The Meridian Gamble (30 page)

When we step inside, I expect to be
met with more spectacle, but I am wrong. The foyer is small and somewhat
unassuming for a home that is so large. It is a moderate room with dark wood
panels that surround us. A few pictures in simple frames hang on the wall that
depict scenes from ancient battles. Aside from the front door, there are three
more portals, one on each of the remaining walls. And I cannot help but to
wonder where they lead.

The entryway reminds me of
something you would find in the lair of a secret society.

I look at the mask I am holding,
and tentatively bring it to my face.

“Is this a masquerade party? I had
no idea,” Marjorie says.

“Nor I,” Mother says, clearly
displeased. And she stares at me in an accusing way.

“I most certainly did not know,” I
say. “The invitation made no mention of it.”

“Apparently, this is to be a night
full of surprises. How delightful,” Father exclaims. “Surely we are in for a
treat!”

Yet, his enthusiasm stands out in
my mind. I have never known my father to show excitement over a party before.

The butler opens a door for us, the
one opposite the front, and we take tentative steps through it. The room we
encounter is massive, the true lobby of the home, yet what captures our
attention is a beautiful melody that greets our ears. Never before have I heard
a sound so sublime. It instantly soothes my soul, transporting us away from any
memory of the grim nature of Coventry Park.

A woman stands before a small crowd
of elegant guests, singing. She is simple in appearance; her brown hair is
wrapped up in a bun, and she wears a white dress that reminds me of an angel’s
vestments. But her voice rises and falls with mastery, as she sings a song from
an Italian opera, to the accompaniment of four musicians playing stringed
instruments who stand beside her.

I am not familiar with the piece,
nor do I understand the words. But she sings with such emotion, her voice
evokes such pain and sadness that it touches my heart. I somehow know her song
is one of loss and unrequited love. It simply must be. And I can feel a tear
trickling down my cheek. Yet, I am not alone, and see others pulling their
masks away from their faces, to wipe at the corner of their eyes.

The emotions well up within me, and
for a moment, I feel as though I am mourning a lost love of my own, though I
have no idea who that person could be.

Though I am caught up in the beauty
of her music, slowly the details of the room catch my attention. It is an epic
space, even on the scale of wealth I have seen amongst our affluent friends.
Black and white tiles lie at our feet in a pattern that makes me dizzy, that
stretches off down wide hallways that lead to depths I cannot see. And a grand
staircase curves up behind the musicians. Paintings decorate its wall, and I
would not be surprised if one of them was from an Italian master, and should be
hanging in a museum.

The Bennett home reminds me of a
palace in Versailles.

I scan the crowd, trying to
determine the identities of the partygoers around me, but it is difficult to
discern what lies beneath their masks. I imagine that some of them must be
members of pleasant society who we know. And guests even mill about upstairs,
in what I assume are the private chambers of the home. In fact, I look up and
spy three people leaning against the railing of the second floor landing,
enjoying the concert, two men and a woman. And something about them intrigues
me.

The woman has reddish-brown hair
that flows in luxurious tresses down her back. A few locks hang over the side
of her face in a dramatic way. Even with the simple white mask on her face, her
beauty is breathtaking. Another man standing at their edge seems handsome
enough, with black hair cut short, and a steely gaze. Yet, a third man at their
center stands in sharp contrast to the others. He is completely bald with a
shine to his head, and his mouth twists into a sickening grimace. And I would
swear for a moment that his smile is filled with jagged, sharp teeth. But this
simply cannot be.

I try not to look at the strangers,
but I cannot stop myself from taking covert peeks their way.

The trio put on the casual air of the
wealthy elite, but there is something odd about them. And it would seem that my
eyes play tricks on me. Waves seem to come from their bodies, not unlike the
kind that ripple from the ground on a very hot day, and I must blink several
times to make the effect go away. But I am certain there is a strange power
about them. The bald one begins to turn in my direction, and I panic, and
finally force myself to pay attention to the singer once more.

