13 June 1892

Rosalie clutched Lily's hand with her own, both of them wearing pastel silk gloves to separate themselves from the swarm of debutantes in the ballroom, who had donned gowns and matching accoutrements in pure, pristine white. The air shone with excitement, positively shimmering with the aura of what was sure to be a very grand time. It would be a gas, as her father liked to say. Not that Lord Winthrop attended many social obligations, even when he was in Town, which he was now.

Sadly, Mary's parents had forbidden her from attending while Emma was busy with wedding preparations, but with only the two of them, it was still sure to be a grand time. Pitchers of lemonade with sprigs of mint sat off to the side on white-draped tables. The chandeliers sent fractals of crystalline light spinning all around them, making her feel as though she were lying under a canopy of branches in the summer, the patterns of light dappled as they shifted across her. Gentlemen in black suits and well-fitted trousers were mingling about the room in pairs or clusters, while the ladies wore strings of pearls, held fans, and were clad in redingotes, which they were discarding at the entrance to keep in the coat closet.

Her every inhale smelled of romance and delight, and her every exhale was a swooning sigh. Had there ever been such a night? She adjusted her mask self-consciously, which covered enough of her face that she felt certain no scandal would occur if someone were to attempt to discern her identity. Besides, these were all friends of Lily's family–none of them would know who she was.

"Rosalie, are you quite alright? You look rather flushed and the night has barely begun," Lily teased, her blonde curls tucked into a chignon at her nape. "You are not in need of a fainting couch, are you?"

She shook her head. "No, I am simply savouring the atmosphere. I hope this does not spoil the experience when I do have my first coming out in society."

"Nonsense, every party is enjoyable in its own way." Lily steered her into the crush. "Look, now, allow me to tell you about our esteemed guests. There in the corner is my sister, speaking to Lord Palliser, the Earl of Didsbury. She seems to have set her cap on him, and he doesn't mind much–he is, after all, of an age to be married, at twenty and seven. And next to him is his spinster sister, Laura, she rejected many a match because they were only after her brother's money and estates."

Rosalie gave a nervous chuckle, some of her excitement fading into anxiety about the future. "You mustn't be so rude. Do you really know that she is a spinster? How old is she?"

Lily laughed but looked bashful. "My apologies. You are correct, she is only twenty and three. And next to them, no, don't look now, the woman in the lovely green gown..."

As they discussed the guests in the room, a song suddenly began to play and the guests broke into a waltz. A rather scandalous dance, she was informed by Lily, for when the waltz had first become popular, mothers everywhere had been horrified by the thought of dancing in such a way that one could hold their partner's body rather close. Suddenly, a rather clumsy but ravishing young lady bumped into Lily, causing her to spill her drink. Her mask was plain and her gown classic yet unadorned, but it only accentuated her lovely features: raven hair, high cheekbones, and green eyes. She was accompanied by a man who seemed caught in between the gangly awkwardness of adolescence and the firm confidence of manhood.

"Oh, you must forgive me," the young lady said. "I am so awfully sorry."

Lily was temporarily out of sorts, but she recovered quickly. "No, it is quite alright. An honest mistake, with the number of dancing couples around us. I am Lily Edwards, the sister of Regina Edwards, whom you may have met earlier."

"No, I am afraid that I haven't had the chance to meet the hostess," the dark-haired woman said. "I am Da-That is, Delia Barnes."

"This is my dear friend, Lady Rosemary Williams," Lily said, introducing her under a false name as they had agreed to do. "And your companion?"

"He is Ma–excuse me–Marcus Wakefield," Delia said with a chipper smile. "Once more, I do apologize for the accident regarding your gown. Would you like me to reimburse..."

"No, no, I'm certain my maid can take care of it," said Lily. "Though I ought to go and find her..."

"Oh, and I see someone whom I believe I know," said Delia. "Marcus, you will be fine with Rosemary, will you not?"

"Yes," Marcus said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He opened his mouth as though to say something else, before closing it again and dipping his head in a facsimile of a bow. "I... It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rosemary."

"Rosa–that is, Rosemary is just fine, there is no need to stand on ceremony amongst friends." She adjusted her mask, wondering if it was crooked and that was the reason he couldn't seem to keep his eyes from her person. It was a rather disconcerting experience, though she couldn't say that she minded it entirely. "It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Marcus. How are you enjoying the party thus far?"

"It has surpassed all my expectations," he said, and there was a slyness to his tone, as though he were telling a joke, but one that she would not understand. Violinists began playing the lively tones of a waltz. "Would you care to dance?"

