Masquerade
By Laura Schiller
Based on Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
"Quite a landscape," said Jo, chuckling to herself as she peered around the dining room door.
The Kirkes' New Year's Eve ball was in full swing, with masked ladies and gentlemen whirling across the floor like something out of Jo's own romantic tales. She saw medieval doublets and gowns with high ruffs, angel wings, tinsel halos, cat ears and fluffy tails, and all sorts of other disguises, but the sight which really made her smile was her friend the Professor in his rusty brown coat, wearing a grey mask, a moth-eaten pair of donkey ears as a headband, and holding Tina, who wore a bright green dress and mask and butterfly wings of painted cloth. She giggled and squealed with joy as he swung her around.
"Good evening, Professor," said Jo, entering the room.
He turned around – and went suddenly still. Tina waved, but Mr. Bhaer's eyes were fixed on Jo – her scarlet brocade dress with its sweeping skirts and low neck, her coronet of glossy brown hair, her mask covered in sparkling red feathers. He did not say a word.
"What's the matter?" said Jo, fidgeting as she smoothed her dress. "Is there a stain on this somewhere?"
He laughed nervously and looked away. "No, no. It is only … you look ... "
"You is vewy pwetty, Miss Marsh!" Tina chimed in.
"Thank you, mademoiselle," said Jo, with a mock-formal nod to the little girl. "And isn't that the point of a masque, Professor? To look different? You wouldn't wear those donkey ears every day, now would you? Just who are you supposed to be?"
"Bottom," said the Professor, smiling as he tugged at one of the ears. "You know, from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Another funny fellow who makes mistakes with English."
"I know! 'The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen … '"
" … man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was."
They finished the quote together, much to Tina's delight.
"And me's the Faiwy Queen!" she squealed.
"I can see that, and a charming one you are too." Jo stroked Tina's hair and adjusted the fit of her wings, which were askew. "Who made these?"
"My Bhaer."
"Trust you for that, Professor."
Mr. Bhaer shrugged, looking modestly embarrassed, and very carefully set Tina down on the ground. She ran to Jo immediately, lifting her hands to be picked up.
"You want to dance with me, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, yes!"
Jo lifted the child high, with an exaggerated grunt of exertion, and began spinning around with her in tune with the waltz music. The Professor watched them happily as they spun away.
"What a lovely family you have, my dear," said an old lady, who had observed the scene but not heard the words.
"Thank you, but … they're not my family," Jo faltered. "The Professor is – a friend, and Tina here is the child of member of the household staff."
"And her mother allows her to be up so late?" The old lady frowned, peering through her lorgnette as if Jo and Tina were some sort of exotic insects.
"It's not that late," said Jo defensively.
With a final skeptical glance, the lady moved away. Rattled, but determined not to show it, Jo gave Tina a cuddle and handed her off to an obliging Mrs. Kirke.
It was a strange, but delightful evening for Jo. With the borrowed dress and mask on, she flt as if she were someone else, and the usual awkwardness she felt in polite society seemed to fade into the background. She even used a deeper voice. Several gentlemen asked her to dance, and dance she did, with more spirit and grace than anyone at home would have expected of her. It felt like decades since the last ball she had attended, which she had spent hiding with Laurie, wearing a burned dress and a stained glove. She had grown up since then.
However, even the most enthusiastic partygoer needs a rest from time to time. Sitting in a curtained alcove in a corner of the room, Jo stretched out her long legs and fanned herself, making the loose curls around her face dance in the breeze. She intended not to move until her feet stopped aching, which could take a while.
"Have you seen that governess? March or whatever her name is?"
She sat up. The male voice, loud and nasal, came directly from the other side of the curtain.
"No, indeed!" That was a woman, the same giggly bit of fluff who frustrated the Professor so much during her German lessons. She obviously hadn't recognized Jo. "Fancy her at a party! Haughty, poker-stiff creature that she is."
"Too clever to speak to us, for all she earns her living wiping noses and reciting the alphabet!" That made them both giggle.
Jo glared through the curtains with enough force to set them on fire, aching feet forgotten. She was just about to barge in and give them a piece of her mind, when a new sound stopped her short, the familiar sound of the Professor clearing his throat.
It was clearly a disapproving sort of cough, and the chirps of "Good evening, Professor" were just a shade too cheery.
"Mr. Carter, Miss Carter. Good evening to you."
Jo had never heard him speak in such a tone before. The chill in his voice could have formed icicles in the air.
The Carters, after exchanging a bit of small talk with their teacher, cleared the field. Mr. Bhaer muttered something darkly in German.
