He didn’t feel the need to mention his faint hope of locating the woman he’d seen in the window. He wasn’t sure what would transpire if he were to locate that particular miss. Still, donning the frog disguise would give him more opportunity to mingle with the masses. After his engagement was made public, such an opportunity could not honorably present itself.
“But the Winthrops are expecting a duke,” Percy said.
“Then be a duke,” William replied. “Just look disapproving and nod your head ever so slightly when introduced. There’s really nothing to it.”
“There’s everything to it!” Percy insisted. “We’re talking about marriage. You said yourself that the Winthrops plan to announce your engagement tonight. I will not stand before the elite of Newport and pretend to be engaged to a woman I don’t know. It’s not honorable.”
William sighed. “I won’t let it go that far. When the time comes, I’ll announce my presence to the Winthrops. I will not prevail upon you to do something less than honorable.” Although by Percy’s own words, William was again struck by how his whole situation was little less than the public purchase of a mistress. Where was the honor in that?
Percy appeared mollified but still hesitant. “Are you sure they won’t know instantly that I am not you? Have they not seen your photograph?”
“That young attorney assured me the negotiations were finalized much too quickly for the exchange of photographs. As I would arrive about the same time as the mail from London, it was decided that such an exchange would not be necessary. After all, she is marrying me for my title, not for my appearance.” Just as I’m marrying her for her money, he silently added. He could be an old geezer and she a pox-marked hag for all that it mattered.
“Look at you,” William said, pointing to Percival’s reflection in the mirror. “What woman wouldn’t be pleased to find herself shackled to such a handsome figure of a man. I suspect the poor girl will be beyond disappointed when she discovers that I’m to be her true groom.”
“Nonsense.” Percy remonstrated. “You’ve always done well with the ladies. I’m sure once you remove that ridiculous headpiece, she’ll be overcome by her good fortune.
What woman wouldn’t wish to find herself betrothed to a handsome duke?”
William grimaced. He rather expected the chit to be overcome with joy by virtue of his title alone. That was how his first wife behaved. However, once the vows were spoken, her true nature emerged.
His brother, Nicholas, had married the most inappropriate woman he could find, and a happier couple William had never seen. The jealous longing that surfaced whenever his thoughts turned to Nicholas pulled at his chest. What would it be like to share a life with a woman who truly loved a man for himself and not for his wealth or title? Did such a woman exist? If she did, he had run out of time to find her. The duty and responsibility that came hand in hand with his title had made that kind of happiness little more than a pipe dream.
He lifted the frog head and settled it on his shoulders again. Peering through the small eyeholes, he squinted at his absurd reflection in the mirror. “What woman indeed?”
“MISS WINTHROP, YOUR MOTHER WON’T LIKE BEING tricked like this.”
“My mother is an old hand at trickery,” Francesca said, remembering her mother’s deathbed performance. She adjusted the peacock mask to conceal most of Mary’s face. “As long as the evening ends with my engagement to the duke, she’ll forgive your involvement.”
And if she throws a sufficient fit, enough to make the duke withdraw his proposal, so much the better, she thought smugly. She stepped back from her regally attired maid, pointing her in the direction of the mirror. “There. You are stunning. Everyone will believe you are a rich American heiress.”
Mary frowned at her reflection. “Your parents will know. I’m not nearly as tall as you, Miss Winthrop. I don’t know all those fancy words you use, and I’ve never tried those fancy dances.” She pulled on the revealing bodice. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
“Nonsense,” Francesca reassured her, readjusting the folds of the elaborate costume. Indeed, poor Mary appeared a bit overwhelmed by all the blue and green feathers. But the low décolletage displaying Mary’s ample assets would draw all the attention. No one would notice the heavy garment dragging on the floor because of Mary’s lack of height. “You will be the princess of the ball. You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. Just stroll about the rooms downstairs and pretend you are me.”
Fran truly doubted things would progress that far. Once her mother realized that it was not Francesca in the peacock costume, the ball—and more importantly the engagement— would be cut short. She counted on her mother’s insistence on hiding scandal to protect appearances.
