Charlotte's gloved fingers of her left hand clawed around the edge of the fireplace jamb. She could feel the resistance in her stays against her ribcage as she began to breathe unevenly, alternating between the inability to draw breath, and the sudden need to suck air into her lungs. McKenna was nimbly navigating around the group of dancers who had just finished their final bows to their partners at the conclusion of the song. Some remained, switching partners and finding new places in their gender's line, others drifted off to mingle elsewhere in the multitude, the occasional guest stumbling in drunken revelry. Charlotte realized she would have to step forward, that McKenna's only likely purpose was in attempt to contact her. He was headed directly towards her, and before wrenching herself away from the wall, she made a brief scan of the room, searching in both the light and the shadows cast by the tapers in sconces and in the candelabrum placed strategically throughout the chamber, to be sure no one had noticed the alarm she prayed was not evident on her face. She saw no one who appeared to be paying her an inordinate amount of attention, and indeed there was no one who was. Propelled by nerve she did not know she possessed, and would have doubted she could muster, Charlotte moved toward the masked McKenna as the orchestra leader turned to announce the next dance
"Ladies and Gentlemen…." and stood opposite the officer in a gentleman's plainclothes who she seemed to remember having been taller. It had been dark on the dock when last they had met, their only interaction before this moment, but Charlotte was certain that this was the same young man. His eyes bored into hers through the cutouts in his mask, and she observed the sense of urgency he seemed intent upon conveying.
"A Conradance Allemande….. l'etoile!"
Charlotte placed her feet in the correct position to begin, and curtseyed to her partner, who seemed to bow slightly awkwardly, with a strange, mechanical element to what should have been a fluid movement. Perhaps it was her heightened awareness of herself and McKenna that had caused her to take notice, or perhaps the hyperawareness had caused her to imagine an awkwardness where there was none. She did her best to steady her hands trembling in their gloves at her sides, and when the music began, despite her general dislike of dancing and the claustrophobia it generally arose within her, Charlotte was relieved to be certain of what she should do next. As they stepped around one another in their first steps, Charlotte scanned again, aware of his movements and hers about one another, and those around them, careful to speak deliberately and low, waiting until they were as close as they would become before she intoned "Are we discovered?"
They stepped away from one another, to make a revolution around the floor. When next they were close enough, turning in tandem he replied, softly. "No."
They crossed one another's paths, then rejoined at the hand, Charlotte whispering "Are we suspected?" noting to her surprise how delicate his hands seemed in her own. He was not leading as Charlotte had been lead in dances before. Perhaps inexperience with this particular dance, or with dancing in general, she imagined, or perhaps something else….he shook his head once, quite plainly and direct.
Amidst a rush of fine fabrics and twirling gentlemen and ladies, the relief that his response had been in the negative did nothing to quell the loathsome feeling which had begun with unpleasantness and now proceeded to overwhelm her, her stomach fluttering like the skin of a drum as against it beat First Sergeant's Call. Her mind had turned to her young dragoon, how bold she was to think him hers, and yet….suddenly, spinning again, and McKenna's voice. "We must speak. Privately."
Charlotte stepped into place in a circle along with the other dancers, managing a nod to McKenna before they stood side by side facing all, ladies stepping into the center first to take a turn about, whilst the men waited on the outside, then switching places for the gentlemen to take a turn.
"Brightlea's home," she said, when they passed close by one another, Charlotte switching back to the outside circle, McKenna to the inside. He nodded again, and Charlotte took that to mean he could find it. As they began the final few sets of complicating weaving betwixt and around one another, McKenna seemed about to move in an improper direction, and Charlotte had to catch his eye, slightly alarmed, but with a demure movement of her head managed to indicate the appropriate course. She watched him as best she could out of the corner of her eye, her mask obscuring much of her vision. He seemed to be looking for cues from the other male dancers, but was nevertheless managing to conduct himself convincingly enough that no guests seemed enlightened to anything amiss. Charlotte attempted to keep the bounce in her step in order to suggest she was enlivened by the dance, as one would likely be, on what should have been a merry occasion, such as this. Turning together once more, Charlotte moved as close to McKenna's ear as propriety allowed, the sounds of music and heels and pleasant chatter disguising her voice, quiet and deliberate. "Fourth Window, Ground Floor, East."
