Akindele Victor

I. Down the dark, cold streets of Bath, a horse-drawn carriage hurried along the cobbled road, running late. Inside the box sat two occupants with priorities at odds, and yet for tonight, and tonight only, their destination allowed them such luxury. The season’s masquerade ball. “Renting a second dress,” Mrs Hereford rambled on at length, huffing in her heavy silk dress. “Where’s the sense in such idiocy? That was foolish of Mr. Hereford, I tell you—foolish!” Amelia, her niece, stayed silent. “You know he was supposed to accompany me tonight. Man and wife—we even had his costume all planned out!” “I would’ve been fine staying home, Mrs. Hereford.” “Don’t be ridiculous, child. If my dear husband is right about one thing, it’s this: the sooner we find you a husband, the better.” Amelia neither agreed nor disagreed. And Mrs. Hereford carried on. “It’s not unlike your father to create such a bothersome affair, but even in death? Hah! Now that’s one I did not see coming. Of course, one can’t be expected to blame you for all of your parents’ shortcomings—nevertheless, what a bother!” Staring outside the window at the passing stores, which had long closed their doors by virtue of the festivities, Amelia didn’t let the emotion show on her face. Instead, she pulled at her nails, carefully hiding her hands within the muslin of her rented dress. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hereford.” “So am I, Miss Cotton—so am I! Best enjoy yourself tonight, for Lord knows when you’ll get another chance like this.” Mrs. Hereford clicked her tongue, then fastened her extravagant mask over her eyes. “If only my husband wasn’t so keen on throwing what little wealth we have out the window!” While gesturing about for the purpose of argumentation, Mrs. Hereford’s knuckles hit the window plate, startling poor, orphaned Amelia, who took the opportunity to lay upon Mrs. Hereford one single resentful glare. In truth, Amelia couldn’t bring herself to care about balls, masquerade or otherwise. Not when her nights were filled with terror over the fire that took both her parents’ lives—keeping her tossing and turning in her scratchy nightgown—and her days spent pretending to be someone she’s not. It didn’t matter that she’d never set foot in Bath before, or that she was living the dream of so many little girls back home in the countryside. Forget the petticoats and the crinoline, for Amelia found herself missing her simple cotton dresses and used apron. Forget the streets full of vivid coaches, for she wanted nothing more than return to the single cabriolet they’d once owned back home. Forget the city and its colorful people, for she longed to work with the horses and run with the dogs and dig her hands in the mud! For dear Amelia, this was a living nightmare. One where she’d lost everything she once cared for; one where she’d been thrown to the wolves and made a burden for old and evidently indebted Mr. Hereford, her aunt’s husband, both of whom she’d never even met before. The coachman brought the horses to a stop. When the small door opened, it revealed a disguised footman, who bowed down to them in proper greeting. “For Goodness’ sake,” said Mrs. Hereford. “Fasten your mask, child!” Amelia did as she was told. Seeing the world through her mask provided little respite, but respite nonetheless. Most people were in character, shedding their niceties and etiquette and strict social regimen for a night of frivolity. Though Amelia didn’t know what the concept itself entailed for the British upper class. Amelia trailed behind Mrs. Hereford—who might as well have been a stranger—bowing her head at new acquaintances without opening her lips even once. A few hours into the night, Amelia lost sight of her aunt and decided it was a relief, perhaps even a blessing. She clung to the outskirts of the ballroom like a first-time wallflower, observing the upper class in its natural habitat. The laughs, the gossip, the drinks, the dancing… it all seemed most strange to her; like the beasts and magic tricks in the novels she’d read thrice each back home, before they burned and turned to ash in her old bedroom. “Excuse me, madam.” Startled, Amelia took a step back. “Oh,” the gentleman who’d addressed her laughed. “Easy, girl!” He continued laughing, as though what he’d said was funny. Amelia wondered if women in Bath enjoyed being compared to green broke mares. “Didn’t mean to scare you, madam. I saw you from the Upper Rooms—and it looks like you could use a dancing partner.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?” Amelia took her time to answer. “What is your name, sir?” “Alexander Brighton, madam.” He bowed with a smile—proud, conceited, cocky. “At your service.” “Well, Mr. Brighton. There’s nothing I would despise more. If you’ll excuse me.” Amelia left without giving the man time to react, much less retaliate. Walking away, she allowed herself to be swallowed by the mass of people in their outrageously expensive clothing. She began to feel dizzy, and searched for somewhere to disappear to. There, in the back of the room, a door. Unguarded and unwatched. Just a couple minutes of solitude, Amelia told herself, then she would resume whatever incessant game this was. Just a couple minutes of authenticity. She turned the doorknob and almost smiled when she found it unlocked, thanking her guardian angel for this small reprieve. Amelia closed the door behind her and took her first real breath of the day. When the dizziness cleared, she turned around to study her new surroundings. No one in sight, thank Heavens, and as it appeared, she had stumbled into the art room. Framed paintings, around fifteen of them. Amelia guessed it was oil, though