"Whatever you called them, sir, I agree," said Jo, sticking her head out from behind the curtains.
He jumped. "Ah, Miss March! I – I am sorry you heard that."
"Well, you know what they say about eavesdroppers," she said wryly.
"Eaves – what? Pardon?"
"Eavesdroppers," she repeated slowly and clearly. "People who listen where they shouldn't. Not that I meant to be one, only I was tired and … you see."
He brightened up a little at learning a new English word, but scowled again at the sound of Miss Carter's giggle from across the room.
"Such people are not to my liking," he rumbled. "To speak ill of a person behind her back … "
"Whippersnappers," said Jo with a wave of her hand, her temper subsiding. A moment ago, she had been ready to slap those people, but for some reason Mr. Bhaer's anger on her behalf made her feel better.
The word 'whippersnappers' made him burst into laughter, a rich, resonant laughter which belonged to an entirely different species from the Carters' twittering. Jo always found it contagious and had to join in.
"You Americans have such funny words," he said, shaking his head and wiping away a tear or two.
"We do, don't we?"
A new song had started while they talked; the band in the corner, consisting of several of Mrs. Kirke's musically gifted boarders, had ended its lively polka and was beginning a slow, dreamy waltz, with soft violins and a piano in the background.
Jo looked down at her feet in their high-heeled shoes. They really didn't ache that much.
She looked up, and there was Mr. Bhaer, bowing to her and holding out a white-gloved hand. "May I have the honor, Miss March?"
"You may."
The change that came ove the Professor was astonishing: where a plain, stout man with untidy hair (not to mention donkey ears) had stood a moment ago, there was a dancer who swept his lady across the floor with elegance and skill. Jo was bewildered and delighted in equal measure as he took her hand and spun her around in an underarm turn. Her skirts rustled. She could smell his cologne.
"Why, you're just full of surprises tonight, aren't you, Professor?" she purred, flicking back a loose curl, imagining the two of them as characters in one of her sensation stories.
He dipped her low and looked solemnly into her eyes.
"Do not wear a mask with me, Miss March," he said. "You are better as yourself."
She blushed. He was right. Heavens, what must he think of a remark like that?
"I'm sorry, sir," she blurted out. "I seem to be a little light-headed tonight. It must be the spinning."
"Perhaps." He spun her again, slowly this time, his hand on the small of her back.
"Where in the world did you learn to dance like this?"
"At home," he replied. "In Berlin, I took lessons as a young man. I am, how do you say … a little rusted."
"I think you're splendid," she said in her usual blunt way. "Impossibly dignified, you know, in spite of those donkey ears. How do you manage it?"
"I know not," he said, looking taken aback, as if honestly surprised to be given a compliment like that.
"You do not know," she said, taking mischievous pleasure in correcting his grammar for once.
"Yes, mademoiselle. I do not."
At that moment, Jo caught sight of Miss Carter, dancing with a very tall gentleman in a bottle-green top hat. Jo gave them both a nod that was as 'haughty and poker-stiff' as she could manage, perforating them from top to bottom with scornful gray eyes. Miss Carter blushed furiously and did not giggle, which Jo found very satisfying.
As the waltz slowly wound down, the tinkle of a spoon hitting glass made the entire room calm down. Mrs. Kirke's hearty voice rose above the crowd.
"Attention please, ladies and gentlemen! It's midnight, and time to unmask! Happy New Year, everyone!"
Jo reached up and untied the ribbons on her mask; the Professor did the same, taking off the ears and stowing them in his pocket. His spiky brown hair looked more dishevelled than ever; Jo found herself wanting to smooth it down.
All around her, the couples were beginning to hug and kiss. Confetti exploded; champagne glasses rang; laughter and cheers filled the room. The Professor looked bewildered.
"It's an American custom," Jo explained. "Kissing at midnight on New Year's Eve is supposed to bring luck."
The Professor raised his eyebrows, looked at Jo, then away over her shoulder. Was it her imagination, or was there more color in his face than usual?
"May I … follow this custom, Miss March?" he asked.
"Well – er – all right. If you like."
After all, it wasn't as if they were courting or some such nonsense. He was her teacher and her friend, and as such it would be perfectly acceptable, on such a night as this, to follow the custom of his adopted country and … kiss her.
He slid her silk glove softly off her right hand and dropped a whisper-soft kiss on the back of it. It was not exactly traditional, but she didn't care; in fact, she found herself suddenly and inexplicably dizzy.
It was the waltz, of course.
"Happy New Year, Miss March."
"Happy New Year, Professor."