They found themselves back in their original positions once more, and as the line of ladies curtseyed politely and the gentlemen bowed in kind, Charlotte noticed McKenna seemed to have built up more confidence in his sense of movement. Hurrying to put their plan in motion, Charlotte breezed past, her head lowered and strategically hidden from view by McKenna's figure, whispering "Quick as I can."
John Andre had wandered into one of the doorways, and was sipping at a glass of claret, noticing that the charming little fox seemed slightly flustered, or was it befuddled, brushing past the young man who had been her partner, a young man whose form and visible features he didn't recognize. No matter, there had been recommendations from influential socialites of some civilians unfamiliar to him, to whom he had granted invitation; still, he thought perhaps to put an observant servant on him as a matter of precaution. He watched the directness and purpose with which she seemed to be moving, nearly a hustle, in the direction of the front hall. If the young scamp had upset her, that just simply would not do.
Charlotte dodged the other guests as gracefully as she could manage, sweeping around a group of people standing in the doorway, and ducked out into the front hall, where it was thankfully cooler and less congested, searching until she found a servant not immediately engaged in her duties.
"Pardon?" she asked, meekly. It was not difficult to act unwell, as it was, in fact, a kind of truth. The servant inclined her head and Charlotte spoke quietly, leaning forward to speak in her ear.
"I'm feeling rather unwell. Would you please ask the stable master to have my carriage made ready?"
The servant had warm, kind eyes, wide and expressive, and something about her seemed familiar to Charlotte. "Of course, Miss. May I bring you something?" Charlotte hesitated, unconsciously wringing her hands "Perhaps if I could just sit for a moment?"
The servant smiled "Yes, miss. Right this way."
She lead Charlotte to a lone dining room table chair, set against the wall, where she sat.
"I'll go and tell them now. Oh-" she began, realizing she could not determine the girl's features behind her mask, and likely would not have known her even if she could have. "Which carriage?"
Charlotte smiled wanly "Lady Brightlea's."
The servant nodded and was off on her mission. Major Andre had planned to migrate in Charlotte's direction, his intent to observe or instruct another to do so, but had been held up by Captain Henry and his cohort Captain Taylor, masked respectively as a male pheasant and a phantom of sorts, who had cornered him, highly intoxicated and immensely pleased with themselves that they had manage to discern which of the masked figures was their host and colleague. He himself was rather inebriated, the inconspicuous nature of the evening's interactions having offered him the opportunity to afford himself the latitude he might otherwise not have enjoyed. He felt the familiar heat in his cheeks and the welcome warmth in his belly, the result of an ever-filled glass of claret and several allotments of Caribbean rum which he had intermittently snuck for himself out of his study.
Charlotte had grown unreasonably impatient. She rose from the chair in which she had been sitting and was pacing about, knitting her fingers together, both largely atypical public behaviors for someone so aware and practiced in the art of social propriety. She could feel an uncomfortable layer of perspiration trapped beneath her chemise, pressed uncomfortably against her skin, growing clammy despite the rise in her temperature. Charlotte suddenly felt a frightening whirling sensation, and the terrible compulsion to either run or collapse on the floor. Deciding not to wait to find out whether the latter would be the result, Charlotte chose the alternate option, and, as calmly as possible, like her character the fox, moved with elegance and efficiency along the path of least resistance through the hall, sneaking back towards what appeared to be the prep kitchen, darting between guests here and there, less frequent now, a promising sign. She pushed out of a door behind which she felt a draft, and was mollified to find she had located the place she was looking for. The service entrance. In the side enclosed courtyard, adjacent to the barns, the snow she had admired from the window fell still, and had evenly dusted nearly every surface.
There, Lady Brightlea's carriage stood, the gelding closest to Charlotte waiting patiently while Brightlea's coachman adjusted the backstrap of his harness. She would not have to wait much longer.
