Chapter 33
The Gothic Bal Masquerade
Max had the one of the worst sleeps ever. His ears rang with the clash of battle and the roar of the crowd. His very soul seemed jarred, as if it reverberated with the brutal violence of what he had witnessed. His half-asleep dreams were repeating nonsenses about fire and steam, and Alistair Stewart, armed with a sledge hammer, chasing Harriet between iron posts. He woke before dawn and lay in the near darkness, the bitter taste of injustice in his mouth.
That Harriet had lost he could understand. The Thagomizer had been beaten down first. But that Guinan McCreddy had won, even after his attack on Harriet's person, seemed too much. Of course, she had equalised and therefore annulled that rule violation when she had opened the madman's hatch and lain into him with her knuckle duster.
But surely then a double disqualification should stand, and the prize go to The Weta.
In the end Max admitted that it was most likely that Dickie's analysis had the truth of it. That the Army, having put two hundred pounds forward as the prize, and standing themselves to win the winners robot, was more interested in acquiring the kind of technology that was within Cuchullain, than within The Weta.
Max had tossed and turned over all these issues, only dimly aware that he was using each as a distraction from his numbing and ultimate fear that Harriet had been harmed. His last glimpse of her was in that awful moment when the members of the Leigh team carried her unconscious from the battlefield.
No word of her condition had come that night. After some delay Milligan had returned to his podium to simply announce the Irishman's victory, the date of the next match and to wish everyone a good evening and Godspeed on their safe journeys home. Everyone had begun filing for the doors after that and Max had known, much to his dismay, that he would learn no more that night. And nor did he have the right.
He shouldn't care.
If any space was left to his troubled and wakeful mind, one final thing was ready to fill it; the sudden and rather forceful, assertion by this Rebecca Salasor, that he be one of the so called Murderer's Bay Musketeers. The idea that they hadn't got away with their heist on Wapping Point as cleanly as they had imagined was very unnerving.
Max finally fell into a deep sleep just before he should have been getting up. When he did reawaken his first thoughts were of Harriet, and the sun was streaming into his room, and he could hear the birds out in the aviaries squawking a racket, which meant the Professor was making his morning rounds.
He felt off balance, 'out to sea' as people like to say. From his bed he listened to the tick of the drive shaft from the house's domestic engine as it turned over gently in the wall. Then reaching up he pulled down the brass handle that stuck out of a panel, engaging his rooms vent fan with the rotating shaft coming up from downstairs. The fan above his window clattered a bit, but he imagined it drawing out his bad night air and replacing it with fresh from the new day. In a while he would rise and throw open the window itself.
But first he groped in the draw of his bed side table, then drawing out his sheaf of newspaper cuttings, he lay back once more. Flitting through the pile he quickly came to the one he wanted, his heart missing a beat on the way, for some of the grey photographics that flashed beneath his fingers were of Harriet.
Max read the machine print in his hand. Dated May 7th 1878.
Daring raid on Pā! Masked men appear from the sea, carry away Māori treasure! Dramatic midnight boat chase on Collingwood Haven follows! Thieves and treasure gone! - reports Rebecca Salasor.
While their guardians slept in their beds early Monday morning, three men, dressed from head to toe in black, and masked like wild western outlaws, slipped ashore and cunningly removed not one but four large Pou whenua marker posts. While bearing their booty away the trio were briefly chased by the Elizabeth III captained by Alastair Stewart. The gun boat was however no match for the raiders and soon ran aground. The outlaws disappearing into the night!
Many questions remain. Who are The Gibbstown Three, these Murderer's Bay Musketeers? When will they strike again? What is their message? Is anyone truly safe!?
Max groaned and slid his feet out bed. Sitting on the edge, head in hands, he groaned again. Who are The Gibbstown Three, these Murderer's Bay Musketeers? - reports Rebecca Salasor.
When Max finally went down, he found Gerald in the sun room, lolling on a side sofa, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.
"Any left?" muttered Max.
Gerald flicked his paper once.
"I think I left the pot on the thermo," he answered. "Good morning!"
