~ Masquerade ~

by

Cynthia Scott

One

Covington, England

January, 1815

"‘Tis no use, Lizzie," Sabrina said from her perch on the window cushion. "No matter how hard you try, you do not look like a man."

Elizabeth Covington arched an eyebrow at her younger sister, wiped her sweaty palms on her borrowed breeches, and returned to tying the silk neck cloth. "I shall manage it, Breeny."

"But Papa will certainly recognize you. And how will you explain our cousin calling so late?"

"Papa’s room is kept dark. He’ll not know whether ‘tis morning or night."

Sabrina giggled. "Even Papa isn’t too ill to recognize his own clothes."

Elizabeth examined her reflection in the cheval mirror. The dark waistcoat and riding coat hung from her shoulders. Their cousin, Mr. James Langford--sailor and heir to their father’s land and business--would never wear such drab, loose clothing. He’d arrive in full naval dress. Unfortunately, Mr. Langford was nowhere to be found.

A lump clogged her throat and grief knotted her stomach, but she refused to torment Sabrina with the bleak truth. Their father lay near death, his mind troubled because his estate was entailed to his long-estranged nephew. Elizabeth had posted inquiries into her cousin’s whereabouts, hoping to secure a reconciliation between their two families.

The war with France had ended six months before, and Napoleon was on Elba, no longer a threat. Her cousin should have returned to England by now. Every day she prayed a letter, or Mr. Langford, would arrive to ease Papa’s fears and allow him to die in peace.

But neither came.

Unless she restored harmony between their two families, when Papa died and Mr. Langford inherited Covington Castle, she and her sister would have nowhere to live. They had no other family, no prospects for their support. They faced falling from the rank of gentlewomen to laboring commoners--or worse.

Blame slumped her shoulders. She should have married and secured their futures. When she’d rejected suitors to retain her independence, she should have considered the consequences of her actions, not only upon herself, but upon Sabrina as well. She straightened, vowing never to be selfish again.

"It will suffice, Breeny," she said, anxious to end her sister’s objections. "I shan’t tarry with Papa more than a mere instant--long enough to assure him our cousin wishes to make amends."

Sabrina smiled. "Perhaps I should ask Papa’s servant to blow out all the candles?"

"Perhaps." Elizabeth adjusted the unfamiliar masculine clothing. "A few moments should convince him our cousin has come to heal the great breach between our families."

"What is this ‘Great Breach’? I do not understand why Papa broke with the Langfords. Aunt Langford is his own sister."

"It is a forbidden subject, Breeny, as you are well aware."

"Lizzie, please. I am old enough to hear the truth."

"Perhaps, but I cannot reveal what I do not know. Once, when I was quite young, I asked Papa why we never saw our aunt."

"What answer did he give?"

"He forbade me to mention the Langford name again."

"Oh." Sabrina leaned her head against the window and drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

Sensing her sister’s concern, Elizabeth gentled her voice. "Do not fret, Breeny. The physician, Dr. Mills, comes today. Perhaps Papa has improved and our concern is for naught."

"Do you think so, Lizzie?" Sabrina asked, her eyes hopeful.

"Absolutely." Elizabeth swallowed hard at the lie. "Come. I’ll change, then we’ll go downstairs for luncheon. After that, I must exercise my horse and review today’s accounts."

"Very well. But, Lizzie, when you play our cousin, how will you hide your hair? You cannot wear a hat indoors."

"I shall tuck it inside my shirt."

"Will that suffice?"

"Of course," Elizabeth said. With confidence she unfastened her braid and shook her head gently. Long, blond locks tumbled over her shoulders, brushing her waist. No, the shirt with its high collar and tight neck would never do. She quickly shoved her hair inside the riding coat and viewed herself in the mirror.

She stared. Flaxen tendrils trailed down her neck and disappeared beneath the dark cloth to form a misshapen lump on her back. She resembled a gnarled oak more than a man. Such an abundance could never be concealed. She sighed, and her vow to never be selfish rang in her ears. Before vanity could stop her, she moved to her dressing table and grasped the shears.

Several snips later her tresses fluttered to the floor.