Joanna, a young, occasional servant employed for larger parties such as this, charged with remembering the Major's guests' belongings, was doing her best to neither run nor shout. She was clutching to her chest Charlotte's black fur capelet, desperate that the young woman not leave without it, lest she be scolded, or worse, look incompetent in the handsome Major's eyes. The Major himself was watching with intrigue, having first thought he saw Charlotte sneak by, now more certain something was amiss given the look of worry on the servant's face. He followed behind Joanna at a distance, puzzled that she seemed to be heading out in the direction of the service courtyard.
Several things happened very quickly, all at once. Isaac, the coachman, noted that bizarrely, his passenger was waiting for him in an unusual place, at the top of a set of cobblestone steps at the back of the house, shivering. He assumed she must be in a hurry.
Turning his attention to her he called "Miss, you may embark if you wish."
Now, rushing along the servants' corridor, empty of guests, Joanna called "Miss, wait!" But Charlotte had already grabbed handfuls of her robe and petticoats and was nearly floating down the stairs in her hurry. It was a miracle she did not slip in the heavy snow.
"Miss, please, wait!" Joanna called again, bursting outside onto the landing. Charlotte saw that the girl held aloft her capelet and was desperately trying to catch up with her, so she paused.
"Allow me to-" Joanna began, when her wrist was gently caught at the top of the stairs, and she turned, her heart stopping momentarily when she realized the masked man holding her was the Major himself. He placed the first finger of his other hand to his lips and reached for the cape. Charlotte, waiting a few paces away from the opened carriage door, kept her back turned to make it easier for the girl to place the capelet over her. But when she felt the weight of the garment draped over her shoulders, she felt a sudden chill unrelated to the weather, the presence behind her somehow suggesting menace though she had no call at first to think such. She meant to turn and see who was behind her, but before she could, she heard his voice, and the knuckles of the Major's middle and first fingers of his left, ungloved hand gently brushed Charlotte's round left cheek tracing just above her jawline, "Leaving so early?"
The porcelain of her face flushed rosy, and Charlotte's head snapped around, her shoulders and the rest of her body following, plume of her mask sweeping through the winter air. The falling flakes blustered about them, and both were still for a moment. Now no longer stunned, Charlotte was incensed, her dark eyes flashing with fear and rage, and the Major, in spite of himself, was taken aback by the daggers in the gaze with she pierced his own. She scolded herself, afterward, for not hissing at him "Don't ever do that again," but upon reflection realized that speaking would have been unnecessary and perhaps even incendiary.
The reaction on his face suggested a battle lost. Charlotte did not wait. Isaac stood frozen, holding the horses, and young Jonathan, Charlotte's faithful walking companion stood with both carriage door ajar and his mouth agape, dismayed at both the major's actions and Charlotte's apparent distress. She grasped her petticoats and robe again, and in a fluid, desperate motion, pushed off of the footplate and ducked into the safe confines of the Lady's carriage. For a moment she feared he would follow and accost her, but Jonathan had slammed the door rather hard, with a distinct snap, behind her, latching it as Isaac climbed up to his seat, reins at the ready. Jonathan slinked submissively around the Major, who eyed him closely, standing to watch them go as Jonathan hopped up on the spring iron at the back of the carriage, tapping on the roof, signaling Issaac to drive.
Inside, Charlotte sat stonefaced, unsure if from his angle the Major could see her sitting where she was, facing front. After what seemed an eternity, though she knew not how long, she felt a familiar jolt and the carriage began to move over the uneven cobblestones. Dazed and still dizzy she waited until they had exited by way of the back gate, then exhaled with a sigh of utter disgust, wrenching the untied capelet from her shoulders, tossing it onto the opposite seat. Next, eager to shed all remnants of the evening, she tugged at the ribbon of her mask and tipped it gently into the palms of her hands, placing it on the seat behind her, breathing deliberately as Sukey had taught her, in attempt to calm herself. Wiping at her face, she realized there were frustrated tears drying on her cheeks, and she sighed again, disappointed in herself. Sukey. Soon she would be with Sukey, and Sukey would provide the comfort she needed. She always had. Attempting to soothe herself in the meantime, she cast her eyes out beyond the glass pane to her left, watching heavy snowflakes fall in swirling chaos from the darkened sky.