Paxton's War (25 page)

“'Tis firmly in place,” Robin replied as he gently pulled on the fabric to make certain it was secure.

“Where's Jason?”

“I expect him to be down directly. Be patient, Piero. The night promises to be long and trying. We must pace ourselves accordingly.”

“I worry so much about the maestro, I can hardly sleep.”

“Calm yourself. Jase can take care of himself. You remember, years ago, the way he beat back Buckley Somerset, right in front of our house. Jason plays sonatas with rare tenderness, there's no doubt, but our musician is also something of a tiger.”

“He may be, but I'm not. I'm not at all certain I can go through with this scheme. I said I would, but now I'm not certain.”

“If I was agreeable, I don't see how you can object.”

“Because I'm the one directly involved, not you,
caro mio
.”

At that moment Jason Behan Paxton, dressed as a harlequin, complete with floppy, pointed hat, multicolored baggy pants, and painted face, bounded down the stairs. One look at his friends and he howled. Piero was dressed as a peacock, plumes and all, and Robin was outfitted as a portly yellow-flecked butterfly. The three costumes themselves, conceived and sewn by Robin, were ingeniously crafted, and yet the musician couldn't help but laugh.

“Begging your pardon, maestro,” said Piero, “but I do think that for orginality and boldness of design, Robin will not be outdone.”

“You're forgetting the handiwork of Rianne McClagan,” replied Robin as the three men prepared to leave the house for the carriage. “There's no more compelling reason to attend the ball than to see what stimulating fantasies Rianne has conjured up this year.”

Rianne lowered the black lace fan to reveal her face. She was dressed as a Spanish contessa in a flame-red gown, stiff lace collar, beaded stomacher, high mantilla, and matching red comb stuck in a wig two feet high, black and shiny as panther skin.

“Good evening, Mr. Somerset,” Rianne said by way of greeting Buckley at her front door as she quickly inspected his buccaneer outfit—tight black breeches, full white shirt, silver-brocaded vest, black pumps with gold buckles, white bandanna around his forehead, cummerband-held rapier around his waist, and black velvet patch over his right eye.

“Good evening, Miss McClagan. You look enchanting. Is your niece about?” Buckley asked with his usual impatience.

“She's about to fall from exhaustion. I'm afraid I've overworked her. Preparing costumes can be such a chore. Thank goodness that job is behind us.” Rianne sighed, casting a glance toward the empty, silent workroom, which only a few hours before had been a hub of frantic activity in which eight women labored to meet the deadline. After weeks of strips and streams of colorful fabrics covering every inch of the place, the room had been transformed to its former condition, neat as a pin.

“I presume Colleen is dressed and prepared to leave with me straightaway,” Buckley said, not in the least interested in hearing about the seamstress's work. “As a host, I'm expected to be there early.”

“I'll fetch her myself,” Rianne said, deciding that she shared her niece's low opinion of Buckley.

Somerset took a few steps from the doorway into the hall, and went no farther. He was too excited about seeing Colleen to sit down. Finally, he was to be with her. All these months she had tried to resist him, but it was no use. Her resistance had only added to his determination and longing. Clearly, she was prepared to surrender. After all, she had asked him to take her to the ball. Where was she? He had to see her, had to have her.…

From the other end of the hallway a vision in green and glittering gold floated toward him. He was viewing the goddess Diana, and for a second, his heartbeat stopped. Never before had he seen a feminine figure of such grace and beauty. Her gown of moss green was decorated with full and quarter moons. Her long blond hair was adorned with acorns. She carried a bow, and a small sack of arrows was slung across her lovely back. On either side of her, she was accompanied by two thin greyhounds, growling softly as they approached Somerset, who took a few discreet steps back. Her amber eyes shone like jewels through a mask of white silk satin brocade.

Seeing Buckley dressed as a pirate, she felt her heart sink. Still, she was determined to make the best of the evening. The five long weeks of feverish sewing had done something to her—what, she wasn't sure. She was neither melancholy nor joyous. Yet her costume gave her a small sense of courage, just as Rianne had hoped, a daring that she had lacked for so long. It was as if she had left her former self somewhere in the aftermath of Ephraim's execution and was reappearing as a mythical huntress. Her dogs and arrows, special gifts from Rianne, provided her with a measure of protection. She felt heady and strange, for this last Saturday night in August was her first time out in nearly two months, and something told her that anything might happen.

