Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘I don’t care, Nicholas,’ she breathed. ‘They are beautiful. Look at that one at the back with the classical scene. It’s Arcadia, I think. See the nymphs and fauns.’

‘Wait there.’ He left her standing on the pavement and went inside, shaking his head ruefully. When he emerged, he had a flat package tucked under his arm, silk ribbons streaming.

‘What’s that?’ Cassandra demanded, tripping over her feet as she tried to keep up with him, while looking back over her shoulder at the shop window.

‘Never you mind. You gave me an idea. It’s a present for a lady l know.’

Cassandra glared at the blue broadcloth stretched taut across his shoulders. So that was it, a trinket for one of his married mistresses when he got home to England.

However, it seemed the lady was nearer at hand. As the waiter brought food into their private dining-room, Nicholas strode in, fastening his cloak over his evening attire.

‘You’re not going out?’ she demanded.

‘I certainly am. I’ve ordered you an excellent dinner, you’ll be quite comfortable here with no need to go out. And don’t wait up,’ he called as the door closed behind him.

Cassandra tore a roll apart and spread butter on it with a lavish hand. He obviously wasn’t going out for dinner - he could have had a perfectly good dinner here with her, even if that was a fricassee of frogs’ legs she could see at the end of the table. And she very much doubted if an evening of cultural activity was what Nicholas had in mind, although she suspected the theatre would feature in his plans. Cassandra had heard about opera dancers, who apparently provided much of the entertainment for gentlemen bored with the play.

She was still wide awake as the clocks were chiming two and the door to the adjoining chamber creaked open. About time. He was so inconsiderate, here was she, lying sleepless, imagining him with his throat cut by pickpockets in some darkened alley…

No, it wasn’t that keeping slumber at bay, she admitted to herself. It was the thought of Nicholas in the arms of the lady for whom the fan was intended, of her gratitude for the pretty gift.

Candlelight showed under her door and footsteps crossed the floor. To her surprise, her door opened slowly, and Nicholas tiptoed in. Cassandra froze, her fingers grasping the coverlet. What was he doing in her room? Even when she’d had to sleep behind a screen in his chamber, he had never once entered that private space.

She half closed her eyes, trying to feign sleep, certain he would hear the sound of her racing pulse in the silent room. Under her lashes she watched him move towards her bed and bend down. Cassandra closed her eyes and almost stopped breathing. She knew he shouldn’t be there, knew she should cry out, but she could not, she didn’t want to. She felt him gently place something on the foot of the bed, then he tiptoed out again.

Gradually she relaxed her fingers as the door closed behind him and sounds made it obvious Nicholas was preparing for bed. The candle next door was snuffed. Cautiously Cassandra sat up and peered down at the foot of the bed. In the moonlight she could clearly make out the shape of an oblong package with a tangle of ribbon. He had given her the fan.

When Cassandra woke in the morning the package was clutched in her arms like a child’s doll, the ribbons crushed. Eagerly she pulled off the paper to examine the prize in the daylight. Gold leaf gleamed around the edge, the ivory sticks were smooth as butter under her fingers. Slowly she opened it up, tracing the delicate painted figures with a fingertip.

The door of Nicholas’s chamber banged, startling her out of her reverie. What time was it? Judging by the bustle in the street below and the strength of the light flooding through the windows, she had overslept. Nicholas must have gone out without her.

Cassandra balanced on one foot, tugging on her other shoe, worrying about oversleeping. Usually she was up well before Nicholas and had his hot water, clean linen and breakfast all organised before he shouted for the first cup of coffee.

In his room, yesterday’s shirt was tossed on the floor and in their private parlour, the remains of rolls and an almost empty coffee pot showed he had eaten before leaving. Cassandra rang for chocolate and rolls for herself and began tidying the bedchamber.

Should she pack their valises or not? Nicholas had not said how long he intended to stay, nor what their route from here would be.

When the chocolate came, she curled up in the window seat, the opened fan propped up at her feet, sipping the hot drink. Beneath her the street was thronged with tradesmen making deliveries both to the inn and to the private houses on either side. There were few carriages abroad at this hour and few gentry on the street: Nicholas ought to be easy to spot when he returned.

It was blissfully warm in the sunlight bathing the window seat. Cassandra wriggled comfortably against the cushions and realised to her surprise that she was happier than she had ever been in her life. Despite the fleabites, the boy’s clothes, the bumpy roads and Nicholas’s uncertain temper she felt alive, vital, free. For nearly eighteen years she’d been her father’s silent companion. Showing emotion was frowned upon, as were high spirits, or any display of temperament.

At best, her father had treated her as a rather unintelligent housekeeper. Now she was discovering that she could live off her wits. Rubbing shoulders with all classes, speaking French, pretending to be a boy, were all new experiences. A few weeks ago she would never have believed this could happen. When she’d run away from home she was only seeking sanctuary, not this new world of vivid impressions.

But the most unexpected boon was this companionship she and Nicholas had achieved. If that was what it was. Cassandra looked at the fan again, biting her lip with indecision. If only she knew what he felt about her, what his reasons were for giving her the fan.

She’d missed Nicholas in the street below, she realised as the door behind her opened and he strolled in whistling, hands in pockets.

‘You sound very cheerful,’ Cassandra remarked, wondering who was responsible for putting the twinkle in his eye and the spring in his step.

‘The sun is shining and not every young woman in Lyons is toothless.’ He tossed his cane and gloves to one side. ‘So, you decided to get up at last. Are we p

acked?’

‘No, because you didn’t tell me we were leaving this morning.’ Cassandra scrambled off the seat, then remembered the fan. ‘Thank you for the, er,..’ She could feel herself blushing and blundered on. ‘The fan… it is very beautiful.’ She gazed at the buckles on her shoes, wondering why it was so difficult to thank him.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. You’ve been a good girl, and I couldn’t resist the look on your face, like an infant in a toyshop.’ He flicked open the top of the chocolate pot to see if any remained, then threw himself down in a winged chair. ‘You can put it somewhere safe until you’re grown up.’

A good girl? Cassandra burned with indignation, within an ace of telling him just how old she was, then bit back the words. What would he do if he realised she was eighteen? Pack her off to Vienna with a respectable widow – or give in to the instincts that had brought them so close to a kiss yesterday?