Page 17 of Much Ado About Margaret
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’Tis true: there’s magic in the web of it.
Othello, Act 3, Scene 4
Maggie was distracted and cloud-headed while she and her sisters dressed. She avoided their questions, which upset Winny and made Violet more and more determined to know what bothered her. Inexhaustible, Violet had nearly gotten it out of her when Aunt Eliza appeared to collect them so they could all go down together. The appearance of their aunt quelled the mischief, and Maggie in particular knew she was being watched.
“Your Aunt Mildred tells me there are several gentlemen eager to make your acquaintance this evening, Margaret,” said Aunt Eliza. She had very wisely chosen her mask and gown to mimic a doe, and she did have that long-limbed, graceful quality about her. “Isn’t that encouraging?”
Winny and Violet giggled behind their masks (Violet, frivolous and self-assured, a peacock, and Winny, shy and thrifty of opinion, a powdery white moth) while Maggie diligentlysmiled and nodded and kept her true thoughts to herself. For the occasion, Maggie had chosen to be a golden owl. To match her feathered mask, she had donned an amber silk gown embellished with dark brown embroidered leaves and flowers along the neckline.
In the time it had taken Maggie to rest, fret, and dress in her gown and mask, the main floor of Pressmore had undergone a startling transformation. Arm in arm, the Arden girls descended with their aunt into a fairyland.
“It could be Titania’s kingdom,” she heard Winny whimper on an inhale as they descended from reality into dream.
And so, the young lady had it just right. To Maggie, it felt as if Pressmore had sunken through time. The estate had always held a primal power, the gardens whimsically overgrown, the park their sparse counterpart, dotted with fountains and statues nestled among the manicured hedges. But this was the home in its full wild glory, all windows and doors thrown open to the cool night air, lanterns glowing on benches and tables, hanging from trees, each sparkling with mischievous promise. The air hung thick with lush honeysuckle and rose, the source of which became obvious as the family reached the bottom of the marble staircase—fat, glossy blossoms decorated every corner of the place, so fresh and obliging they seemed to radiate dew. Laughter danced on the garden-scented breeze, and guests danced, too, their identities hidden behind all manner of masks. Here a swan, there a wolf. Two columns of dancers wound through the landing, traveling with light allemande steps, buoyant silken soldiers.
Or perhaps sheep in slippers, shepherded only by a fancy borne on the wind.
Ann had declared that she wanted this event to rival the lavish masquerades of the Argyll Rooms and the Pantheon. Maggie could say confidently that she had accomplished just that.
“My! Ann has outdone herself,” Maggie heard Aunt Elizasay, not entirely approvingly. Weddings were generally small, private affairs, and to celebrate this uniquely and ostentatiously was not necessarily the fashion.
Maggie didn’t care. It was wondrous. She couldn’t stop gazing around, amazed. “I think it’s enchanting.”
Aunt Eliza wore a frozen grimace. “Enchanting, to be sure, but bold, too.” And bold, of course, was bad. Tapping Maggie on the forearm with her fan, her aunt added quietly, “Do not be too free with your thoughts this evening, my dear. Let the men set the tone of conversation. They lead and you follow.”
Maggie did not reply, and also tried not to let it dampen her spirits. At the bottom of the stairs, she felt so small, overwhelmed, and engulfed by not only the number of guests but the wild, lavish decorations.Though she be but little, she is fierce.To recallA Midsummer Night’s Dreamin such surroundings seemed perfect, and she let it bolster her. Nobody was announced. All formalities had been done away with, leading Maggie to feel even more strongly that she had gone to change upstairs in one world and awoken in another.
“What are we waiting for?” Violet asked, whisking her sisters away from the landing—to Aunt Eliza’s visible chagrin—following the trail of the dancers. She called some warning after them, but Maggie did not hear it. None of them did. The dancers led the young ladies to the dining hall, positioned at the heart of the house. Garlands hung low from every doorway, playfully brushing cheeks and foreheads. By the time they stood before the great feasting table, Maggie had been anointed by no less than three plunging, flowered boughs. So many people had come to Pressmore for the day she could hardly believe it, and with the profusion of masks, it made one feel as if anyone could be anyone.
The staff rushed by, tending to the endless table of delights glistening below decorated chandeliers. They wore brightly colored turbans and masks as they replenished deep porcelaindishes heaped with rice and soups, fragrant with spices Maggie had never encountered. Lane and Ann emerged from the dizzying swirl of masquerading guests. There was no mistaking Ann, radiant in gold, with a matching veil swooping down from her equally striking hawk-beaked mask. Tiny stars and moons sparkled on the veil, embroidered with unparalleled delicacy. And naturally, Lane was at her side in a smart blue jacket with a yellow cravat, his mask a simpler version of hers. He smiled out at them from under his disguise, a jaunty collie of a man, unconquerable, a man who did not so much speak but breathlessly erupt.
“Ladies!” he crowed. Unless Maggie was mistaken, his lips were already lightly stained with punch. On his left side, his sleeve was empty below the elbow and pinned to the shoulder with a gallant star-shaped brooch. “Dear, dear cousins, welcome to our modest celebration.”
“Modest for a fairy queen, perhaps,” said Maggie with a grin. She peered over Lane’s shoulder. “Are we not to dine in the usual way?”
Normally, there would be dancing and merriment, then a break for the guests to sit and eat. Already, she saw folk coming and going, eating at various round tables throughout the dining hall and then leaving to partake in the other amusements sprinkled throughout Pressmore. She itched to explore such things herself, though the table exuded a mouthwatering scent. Ginger, she detected, and rose water, but also a mélange of spices she had no names for.
How was she supposed to behave herself and follow, not lead, in such circumstances?
“Oh, we have dispensed with all of that,” Ann said lightly and with a twinkling laugh. “Our guests may drink when they like and eat when they like, and dance until the morning light chases us back to our chambers. Tonight, we are not in England, we are simply together.”
“My wife.” Lane beamed. “The poet!” Behind his mask, he winked at Margaret. “Though she is perhaps not so skilled with words as some who are present. By the end of this evening, I feel certain all shall be turned on its head, and even shy Margaret Arden will have found herself a fine and true love.”
“Please!” Violet clapped. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“What smells so intriguing?” Maggie asked, navigating them away from that topic. It made her anxious to think she might become the center of attention. This was Ann and Lane’s evening, not hers. Ann pursed her lips knowingly, her husband saying, “Ann has had her cook from Calcutta to stay, and we are to experience the tastes of her home.”
“One of my homes,” Ann gently corrected, leaning into her husband. “Arjun has prepared mutton curry, minced lamb with ginger, cinnamon, and coriander, potatoes in a spiced gravy, lovely little flatbreads, and aubergine stuffed with onion.” It was clear she could go on for far longer but paused and cleared her throat primly. “Later there will be sandesh and roshogolla. And of course, more customary treats are available for the less adventurous among us.”
“There’s one now,” remarked Violet, observing a willowy lady in an elaborate ivory mask sniffing distastefully at a miniature plate bearing curry and yellow rice. Even with the disguise, Maggie recognized the young woman to be Regina. “Ooh, she didn’t seem to like that. Hardly surprising. With a scowl like that I wonder if she would find fault with the prince regent himself.”
Violet had no patience for primness and modesty, both of which Regina exuded.
“Violet, be kind,” Maggie chided in an undertone. She still didn’t know what to think of Regina, but she had to admit that she was gazing around with a chilly, imperious air. Maggie couldn’t imagine holding her nose up at all the delicious-smelling food Ann’s cook had prepared.
“Perhaps Miss Regina will find the white soup more to her liking,” Lane commented with his usual congeniality.