The Roman centurion wore a heavy metal helmet with a dark brush running over the top. His armor clanked as he walked to the back of the alleyway, behind the Paxtons' Charleston town house. There, under moonlight, he spotted an angel whose sheath of sheer ivory silk was framed by two light, wire-framed wings. Thousands of white goose feathers had been painstakingly pasted over the garment by Rianne and Colleen, and upon her head sat a garland of silk peonies, violet and pink.

When the soldier took off his helmet, his disheveled red hair gave him a funny look. Joy didn't care. They embraced, and kissed, and kissed again.

“Did you tell Hope?” Peter asked.

“I told her that you'd arranged for her to visit Allan. At first she said that under those conditions she preferred not to see him at all, but finally she changed her mind. She's going to see him later tonight.”

“Does she know that you're going to the ball with me?”

“She didn't ask about my escort, and I didn't mention you. There are certain things Hope and I can't discuss. You and my brother head that list.”

“Have you heard from your father?” Peter asked with concern.

“Not since I came back to Charleston. Father's not quick to forget.”

“When he understands how I arranged for Hope to see her husband, perhaps he won't be as angry with you and …”

“Please, Peter, let's forget all that tonight. Tonight I have this mask. No one will know me, and we can dance, Peter, we can hold each other and …”

He interrupted her sentence with a kiss. For many minutes they stood there, wrapped in one another's arms, until they were finally able to break away. Together, the centurion and the angel walked to his coach, where they left the Paxton town house behind and followed a long trail of elegant carriages, each carrying excited passengers dressed in fantastic attire moving slowly and steadily toward Somerset Hall.

Chapter 7

Something in the air was different—an especially strong summer breeze, a luminous moon that looked full to the point of bursting, twin shooting stars falling in opposite directions. Colleen felt uneasy, intrigued, alive. As she and Buckley made their way toward the main house, he made a point of calling many of the male servants, lined up in blue cutaway coats and white knee breeches, by their first names. Despite his costume, his voice tipped them off, and they greeted him with solicitous bows. “Good evenin', Master Somerset, good evenin'.” At first Colleen was reluctant to part with her greyhounds. She still felt shaky and insecure, but she finally allowed Buckley to entrust them to an attendant.

For all its splendor, the house seemed slightly ridiculous to Colleen—pompous and pretentious, like Buckley himself. The evening's bizarre atomsphere, however, lulled her into suspending judgments. The great gala had more the feeling of a dream than reality. As she and Somerset climbed the main staircase, heading for the second-story ballroom, he didn't cease pointing out the treasures—the furnishings, paintings, and enormous tapestries—that his family had accumulated, treasures all to be bequeathed to him. Colleen couldn't concentrate on his comments, for ahead of them was a Renaissance courtier with lavender codpiece and silver slippers, a knight in shining armor, a barmaid with a flimsy low-cut off-the-shoulder blouse, and Cleopatra herself.

Inside the ballroom, the madness was even more delicious. A twelve-piece ensemble played a selection of popular minuets and quadrilles. A brown bear danced with an elf. On one side of the room a huge feast had been set upon a round rosewood table as large as a small lake. An enormous Wedgwood soup tureen held a pinkish-white shrimp bisque. Platters of roasted squab and cornish hens were piled two feet high, and a wigged servant carved slices of pork roast onto the plates of the hungry revelers. A steaming rice pilaf, a Charleston specialty, with colorful bits of tomato, okra, and cloves, was being spooned from large crystal bowls. Piping-hot trays of porgies and hen crabs were emptied almost as soon as they arrived at the table. The aroma of
gâteau-patate
filled the room—a sumptuous mixture of boiled sweet potatoes, cream, eggs, butter, sugar, and cinnamon. Great piles of persimmons stood in a pyramid at one end of the table, and, in addition to dozens of freshly baked cream pies—peach, strawberry, and chocolate—a huge English trifle, soaked in wine and sprinkled with macaroons, sat in a compote dish of pink-colored porcelain.

