beauty again; it seems as though every time I take a liking to an actress she disappears, only to become one of Jonathan Wild’s whores. And you do not seem to understand the effect my failure to bed this wench will have on my constitution.”
I placed an arm about his shoulder. “I must say I am delighted with you. You come here with a ticket and, I am confident, a costume I might borrow. I think we shall have a splendid time.”
Elias picked up the costume and stared at the mask. “It is true that Lucy lacks your wit,” he said mournfully, “but I must say that you are a devilish harsh companion. I have no other friends who ask me to do such things.”
“And that is why you spend your time with me.” I grinned.
“Will your uncle reward me for my efforts when we capture the murderous fiend?”
“I am certain. If you were not already to be rich of the proceeds of your play, your help in this matter would make you a rich man.”
“Splendid!” Elias chirped. “Now, let us talk about this widow cousin of yours.”
MASQUERADES, AS MY READER will know well, were at the very height of their popularity at the time of this history, but until one has actually attended such a gathering, its precise nature cannot be imagined fully. Think of a large, gorgeously decorated space, exquisite music playing, delectable foods passed about in abundance, and hundreds of the most absurdly dressed men and women intermixing freely. Anonymity made women bold and men bolder, and the hiding of one’s face left one free to expose parts of one’s mind and body normally left concealed in public.
To complement the disguise of the costume, no one spoke in his true voice, but obscured it with the masquerade squeak. Thus, to envision the assembly, think only of the Haymarket full of shrill and squawking Pans and milkmaids, devils and shepherdesses, and of course countless black, hooded dominos—the ideal costume for men who enjoyed the hunt of the masquerade but lacked the imagination, desire, or sense of humor to dress as a goatherd, harlequin, friar, or any of the characters in vogue. While the string band played delightful tunes from Italy, these identical blackened figures—enshrouded in shapeless robes, faces covered with masks that hid the visage above the nose—moved about the room as wolves circling a wounded hart.
In such a black disguise I, too, moved about. I had originally thought to borrow Elias’s costume—with an appropriate sense of self, my friend had planned on attending dressed as Jove, and we traveled to his lodgings, where I found that the Olympian’s robes fit too snug upon me, so we set out to procure a masquerade domino.
Elias took me to a tailor with whom he was friendly—that is to say, he currently owed him no money—and whose shop was well known to masqueraders. Even as we entered we saw a pair of gentlemen purchasing dominos. And as we engaged upon the errand, I made an effort to inform Elias of all I had recently discovered— most distressingly, the news that old Balfour had once owned twenty thousand pounds’ worth of South Sea stock.
“No wonder he was ruined,” he said, as I slipped a black domino over me and adjusted the hood. “To lose so much. Inconceivable.”
I put the mask upon my face, and looked in the mirror. I looked like a great black apparition. “But according to my man at South Sea House, Balfour sold the stock long before his death.”
Elias fiddled with the sleeves in his fastidious way. “Could your man not inform you to whom he sold?”
“He sold to no one,” I said, as I slipped the domino off. “He sold back to the Company.”
I stepped forward from the secluded area to purchase the costume. Elias had grown red in the face, as though he could not stand to breathe. I knew he wished to tell me something in private, but he had to wait until I had paid for my costume and the tailor had wrapped it for me. After these excruciating minutes had passed, we stepped out in the street, and afforded privacy by noise and distraction, Elias let forth a long breath.
“Have you no idea how that sounds, Weaver? You cannot just sell back to the Company. Stock is not a trinket that you can return to the shop.”
“If Cowper wished to sell me misinformation, would he not have sold me believable misinformation?”
“You did believe it,” he pointed out, pushing his way past a slowmoving gathering of old ladies. “But I take your point. Perhaps what he wished was to make you suspicious.”
“I shall go mad,” I announced, “if I must always suspect people of telling me lies so that I shall know they are lying. What ever happened to telling a man lies he meant a man to believe?”
“The problem with you, Weaver,” Elias announced, “is that you are too invested in the values of the past.”
After dining and taking a bottle of wine, we arrived at the masquerade, and I spent much of the evening drifting about, sometimes speaking to Elias, but mainly keeping my distance, so that it would not be obvious that the begging Jew was with me—or even that he had come with help should he need it. I was nevertheless shocked when, near enough to Elias to hear his conversation, yet inconspicuously acquiring a drink of wine from a serving boy, I saw a woman with a stunning shape, dressed as some Roman goddess or other, approach Elias, and from behind her mask, which entirely obscured her face, squeaked, “Do you know me?”
When Elias squeaked the same response in reply, the goddess said, “I should think I do, Cousin. I must say, your costume is the talk of the ball.”
Unable to contain myself, I stepped forward and grabbed her by her arm. “Good Lord, Miriam,” I whispered in my own voice. “What is it you do here?”
It took her but a moment to sort out the confusion. “You surprise me,” she said, peering from one side of my hood to the other, as if to find some fissure that should allow her to see my face. “Why did you give away so original a costume?”
I ignored the question. “Is my uncle aware that you attend such events?” I asked evenly.
She laughed it off, though I could see I had insulted her. “Oh, he works late at his warehouse tonight, you know. And Mrs. Lienzo is always asleep long before I must leave the house.”
“Have you eaten the food?” I asked her.
Her eyes sparkled underneath her mask. “You are certainly preposterous, Benjamin. What do you care if I keep the dietary laws? They are nothing to you.”
“You must go home,” I said. “This ball is no place for a lady.”
“No place for a lady? Every fashionable lady in town is in attendance.”
Elias leaned forward, sticking his enormous orange false beard between us. “She’s got you there, Weaver.”
The string band struck up with a sprightly tune, and shocking myself as much as Miriam, I set a hand upon my cousin’s elbow, and without so much as asking for her permission, I guided her to the dance floor. I astonished myself, I say, because I was no accomplished dancer—indeed, even as I approached the dozens of couples, already turning about the floor with absolute grace, my throat tightened with apprehension. This business of dancing belonged to the genteel, not to a man of action such as myself. I hoped to show Miriam that I was not without some polite skills, but I feared I would show her the very reverse.
I comforted myself with the thought that I did have some experience behind me. When I had fought under Mr. Yardley’s protection, he insisted that his boxers take dancing lessons, for he believed that from dancing one learned a kind of agility that invariably served even the most powerful man in the ring. “The strongest country blockhead you find,” he had said, “even if he could tear you in half, shall never be able to touch you if you can but cut capers ’round him.”
I could not be certain of Miriam’s response to my rather abrupt decision to serve as her partner, for her mask covered almost all of her face, but her lips parted with surprise, and speechlessly we commenced our movements about the floor. I felt a bit lumbering and oafish, and I could tell that Miriam struggled not to stumble upon my graceless motions, but she nevertheless followed my lead, and if I was any judge of these things, enjoyed herself somewhat.
“You know,” she said at last, a grin suspended beneath her mask, “that I am already engaged to a dancing partner for this night. You have committed a great social affront.”
“We shall see if he challenges me,” I grumbled, attempting to maintain my balance. “Who is this dancing partner of yours?” I asked after a moment, though I knew the answer full well.
“Is that your concern, Cousin?”
“I think it is.”