"Morning," came the mumbled reply as Max wandering back to the kitchen. The Thermo was a water heated element that was plumbed to the boiler on the house's domestic engine. It protruded from the wall above the stove top and was useful for keeping pots of food, or coffee as the case maybe, warm for latecomers. As Max returned to the sun room, Gerald laid his paper aside.
"Big night in the small world of Maxwell Skilton?"
Max shrugged, ignoring the multiple barbs in his brother's question. When it came down to it, if people had to use the long form of his name, he preferred Maxwell over the actual Maximilian.
"Anyone seriously hurt last night?" he asked, taking a sip of coffee.
"Nothing major," Gerald answered, laying his hand on the newspaper again.
"Minor?"
The Army Captain eyed his young brother for a moment before answering.
"Naturally. A few cuts and bruises. All the pilot's walked away at the close of the arena, bar McCreddy of course. Why?"
It took Max a moment to realise that Gerald was referring to the wheelchair.
"No reason," lied Max, feeling relieved and taking another sip. "And this McCreddy carried the day?"
Gerald snorted.
"For what good it has done anyone. The fellow is as mad as a Mongoose. Tried to refuse the prize money, saying he would rather keep the robot. But when Captain Stratton, the fellow acting for the army in all this, presented him with his signature on the entrants contract he... well he really had no choice. Gotta tell you, shouldn't, but when we peered inside that thing... 'Cuchullain'... random! No discernible rhyme or reason. Pipes, dials, knobs, everywhere. What was labelled was done so with some crude hieroglyphic of the madman's own devising!" Gerald gave a chuckle. "It is going to take the Army Engineers a month of Sundays to figure it all out!"
Max made an amused sound, but he didn't really care. The most important fact was that Harriet was safe.
"Masquerade time again I'm told?" continued Gerald, picking up his paper once more.
Max nodded.
"It appears so."
"You'll be going along then?"
"Would be rude not to."
"You must have made quite an impression at old Vic," Gerald didn't lower his paper. "First years never got invites in my time."
Max finished his coffee and let the words hang unanswered.
Max could feel his sense of equilibrium slowly returning. Although he was far from ready for the coming evening's ball toom dancing or the attached pressures and required niceties that came hand-in-hand with such socialising. Still, he had a little time. He needed time.
He let himself drop into the fencer’s stance, at rest, yet a study in balance. Eyes closed. All around him the mesh and bars of the disused aviary were choked with native clematis and imported ivy vines, hiding him from the outside world.
His dark hair was unbound, the tails of his white shirt untucked, the sleeve cuffs unbuttoned.
Max let his breathing slow. The only sword he owned was the Navy Cutlass that Gerald had given him for his birthday. Designed for quick and brutal hand to hand fighting, primarily downward hacking, on pitching decks, it was heavy but efficient. But here any iron would do. No fine fencing would be practised.
He listened to the cries of each bird, the combined noise of them all, then to none of them, until finally his mind stopped hearing their sounds. He held the sword en-garde beyond the point when his arm began to ache. As the first bead of sweat formed on his forehead Max opened his eyes, swept the blade down, past his leg, and followed it right though in an about turn. But he was unused to the weight of the ungainly weapon, so paused to swing it though a few figure-of-eights, before adding in some simple footwork. As he worked Max fought to test, maintain and correct his balance, always seeking to understand and adapt to the nuances of the new sword.
Soon he was able to start stepping out the basic drills that he had learnt by heart, always experiencing the limits, and slowly adding to the complexity.
Back up in his room Max studied the iron mask that Dickie had given him for his birthday.
It had a terrible aspect. All cold, featureless, polished steel. Max liked it and he would be glad to wear it that coming night. It would be his expressionless armour, his cold face to the world, to The Five, Gilbert and Harriet.
He wasn't nervous about the ball. He felt a quiet confidence. Maybe in part due to the blush he had created in Rebecca Salasor's cheeks the previous evening, definitely because of the iron mask, but almost entirely thanks to his Mother.
