At last they went downstairs, to find that dinner was being announced. As they went into the dining room, the talk of the ball became interspersed with other topics of interest, and to the Italians one of the greatest topics of interest was their art. Alfonse declared that Titian was a better artist than Canaletto, and Giuseppe declared that No! No! Canaletto was the better of the two. Darcy’s opinion was sought and, as they ate, a lively discussion ensued.

It was with a light heart that Elizabeth stepped into the gondola at the end of the evening as she and Darcy travelled back to their own palazzo.


***

Elizabeth was so caught up in the novelties of Venice that it was some days before she finished her letter to Jane, but when she found herself with a free hour, she took up her quill and finished the letter she had begun on arriving.

Darcy and I have been all over Venice, to the Doge’s palace and the Arsenale and a dozen more such wonderful places. We have crossed the Rialto bridge and wandered through the square of St Mark’s. The Venetians tell me that the city is not what it was before Napoleon ransacked its treasures, but there are still great beauties everywhere.

Tonight we are going to a masked ball. It is to be held in my honour and I am very much looking forward to it.

Perhaps we could try holding something similar at home, though I think such clothes and masks would look very strange in Hertfordshire! Here in Venice, they seem somehow right. The mask feels surprisingly comfortable, although I cannot see to the side very well when I am wearing it. It is beautiful, a work of art, as everything is in Venice. It is sculpted into the shape of a human face and it is decorated with jewels at the top.

There is time for no more or else this letter will never be sent!

Adieu for now, my dearest Jane,

Your affectionate sister,

Elizabeth

‘Are you writing to Jane?’ came Darcy’s voice as he entered the room.

‘Yes.’ She folded the letter and addressed it.

‘Have you told her about the ball?’

‘Yes, or at least, I have told her we are going to the ball. I will write again tomorrow and tell her all about it.’

‘Is your costume ready for tonight?’ asked Darcy.

‘Yes. And yours?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘That would spoil the surprise,’ he said. He looked down at her with a smile. ‘I love to see you like this, happy and excited. I knew you would love Venice.’

The clock, an ornate work of art made of ormolu and heavily gilded, struck the hour.

‘It is time to get ready,’ Elizabeth said.

She returned to her room, a large and airy apartment ornamented by frescoes and furnished with gilded marble furniture, and she began the leisurely process of preparing herself for the ball. As she bathed in scented water, she thought of all the times she had dressed for a ball at home, with the noise of the Longbourn household ringing in her ears: Lydia running round the house in search of a missing shoe or ribbon, Mary moralising, and their mother scolding everyone in turn, before complaining about her nerves. She did not miss their noise and chatter, but she did miss Jane. What fun it would have been to dress in her costume with Jane by her side!

But such thoughts did not last for long; there was too much to think about and too much to do.

Sophia had been as good as her word, and she had sent one of her maids to help Elizabeth. Annie had at first been suspicious of the Italian woman, but her suspicions had soon been overcome. Elizabeth sat at her dressing table so that Sophia’s maid could arrange her hair and Annie paid close attention, helping to smooth Elizabeth’s hair over the crown of her head and arrange the waves around her face, then catch the remaining hair up in a chignon pinned at the back of her head.

They helped Elizabeth to put on the heavy, unaccustomed dress, fastening it at the back with deft fingers and then standing back to admire the effect. Elizabeth scarcely recognised herself in the cheval glass, and when she donned her mask, her disguise was complete.

‘Oh, Ma’am, you will fool them all!’ said Annie.

Sophia’s maid let forth a volley of Italian which neither Elizabeth nor Annie understood, but she seemed to be pleased.

‘Is Mr Darcy still here?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘No, Ma’am, he’s already gone,’ said Annie.

‘Then I must go too,’ said Elizabeth.

They had arranged to travel to the ball separately because it was part of the challenge of the ball to see how long it would take them to recognise each other.

Elizabeth put on her cloak, for the nights were cold, and ran downstairs in high spirits, prepared to enjoy herself at the ball. She went through the courtyard and down to the canal, where she stepped lightly into a gondola. She was so used to the gondola that she did not falter, even when it rocked beneath her, but sank gracefully onto the silken cushions that lined it as the gondola moved out into the canal. The waters were dark, shot through with rippling gold as they reflected the many torches that challenged the night. They lapped against the boat and their music mixed with the voice of the gondolier as he began to sing in a rich tenor voice, brimming with passion.

‘What is your song about?’ she asked when he drew breath.

‘About love, Signora. What else is there to sing about? The man and woman in my song, they cannot see a way to be together and so she drowns herself in the canal. It is very tragic and very romantic.’

‘But much more romantic to live,’ said Elizabeth.

‘The beautiful signora is right,’ he said. ‘The living have pleasures the dead know nothing of.’

They came to rest outside Sophia’s palazzo. The gondolier jumped lithely out of the gondola and tied it to one of the gaily coloured mooring posts. Elizabeth stepped out of the gondola as sure-footedly as he and then ascended the steps to the palazzo. It was ablaze with light, which spilled from the windows and illuminated the night.

She went into the courtyard and was greeted by a hubbub of noise and laughter as she climbed the stone steps to the door. As it opened for her, she heard the sound of violins playing and the chatter of many voices.

