked his arms behind his back. “Well, no,” he said, glancing around before leaning forward. “I was hoping to live up to my nickname. I’m dressed as Mr. Darcy, you see. But I suppose I’m not doing a very good job of it?”
He didn’t think so at all, imagining at once Colin Firth emerging from a lake. Or was it a river? Who knew.
“Darcy playing Mr. Darcy. Alright … But why the eye patch?”
His stomach pulsed against the tight binding of his corset. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked that.