she’d never actually seen an oil painting in real life, only in books. A few were portraits, a few close-up object studies, but most were landscapes. Amelia studied them closely, taking up to five minutes per painting, until she found one that made the hair on her arms stand up. A river. Its waters black and white, like in the dead of winter. The colors made her think of heartache. But if anyone asked why, she’d have no explanation to offer. Beneath the painting, the words read: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. Suddenly, Amelia felt very much like laughing. And so she did. “‘Former things’, huh?” No. She refused to believe it. This could not be the life that was meant for her. The grief, the travels, entering the house that had no place for her… in hindsight it was easy enough to get through, because it was all temporary. But this? What did her future reserve, if not for being traded off from the Herefords to some pompous lord with land and fortune to his name? Amelia was familiar with Shakespeare—she liked his mind, the way he played with humor. She’d even gone to a reenactment in the village over, once, for her twelfth birthday, and had laughed all night. Comedy rarely left her unfazed. But if this was God’s way of playing some sick joke on her, she wasn’t amused. “Why, mamma? Why would you arrange to send me here?” Amelia asked out loud, letting herself speak freely for the first time in weeks. “I would’ve taken the farm over this, whatever little is left of it! I would’ve built it from the ground up by myself! It’s because I’m a woman, is that it? Is the idea of a woman on her own so unimaginable? Why can a man of my very age of eight-and-ten do as they please, but I cannot? How is that in any way fair?! How is sending me to this dreadful place and this dreadful woman any better than a life on my own terms?!” Panting and now out of breath, Amelia paused. She hated the pins in her hair, pulling and itching her scalp. She hated this dress, and whatever kept it so tight on her body, nearly cutting off her circulation. But mostly, mostly she hated this control everyone seemed to have over her, and if only— Something fell on the floor behind her, the clatter nearly making Amelia jump out of her skin. She turned to the origin of the noise with wide eyes, but she hadn’t expected to see what she did. A paint brush rolling in her direction… …And the man who’d dropped it, staring right back at her through a smaller, concealed door in the far left corner. “Ah!” He exclaimed as though he’d been caught redhanded. “Apologies, madam. I did not mean to eavesdrop.” Heat flared on Amelia’s cheeks. She found herself hoping the mask hid most of the blush, then realized she didn’t care. “How much did you hear, exactly, sir?” she asked. The man, who, she now realized, wasn’t wearing a mask but a simple dress shirt underneath an apron stained with colorful strokes, smiled, as though amused. “Would my lady forgive me for admitting that I heard everything?” Torn between embarrassment and anger, Amelia merely blinked. “I’m no lady,” she retorted. The mystery man’s smile widened. “Even better,” he said as he retrieved his paint brush, now a little closer to Amelia. Did he wish to entertain this conversation, or whatever it was? Amelia backed away to the wall for support. “What do you mean by that?” she asked with a frown. He shrugged. “It is rare to meet someone who portrays themselves so true and plainly.” Amelia broke eye contact. “I thought I was alone,” she said, hating how it sounded like a defense for her lack of decorum. “Even so. It is much pleasing to the ears, if you ask me.” “Pleasing?” “Refreshing.” Although this man’s attire suggested everything but an important guest status, Amelia dreaded uncovering this peculiar conversation for what it was—another feeble attempt at courtship. She pushed herself off the wall, straightening her back to stand as tall as she possibly could. “And what exactly about my tragic situation do you find so ‘refreshing’?” The man appeared surprised for a second, but then his smile returned, apologetic. “Pardon me, madam. I meant the confession was refreshing, not the tragedy. I won’t pretend to know where you’re from or what you’ve been through, but living amongst these people gets tiring, believe me.” When Amelia gazed upon his face, she noticed that he did, indeed, have a certain fatigue about him, despite his looks which she was convinced had to be most popular with the daughters. “Most of them have no need of a mask to hide their true colors. Their everyday clothes are enough.” He flipped the paintbrush in between his fingers and Amelia followed its movement. She had not expected him to say all of that. In fact, she’d expected much, much worse of an answer. The man turned around and took a few steps back to wherever he came from, nonchalant. “Are you going to tell others about…what you heard?” Amelia asked, her anger having vanished. “On masquerade night?” he asked as he turned back, arching a witty brow. “Do not vex me, madam. Tonight, the rules are meant to be broken.” He winked. “Wait,” Amelia called out, surprising herself. “Who are you? An artist?” He hesitated. “No one interesting, I’m afraid. And who, pray tell, are you?” Amelia licked her lips, finding them dry. “No one interesting.” The man smiled again, wide and sincere. A smile like the kind Amelia hadn’t seen since leaving the farm, since before her parents’ death. “I sincerely doubt that. Though, you might want to remove that mask first,” he added with a nod to the accessory on her face. “I don’t believe you wish to hide yourself, do you?” By the time Amelia had removed the mask, the man was gone. And with him, the paintbrush.