I cannot stare into the jagged
man’s eyes. They have a certain intensity, like Roland’s do, and I feel he can
see right through me. But in the case of the bald one, I suspect his gaze might
stop my heart, or make me explode.

When the sad song ends, applause
break out from the assembled guests, and I clap nervously, struggling to hold
onto the stick on which my mask is fixed. Waiters immediately enter the room
with flutes of champagne carried on trays, and Marjorie leans over to whisper
to me, though I can barely listen, as I am so unnerved by the three strangers
upstairs.

“Do you realize who that is
performing? It’s Arianne Kremble, the opera singer,” she says, impressed. “This
party is amazing, though I’m sure Mother is annoyed they did not tell us we
would be attending a masquerade ball. It’s bad form. Who knows, she might even
call off your marriage.”

“We both know that isn’t going to
happen,” I say, almost disappointed.

But for a moment, I wish that
Mother would do exactly that, as I am overcome by the bizarre tableau that
surrounds us.

Finally, Roland approaches through
the crowd, and I am relieved. Though he wears a round oval mask that covers his
face, I would recognize his fair hair anywhere. He removes the disguise to
reveal a broad smile, and takes my hand and kisses it, gingerly, before he
turns to address my family.

“Thank you so much for joining us
in our home this evening.”

“The pleasure is all ours. We
appreciate your gracious hospitality,” Father replies.

“Roland, we were not told this
would be a masquerade ball,” Mother says, in a disapproving tone.

A feminine voice rises over
Roland’s shoulder.

“Actually, it is a surprise party,
in honor of our Father’s birthday. And we thought, why not stick to the theme
and make it a surprise for everyone?”

The speaker comes sweeping up to
Roland’s side. She is a vision of gold, in a sparkling dress with a matching
gold mask, which she pulls from her face. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders
with a few loose curls, and though her beauty seems simple at first, upon
closer inspection, I realize she is actually quite stunning. Her skin is
flawless and practically glows, not unlike a porcelain doll’s, and her ruby
lips form a perfect heart shape.

And though her effusive demeanor is
somewhat annoying, her presence calms me, just as Roland’s does.

I am surprised to see that her
cleavage is exposed, just a bit more than would seem proper, especially for a
girl her age. But, perhaps this is how they do things in Europe.

“Tell me,” she says, looking about.
“Is this not more fun than a stuffy cotillion?”

Roland laughs.

“I suppose if you’re going to meet
my family, we should start with my sister, Marion.”

“It is a great honor to make your
acquaintance, one and all,” she says, giving a dainty curtsy.

Marion smiles in a charming way
that appeals to the others, and I, too, find myself taken with her grace. She
seems almost modern somehow, as though the conventions of society do not quite
apply to her, not unlike the demeanor Roland holds. I imagine that she is witty
and clever, and were the current circumstances not so intimidating, I might
daydream that we could be friends.

More Bennetts approach, an older
man and two younger ones, who must be the father and perhaps more sons. One I
recognize as Adam, from his green eyes, which sparkle under a mask. And they
lock with my own for a moment.

“And, of course, you’ve met my
father before, James Bennett. Though sadly, only briefly.”

“So good to see you again, James,”
Father says, shaking his hand.

I am not sure when they had the
chance to meet, perhaps on the night voices whispered from behind Father’s
office door. I had thought that James Bennett was in Europe on business, but
clearly he goes back and forth. Roland’s father is a tall and distinguished
looking man, handsome, though his eyes are a brown color and not quite as
striking as his son’s. Marion stands at her father’s side, and wraps her arm
around him in a loving way.

“It is Papa’s birthday soon, and he
will be leaving on business, so we decided to celebrate. And we have some very
special guests here tonight to help us enjoy the festivities.”

“Yes, my children are quite
thoughtful,” James Bennett says. But there is almost a note of sarcasm in his
voice, and I sense that he is less than pleased.

“Well, congratulations and good
fortunes to you,” Father says, cheerfully.

“And these are my brothers,” Roland
says. “Thomas and Adam, who you have also met.”