She glanced at her own reflection, wondering if her mother would appreciate the irony of her choice of costume. Francesca wore the free-flowing folds of fabric that symbolized the French statue given to the United States as a gift,
Liberty Enlightening the World
. The costume currently was a popular one at fancy dress balls, as fund-raising efforts for the monument’s pedestal had been sluggish. Mr. Evarts had approached the Winthrops to lend support and had left several sketches of the statue behind. Once erected, he had said, the statue would serve as a symbol of liberty and escape from oppression. That is what she hoped for this evening, an escape from her mother’s oppression.
“You won’t let me be engaged to no duke?” Mary’s wide eyes pleaded with her in the mirror.
“No, I won’t let that happen,” Francesca reassured her. However much she disliked the future her mother had planned for her, she couldn’t in good faith send her maid to stand in her stead before an altar. No, she must conspire a way for the duke to renounce the engagement.
“Now, remember the plan. You’re to go downstairs just as the duke enters the foyer, not a moment before. We’ll know him by that costume Maman selected. Curtsy, just as we practiced, when you’re presented.”
Mary nodded and attempted a wobbly curtsy in front of the mirror. Fran remembered the hours her mother used to make her practice the movement as a young girl. She hadn’t wobbled like that in twenty years. Surely, a conceited, pretentious old duke would be offended by such an awkward display. A smile crept to her lips. And if her mother caused a scandalous scene, so much the better.
“I couldn’t curtsy better myself,” Francesca said. “The duke has never met me so he won’t suspect a switch. Just play it by ear.”
“Where will you be? What if your mother confronts me?” Mary’s eyes grew big and round. “What if she fires me?”
“Tell her I made you do it. Tell them it is all my fault. She’ll believe you. Maybe that will make the duke call off this ridiculous engagement.”
They exchanged places. Francesca sat on the chair before the mirror while Mary vigorously stroked her long hair with a brush. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put it up, Miss Winthrop? Your mother would want you to have it high like a proper lady.”
Fran retrieved one of the sketches of Bartholdi’s statue from the vanity drawer. “It should resemble this lady’s hair. Gathered at the nape in a series of folds with finger curls below the ears.” Francesca said, appraising herself in the mirror.
Mary smiled. “You look like a young girl with your hair down around your shoulders. You have such pretty hair.”
Indeed, she did look younger this way. Not at all like the old spinster she was bound to become now that Randolph had abandoned her. Perhaps that was the true motive behind this sham engagement, she thought. Her mother might just want to see her properly married. As quickly as she entertained that thought, she abandoned it. Her mother was interested only in what her pawn could do for her. She had no concern for her daughter’s wishes or happiness. Alva’s desires were all that mattered. That was the way it had always been.
Francesca placed a copper crown with seven spikes radiating out in a sunburst design on her head. “This headpiece should stand out above the crowd.” She hesitated. She hoped she didn’t have to exercise the backup portion of her plan, but if the commotion at the doorway wasn’t sufficient to dissuade the duke, she had an alternative plan. A cold shiver slipped down her spine.
“If you don’t find me in the ballroom, you may wish to ask someone to check the gardens.”
NO ONE KNEW BETTER HOW TO STAGE A DRAMATIC ENTRANCE than her mother, Francesca thought, which explained the wide Siena marble multilevel staircase solidly stationed in the middle of the house. From their position on the mezzanine level, Mary and Francesca could lean over the ornate iron and bronze rail to the gathering below. From the look of the decorations, Alva had spared no expense for the ball. A large bronze fountain, filled with floating lotus blooms and water hyacinths, bubbled directly beneath them. Humming-birds and brightly colored butterflies had been brought in specifically to flutter about the spectacular floral master-piece. She suspected a few of her honey bees had found their own entrance as well, drawn by the overwhelming floral scents of lilies and roses. A white-wigged footman dressed in Louis XIV fashion stood just beyond the fountain, announcing the names of the guests as they arrived.
Had Francesca not already recognized the duke’s costume the moment he strolled through the decorative grille into the entryway, she would have known by her mother’s effusive efforts that a person of societal import had arrived.
“Now!” She urged Mary with a slight push. Mary tentatively approached the wide sweeping turn of the staircase to descend to the main floor, her blue and green silks rippling on the smooth steps behind her.