Guests turned to look at her as she entered, taking an interest in the new arrival, with faces made strange by their masks. Some of them wore half masks like her own, covering only the eyes, cheeks and foreheads, others were full face. Some were sculpted to fit their wearers, with well-shaped holes for eyes and mouth, and some were distorted, so that the wearers’ heads had a strange, animal like appearance. Long noses, hooked up or down like beaks, changed the features and added a touch of the bizarre to the scene. She tried to find some familiar faces, but either the masks were doing their job very well or the people she knew were not near the door.

She slipped through the throng, drawing appreciative glances from the men as she passed, and went into the ballroom. It was full of people in costume, the full skirts of the women competing in their brilliance with the velvet tunics of the men.

Some of the guests were already dancing, but the dance was strange and the music was strange also. It seemed to come from an earlier time, and Elizabeth guessed that it too was a celebration of Venice’s glory centuries before. The men were leaping athletically, and then lifting their partners and spinning them round before putting them down again on the floor. The guests knew the steps, and she thought that they must have hired dancing masters especially to teach them. Alas, she did not know the dances and she wondered if there would be some with which she was familiar later in the evening.

As her eyes ran over the other guests, hoping to recognise someone, she saw a strange figure watching her through a gap in the crowd. He was dressed in the colour of dead leaves and his mask was of dark cream with touches of old gold. He was not Darcy, of that she was sure, but she found him oddly compelling. His mask was moulded into the semblance of a smile, but the smile was distorted so that it looked almost malevolent. There was something gleeful about the grin and something cruel. She tried to look away but found she was held by some power she did not understand. It was only broken when someone stepped between them.

‘Might I have the honour?’ asked the gentleman who had blocked her view.

He spoke in a disguised voice, but there was no mistaking him.

‘Are you sure it is acceptable to dance with your wife?’ she asked mischievously.

His mask was only a half mask, like hers, and he smiled ruefully.

‘You knew me,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, thinking, I would know you anywhere, no matter how you were dressed. ‘And you recognised me too.’

He had evidently followed her train of thought for he looked at her lovingly and said, ‘Always. No mask could ever disguise you from me. I know the feel of you, Lizzy, and nothing can ever change that.’

He offered her his hand, but she said, ‘I don’t know the dance. I don’t even know its name. Though I don’t suppose it can be difficult,’ she added with an arch smile.

‘No?’ he asked.

‘No. After all, every savage can dance!’

He laughed.

‘I was in a bad humour that night. How could I have been so rude to Sir William? The poor man was just trying to make me feel welcome.’

‘As he was trying to give consequence to a young woman who had been slighted by other men!’

‘Will I ever be forgiven for such a remark? Probably not, nor do I deserve to be.’

‘Oh, I think, now that you have given me a palace, I might consider it,’ she teased him.

‘Only might?’ he asked.

‘Very well, if you teach me the dance, you may consider yourself absolved. Is it a uniquely Venetian dance?’ she asked, as he gave her his hand and led her onto a quiet corner of the floor.

‘No, the galliard is danced everywhere—or was, a long time ago.’

The dance was a strange one, full of lifts and leaps and twirls, but by watching the other dancers and by listening to Darcy, she was able to catch the steps.

‘And now I lift you,’ he said.

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her from the floor, then turned around whilst lifting her. She leant back against him, feeling the heat of his hands through her gown before he put her down again.

‘You smell wonderful’ he said, inhaling deeply.

‘I should do, I am wearing the finest Venetian perfume!’ she said.

‘No,’ he said intensely, ‘not the perfume. You.’

They had moved into a world of their own, having eyes for no one but each other, wrapped up in the scent and the sight and the feel of each other, and they did not leave it until the music stopped.

Elizabeth felt a sense of loss, and she struggled to regain that world of heightened senses. She resented the other guests for taking her husband away from her, as they exclaimed over his dancing and introduced him to more of the guests. And then she too was claimed, and her hand was sought by one of the gentleman, who begged her to dance with him. He was gay and good humoured and to her delight she recognised him as Giuseppe.

‘Ah! But how did you know?’ he asked.

‘I recognised your voice.’

‘Then I must disguise it if I am not to spoil the surprise for others. Have you recognised Sophia yet?’

‘No,’ said Elizabeth, looking round the ballroom. ‘Is she here?’

‘Yes. You must guess which one she is.’

Elizabeth made two false guesses before finally guessing correctly, for Sophia was wearing a full face mask. In the end, Elizabeth recognised her because she recognised Sophia’s gown as one of those she had seen in the dressing room, when she and Sophia had been choosing their clothes.

‘Are you enjoying yourselves?’ asked Sophia as she crossed the room to join them when the dance ended.

‘Very much,’ said Elizabeth.

‘It is different from your balls at home?’

‘Yes, it is entirely different.’

‘You do not wear masks, I think?’

‘No, we don’t, but it isn’t just the masks,’ said Elizabeth. ‘The clothes, the dances, the music, everything is different.’

‘Ah, yes, you have very stately dances in England,’ said Alfonse, joining them. ‘I know, I have been there. You turn up your noses and you look at no one, then you walk down the ballroom in silence and you turn round at the end.’