Servants circulated around the ballroom with trays of fine wines and aperitifs, and clearly the partygoers were thirsty. Though the costumes themselves had the effect of intoxication, the revelers were anxious to push themselves even further as they readily down glass after glass of sparkling liquors. It was as if an inebriated state of mind made them less self-conscious about their ludicrous disguises.

Dressed as Indians or monks, men felt free to ask women whom they'd never dare ask before to dance. When their wives objected, they pleaded innocence. “I was certain that she was your Aunt Helen,” protested a gentleman in wolf's clothing.

Unable to refuse Buckley's invitations to dance, Colleen nonetheless found herself looking around with growing amusement. The enormous ballroom had filled to capacity. Dancers were bumping into dancers, and more than once did Colleen feel a wandering hand on her thigh and buttocks. Their identities hidden, men were taking liberties. It was with great relief that she spotted the entrance of Rianne, who was instantly surrounded by admirers, customers who wished to show the seamstress how glorious they looked in her costumes.

By Rianne's side was a man, taller than she, who had taken on the appearance of a Chinese warlord, an outfit that Colleen herself had helped construct. Several weeks back, the niece had asked her aunt whom the outfit was for, and most mysteriously Rianne had refused to say. Now Colleen understood. The warlord was her escort. A man of broad shoulders, he appeared in black quilted evening pajamas. On the back of his overblouse a ferocious, fire-breathing dragon was stitched in loud reds and purples. A large obi sash, holding an ivory-handled sword close to his abdomen, encircled his waist. His wig was as black as Rianne's, with a long ponytail protruding from beneath a small red silk skullcap. Layers of black mascara and eye pencil, along with small dabs of wig cement, had turned his eyes an astounding almond shape. Long false nails painted bright lacquer-red were held in place with a special adhesive. But underneath it all, who was he?

Colleen went over, expecting to be introduced. Much to her amazement, she wasn't. Rianne used the evening's whimsical mood to avoid formalities, and when the niece, filled with curiosity, pressed the issue, her aunt merely presented the gentleman as “my Oriental friend.” The man spoke in a mock Chinese accent, making it impossible to identify his voice. Rianne seemed most pleased at the attention her escort was attracting and did nothing to mitigate the mystery. After all, she reasoned, she was entitled to a bit of private romance.

Buckley was anxious to get Colleen back on the dance floor and into his arms. He knew that by the end of the evening she'd be his. That, coupled with his anticipation of Major Embleton's long-awaited announcement, heightened his already ebullient mood.

Their eyes met, their hearts knew, and she suddenly stopped dancing with a surprised Buckley and simply stood there, facing the harlequin. Those sleepy, sloped eyes could belong to no one else. He was flanked by his peacock and butterfly friends, whose effusive praise of Colleen's outfit went on for several minutes. All the while, Buckley, quick to recognize Paxton, tapped his foot impatiently, taking a menacing stance he thought suitable for a buccaneer.

Jason resented Somerset's attitude. A sense of competitive anger rose through the musician, who, in Buckley's costume, saw the reflection of his own childhood fantasy. He, too, had thought of attending the garish affair as a pirate, but had rejected the notion, wanting to wear something less threatening. Suddenly he felt foolish in his clown's costume.

“You cut quite a figure as a jester,” Somerset sneered sarcastically. “It suits you well, though I'm surprised that you're not here with the orchestra. Earlier I saw a lanky boy carrying their fiddle cases and naturally assumed 'twas you.”

“I'd like to cut his throat,” Piero whispered to Robin as he went to his snuffbox for a quick snort.

“The figure of you as a pirate, Buckley,” Jason shot back, “is hardly one I would have anticipated. I was certain you'd be far more specific in your choice, a unique character from history, perhaps.”

“Whom did you have in mind for Mr. Somerset, maestro?” Piero was pleased to provide his protégé with the setup.

“Figures more suited to his own refined personality—say, Attila the Hun, or Caligula, perhaps.”

Colleen felt herself stirred by the nasty exchange, silently pleased to see Jason so untypically aggressive. For a moment, all her anger and doubts about the musician vanished, and she was disappointed when, with the formal introduction and entrance of Colonel Hugo Somerset and his wife, Paulina, all conversation ceased.