"Dance?" she repeated. The rules of society dictated that she could not refuse him. Of course, were she to strictly follow the rules, she would not be at this party to begin with, especially one not sanctioned by her father, before she had strictly come out into society. And the waltz was so very intimate a dance, to do so with a stranger? That would be the height of scandal, would it not? "I..."

"I know etiquette demands you agree, but that seems rather unfair," he said, a smile curling his lips beneath the black domino mask. "After all, what is the use of my asking if you cannot refuse?"

"You make a wise point." Yet the way he was looking at her made her think she would rather like to commit an act that would be truly scandalous. What did it matter? Few people knew who she was here. "But I think I would rather like to dance with you. You seem like you would be a good dancing partner."

He took her into his arms as the music began, her hand on his shoulder and the other clasped in his. The white gloves she wore offered little protection from cold, yet they felt like a hindrance now even as they draped over her fingers like a second skin. "That is an exaggeration, I assure you. I only learned to dance very recently, and even then not passably well."

"Nonsense," she said. "You have yet to step on my toes once."

Marcus laughed, and the sound rang within her like a bell, the vibrations reverberating and resonating, making her shut her eyes and dream of long-lost places. His tone grew concerned. "What is it? Has my dancing made you dizzy? I was not aware that it was that bad."

"It is nothing," she said, opening her eyes. "Only... only a memory."

"Would you like to share it? I assure you, I am excellent at keeping secrets," he said, his dark eyes aglow beneath the mask. "Many a secret has been safe with me.... Rose."

"Oh, a veritable vault, are you?" she smiled, gazing up at him. "It was only the thought of an old friend, whom I met on a long journey, many years ago."

Rosalie thought she felt him suck in a breath, yet his voice was even when he spoke. "Where was this journey to? The Orient, perhaps?"

"I... Yes, how did you know?" she said, tilting her head back to look up at him. His raven hair flopped over his mask, but instead of being mysterious and brooding as Alonzo Price or Rochester, he seemed boyish, charming.

He released her, sending her spinning and narrowly missing a very tall vase. "Oh, forgive me. I am afraid neither of us may make it out of this dance alive."

"It would be an adventure to remember," she said, catching her breath as her pulse sped. "That much I can tell you."

"Your father, I am certain, would be most displeased," he said with a smile.

Rosalie stiffened at the mention. "What do you know of my father?"

"I meant no offence, my lady–Rose," he said. "Only that many wellbred young ladies' fathers are very protective over their daughters, and with good reason."

"How did you know I was a well-bred young lady?" she said. "Or... a lady of quality, as the ton puts it?"

He shrugged. "I've been told I have a knack for reading people. It comes in handy in my line of work."

"And here I mistook you for a landed gentleman, with your dancing skills," she joked, though her heart still raced from the narrow collision with the vase. And perhaps, from the way he looked at her. "What sort of work do you do?"

Just as he opened his mouth, Lily came up to them. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you. Rosa–Rosemary, there has been an emergency. We must depart immediately."

"But–" She looked over at Marcus, whose eyes darted between her and Lily as though recognizing something. "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Wakefield."

"It has been a delight, Rosemary."

As Lily dragged her off, she wondered if she would ever see Marcus Wakefield again... and why she cared.

***

13 June 1892

Dear future husband,

I must tell you of the spectacular time that I had at the masquerade ball! Well, technically, I am not supposed to call it a ball, as I have yet to come out in society and thus it is extremely inappropriate and the height of impropriety for me to be attending any event remotely close to a ball. Thus, it shall be our secret.

The ball–that is, the masquerade–took place for Lily's sister's coming out! It is her first Season and she is having a grand time with a great many suitors. Lily and I stuck to ourselves, drinking lemonade and watching the others dance, which mainly fended off any possible men who could possibly attempt to accost us.

However, I shall admit... there was one man with whom I did dance, and he was rather dashing. And also frighteningly familiar, though I will tell you now it was likely a trick of the senses. How could any men be familiar to me when I have met so few? I would surely be able to place them right away. No, it is only my own wishful fantasies that I might be able to meet a long-lost stranger at a masquerade ball, to dance the night away with him, and then leave my shoe behind, just like Cinderella.

And I am no Cinderella, that much is clear.

Thus, I can assure you–no competitor for my hand exists! You are quite secure in your place in my heart.

I am quite tired, though, from being up so very late–balls are not for young girls, as my governess Miss Wilson and my father would continually like to remind me–and so, on this note, I must be off to bed.

I remain,

Sincerely yours,

Rosalie Winthrop