Francesca retreated behind a giant potted fern to observe her plan unfold. Guilt and uncertainty roiled in her stomach. She wouldn’t have taken such desperate measures if the stakes weren’t so high, she reassured herself.
The fair-haired duke, dressed in a regimental uniform, had the athletic build and charming features that many would call handsome. He was not as old as she had imagined, nor as corpulent. Her attention, however, was drawn to the duke’s companion, a man dressed in tails as if for a formal evening, but with the head of a frog, reminding her of a favorite storybook character from her childhood. Holding a hand to her mouth to soften the chuckle that rose to her lips, she imagined the beautiful princess in
The Frog Prince
would have had little difficulty befriending such a well-formed amphibian. She cautiously moved forward, risking discovery, to see his direction.
“His Grace the Duke of Bedford, and Mr. Percival Hunt,” the footman announced.
Her mother’s face lit with an internal glow. Rising from her curtsy, she stepped forward to receive her special guest. She looked so carefree and happy. When was the last time she had looked so joyful?
Doubt about the appropriateness of the switch began to gnaw at Francesca’s nerves. Her mother beamed her approval of the handsome young man. Anticipating her mother’s disappointment when she discovered the trick, Fran felt a moment of guilt. Perhaps she shouldn’t have embarked on this plan.
Quickly, Francesca started to descend a few steps. Her mother wouldn’t approve of the costume switch, but she’d never forgive the planned deception with Mary. However, Fran had barely touched the fifth step when she realized it was too late. Mary had just reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Your Grace,” her mother, beautifully attired as a Venetian princess, extended a hand toward the staircase. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Francesca—”
Her mother stopped in mid-introduction and stared hard at Mary. No one else would probably have noted the difference, but Francesca saw the joy drain from her mother’s eyes. A cold, passionless steel appeared in its stead.
Mary’s peacock feathers flitted in constant motion as she bent in a surprisingly graceful curtsy with arm extended. Francesca herself could not have executed it better. “Miss Francesca Winthrop, your grace,” she said, her voice strong and clear.
“Well done, Mary!” Francesca whispered before retreating back to the landing. Too involved with the scene below to leave, but too afraid of her mother’s reaction to remain in sight, she slipped back behind the fern.
“Miss Winthrop,” the duke smiled and accepted Mary’s hand, bestowing a kiss on her fingertips. Her mother tilted her Venetian headdress, searching the staircase without a change in expression, not once correcting the duke’s false assumption.
Francesca’s heart sank. This was not going according to plan! She had counted on her mother creating the sort of stir that would keep the society matrons chattering for weeks. The sort of stir that would cause the duke to hesitate and rescind his agreement to the negotiated engagement. If Francesca had more time, she knew she could convince the duke she’d make an unsuitable wife. Duchesses don’t go to lengths to avoid strangers and they don’t keep bees. They certainly don’t spend their time translating myths and legends from ancient and foreign texts. And they don’t have hurtful names given to them by newspapers that don’t understand their fear of crowded places.
Yet her mother nodded her approval as the duke placed Mary’s dyed-blue glove on top of his military sleeve and led her towards the gold ballroom. Francesca had to admit that they made an attractive couple. Mary’s smile broadcasted her delight as they made their way to the crowded ballroom. Francesca repressed a shudder.
She glanced back toward her mother who had flagged down a footman. Alva whispered something in his ear. The man glanced up the staircase. Afraid she’d been spotted, Francesca dashed down a hallway toward the servant’s stairs. Her hasty flight carried her down to the butler’s pantry and then out to the gardens through the delivery courtyard. It was time for her secondary plan. She was loathe to take such measures, but under the circumstances, she had no choice.
SWEAT STUNG HIS EYES AND TRICKLED DOWN WILLIAM’S temple within the closed confines of his papier-mâché prison. Although the open bottom of the frog’s head mask extended a good foot beyond his chin, the breeze stirring the ostrich feathers of the lady before him never reached his heated cheeks. Even a glass of cool champagne, awkwardly manipulated under the bottom of the mask, couldn’t reduce his discomfort.