“It is such a great honor to meet
you,” Thomas says.

His brothers bow to us, and shake
Father’s hand. Thomas is tall like Roland, with sandy blonde hair that is not
quite so light as his brother’s. But he is exceptionally handsome, with a
strong jaw. And I begin to notice that the Bennetts are unnaturally attractive,
far more so than average mortals. This does not go unnoticed by Marjorie. She
does not seem picky about which brother’s attention she catches, and quickly
gravitates toward Thomas, giving him a generous smile.

But Adam doesn’t seem jealous.
Again, I sense that he is looking at me from beneath the mask he leaves on. It
is unnerving, somehow. And yet, as I am around him more, I am still convinced
that there is something oddly familiar about him. I am more certain than ever
that we have met somewhere in past, though I am not sure when. And I find
myself wishing he would reveal his lovely green eyes.

“It is so nice that our two families
finally have the chance to meet properly,” Marion says. “And I am thrilled to
discover that I am to have sisters who are tres jolie et charmantes.”

Marion has a slight Gallic accent,
and her speech reminds me of a more refined version our maid Cecily’s.

“Are you French, Marion?” I ask.

“Non, but I was schooled there.
However, now that I have returned to London, I will have to practice sounding
like a proper Englishwoman.”

“Nonsense,” Marjorie says. “Your
speech is absolutely lovely. We are studying French ourselves.”

And Marion’s face lights up.

“How wonderful! We will all be able
to practice together! And I can become reacquainted with your custom of English
tea. Won’t that be lovely?”

“Yes, that will be nice,” I say,
with a laugh.

“Now come, let me show you the fun
we have planned for you all.”

Marion takes my hand, and leads me
through the crowd of guests inside, as my family follows. We walk out through
double doors that lead to their gardens. And my eyes widen at the spectacle I
see taking place.

The party is even more vast than I
had imagined. What we stumble upon is magical; the garden has been decorated to
look like a circus, or some exotic carnival.

The space behind the Bennett house
is not so elaborate as ours; it is more of a flat, grassy lawn with bushes at
its periphery, though there is a wonderful view of the ocean. But colorful
lanterns have been strung across poles, and more music greets our ears, played
in a lively tone. Acrobats perform juggling tricks on a wire suspended in the
air and an elephant stands in one corner, kneeling to allow guests to pet it.
There are fountains of chocolate in which various treats can be dunked, and it
is all very amusing, everything that upper crust parties in England typically
are not. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I have been truly
transported to a foreign land. The wondrous setting erases all thoughts of
frightening guests upstairs.

There is a small stage set against
a wall of the house, and a banner that hangs above it that reads, “Count Jerome
- Illusionist.” And it would seem that a performance is about to begin. A
magician steps from behind the curtains, wearing a black tie and tails, and he
removes his top hat to reveal a balding head that matches his pallid
complexion. And though he has not yet spoken, I already detect a bit of
arrogance about the man from his smug expression.

Our group moves to the edge of the
crowd, to better view the stage.

“Good evening, ladies and
gentleman. I am Count Jerome, and I live for your amusement,” he says, with an
overly crisp pronunciation that could only have come from years in the theatre.
He gives an exaggerated bow and a wave of his hands to the audience, which they
heartily applaud.

“Thank you so much for allowing me
the great honor of performing for you this evening. Though I am sorry to say, I
must start things off on a bit of a sad note, as it would seem my assistant has
taken ill. Which requires me to request the generous aid of one of our guests.”

I am shy by nature, and silently
pray that he does not pick me.

“You, young miss. Perhaps you can
assist me?”

I look up, afraid that he has
chosen me, but I am grateful to see that he points to another young woman at
the front of the crowd. And there is a momentary commotion, as his victim
resists. But finally, those standing around the girl coerce her to take the
stage.

I recognize the tousled hair of the
young man who gives her a push to move along. It is Gregory Lawlor who
encourages Philippa to take part in Count Jerome’s show.