Rhys Bowen - Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

I was surprised she even acknowledged my mother, who had been a famous actress and was now a famous bolter, having run off with an absolute string of men across the globe.

“Of course the Prussian lot are not in power anymore,” Binky said, going back to his newspaper. “They are only princes in name. Although I understand that there is some talk of restoring the monarchy to keep out the communists.”

“Don’t tell me the communists are threatening to take over Germany now,” Fig said. “Surely the Germans aren’t silly enough to think that Russia is a good role model for anyone.”

“The communists are everywhere, Fig. Even in England. Anywhere where there is discontent among the masses, and Germany certainly has its share of that at the moment. We must stamp them out before they can do real damage. I hear that Rupert especially is in very thick with the new National Socialists. Now they seem to have the right idea.”

Fig was clearly disinterested in politics. “So when is this reception at the palace, Georgiana?” she asked, examining her face in the looking glass over the mantelpiece.

“Next Tuesday, and then the ball is in Hampshire on Saturday. Golly, what a busy week.”

“And what on earth will you wear?” she asked. “You don’t exactly have the right wardrobe for a place like Broxley.”

“My white deb’s gown should be suitable for the reception, shouldn’t it? And my tiara, since it’s royalty. But as for the ball, I don’t think I’ve got anything smart enough.” I looked at the invitation again. “Wait a minute,” I said. “It’s a masked ball.”

“Does that mean just masks or does it mean fancy dress costumes?” Fig asked, looking at Binky for the answer.

“Blowed if I know, old bean.” He looked up over his newspaper. “Never been to a bally masked ball. Never want to go. Not a ball-going type of chap. Why don’t you telephone Broxley and ask them?”

“Telephone?” Fig demanded. “All the way to Hampshire? Binky, you talk as if we were made of money. Georgiana will have time to write to them, and receive a reply, all for the cost of a postage stamp.”

“I’ll go and write to them immediately,” I said, sliding off the window seat. “If I have to provide a costume, I’ll need enough time to get something together.”

As I went upstairs I heard Fig mutter to Binky, “She gets invited to the palace and to places like Broxley Manor and yet nobody has proposed to her yet. What on earth is wrong with her? We’ll have an old maid on our hands if we’re not careful.”

“Oh, steady on, old bean. She is only nineteen,” I heard Binky say as I ran up the second flight of stairs. The conversation made me feel sick and hollow inside. Since my brother had inherited the title and estate after our father died, he was now Duke of Rannoch and owned the family homes. And his wife constantly made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled about having me around. But I had nowhere else to go—no money and no skills to survive on my own. Besides, the world was in the throes of a great depression and even people with qualifications a mile long were standing in breadlines. It was a discouraging thought to realize that my only option in life was to make a good marriage. If only I had looks and talent like my mother, I could have gone on the stage, but my only talent was being a passably good horsewoman. And I was too tall to be a jockey. I sighed and opened my wardrobe, staring at my meager collection of clothes. I was doomed either way. If it was a costume ball, my homemade effort would never compare with the smart designer costumes of the Prince of Wales’s set. If it was not . . . I held out a taffeta ball gown, made by our gamekeeper’s wife, and shuddered.

I almost sat down and replied that Lady Georgiana Rannoch regretted that she could not attend their ball. But then I told myself that I would be a fool to turn down a chance to go to a do at Broxley. I still had no idea why I had been invited, but if it made Fig feel miffed, then I was definitely going to go.

I waited with poorly concealed anticipation for an answer from Broxley to arrive in the post. Two days passed and no letter came. Tuesday arrived and I was in a flurry of nerves as I prepared for the reception at Buckingham Palace. You’d think that someone related to the royals would feel quite at home going to the palace. Absolutely not true. I tend to be a trifle clumsy when I’m in a difficult situation and I’m always scared I’ll break a piece of royal china, or knock red wine over a visiting diplomat. I looked at the white gown that Fig’s maid had ironed for me. Oh, golly, was white a sensible color? What if I dripped some kind of sauce down my front? I wasn’t very good at eating in public, especially in royal circles. At least we’d removed the train so I didn’t have that to trip over.

I was about to try on the dress when our butler, Hamilton, tapped on my bedroom door.

“You are wanted on the telephone, my lady,” he said.

I went downstairs, mystified. Nobody ever telephoned me. Perhaps the reception had been canceled? I felt a wave of relief flood over me.

I picked up the mouthpiece. “Hello,” I said cautiously.

“Is that Lady Georgiana?” an American voice said. “Honey, this is Dottie Merriman. You’re coming to our ball, and I just wanted to tell you that we’ve ordered a whole rack of costumes and masks, so don’t worry about bringing a thing. It seems that nobody in Britain stocks proper Halloween costumes—no skeletons or vampires or anything terrifying and ripping fun, so I had a whole trunk-load shipped over from the States. I do insist that my guests look creepy. Which train are you catching, honey? I’ll have Cavendish meet you at the station.”

I realized I hadn’t managed to say a single word until now. “I planned to arrive about five o’clock,” I said. “And after the ball, is one expected to stay the night?”

She had a delightfully musical laugh. “Honey, the ball will end with breakfast as the sun comes up. We never do things by halves at Broxley. See you on Saturday then. I know you’re going to have a ball.” And she burst into laughter as she hung up, leaving me breathless.

Reassured that I wouldn’t have to put together a costume, I rang for Fig’s maid to dress me for the reception. By the time I was secured into the white dress and my hair was arranged around the family tiara, which had been a gift from Queen Victoria to her daughter (my grandmother), I actually looked the part. I didn’t feel very regal inside as the taxicab dropped me at the visitors’ entrance to the palace and I was escorted up the grand staircase. In fact my knees were shivering violently under that thin white dress, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. A footman appeared offering champagne. A small orchestra played Strauss waltzes in the far corner. Other people stood about in little groups, chatting awkwardly. I looked around desperately for anyone I might know, but the other guests all seemed to be my parents’ age or older. And my white dress stood out horribly.

There was no sign of Their Majesties nor of any of their children. A large red-faced man, his uniform dripping in medals, slunk up beside me.

“I say, hello, you delectable creature,” he said. “Don’t tell me. You’re the token sacrificial virgin.”

He laughed a hearty haw haw . I gave him what I hoped was a cold stare.

“Which one is the Hun then?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.

“Rum do this, what? Doesn’t seem that long ago that we were fighting the blighters and now we’re welcoming them with open arms.” He moved closer to me and slid a finger down my bare arm. “I say, you’re an attractive little filly. If it turns out to be too frightfully boring why don’t we just pop off somewhere alone? I know a quiet little nightclub where we could be very cozy.”