She had been a tireless dance instructor, patient and persistent. Max knew she had enjoyed the time they had spent together in the lounge room as Mother and Son, stepping out complex dance steps to the tune, if they were lucky, of The Professor's busy fiddle. It was for her, maybe, a last chance to impart knowledge to her youngest son. She would know a small grief at its finishing.
But in the end she was forced to declare that Max was a most proficient ball room dancer and was ready to dance all the standards and a couple of the more complex waltzes with the best of them. For his part Max came to dancing naturally. He had had lessons, as everybody did, at collage. But this time around it seemed closer related to fencing. Gone were the heavy, awkward steps and the stiff body, now he felt free and in control, natural even.
Mrs Skilton gave one last measure of her brilliance three weeks before the big night.
In answer to the question of what Max should wear, she offered him his Grandfather's old leather armour.
"I haven't seen this since I was boy," Max had called down from the attic.
"And it swallowed you up then," his Mother had called back from below. "Can you find it?"
"In the old chest?"
"I think so, one of them."
Five minutes later Max had it back down the ladder and on. It fitted.
"Very... smart. In a rough kind of way." She had reflected.
"Grandfather always insisted that he wore it riding cavalry in the Crimean," said Max turning slowly in front of the mirror.
"Your Grandfather was already a grumpy old man in his rocking chair when the brave six hundred and seventy three rode Balaclava's valley of death."
"I had guessed as much," confessed Max.
"For such a devout Christian he was an atrocious liar."
Max didn't mind, he had usually been able to tell the truth from the wishful thinking. Although his Grandfather had also claimed that as a boy he had been a powder monkey in one of Lord Nelson's ships at Trafalgar. It was one story that the family had generally accepted as true.
"Mother, you are not normally so frank," teased Max, enjoying how the armour made him feel.
"Forgive me. But it is true."
There was nothing to forgive. Max enjoyed these rare moments when his Mother let her guard down and spoke her mind.
"So where do you think he got it?"
"I have no idea. Maybe your Father might. But it doesn't have a particularly military look to it. At least not a formal one. Can I cut your hair for you?"
She was right, but Max loved it. The back was made of two panels of thick brown leather, the two flanks a piece each. But the front was closed by seven great, thick, brown leather belts which crossed his chest, right to left, and sealed the armour with the same number of dull pewter buckles. It was sleeveless and a small imperial collar circled the neck. With a white shirt underneath, the armour still looked very workmanlike, but gained an air of elegance.
"No thank you Mother, I wish to keep my pony tail at this time," Max answered matter-of-factly after a moment. She had asked him about cutting his hair on average once a week since discovering he was growing it out. Max continued with the next obvious issue. "Trousers then? You've done so well with this, any ideas in that department."
"It makes you look like a Salt, a Pirate."
"All the better!" he retorted with glee. "Cornish stock after all. Make Grandfather proud."
She sighed at that. Though Max knew that she had not honestly expected any different from him.
"Actually I do have something in mind," she said, a small smile twitching her lips, before she turned and opened a trunk near the spare bed.
"What are those?" asked Max, when she held up a pair of nondescript black trou.
"Gerald's..."
"Oh!" interrupted Max in happy surprise. For as she turned them he saw the dashing single red stripe that ran the outside length of each leg. "They are perfect!"
* * *
"Shall we?" asked Wiremu, extending his arm toward the main doors but looking up at the domes and spires of the City Chambers. Lamps shone in the lead light windows and the throb of music came from within the masterpiece of Neo-Gothic architecture. It was a fashionable ten o'clock. Max nodded once in answer, then with heads slightly bowed they strode forward, pushed open the double doors and went in.
The Antechamber was almost empty of Masqueraders. Only a couple of young ladies fussed over their costumes quietly in one corner. There were however a number of smartly uniformed City Chamber staff in attendance. One of which stepped forward to remove the two friend’s coats. Wiremu thanked him and in return they were both handed a small strip of paper with a retrieval number on it. Then they quickly slipped on their masks and stepping back surveyed one another. Max's heart started to race a little. A dance had just finished, and the sound of the revellers clapping could be suddenly heard from just beyond the next set of double doors.
"You're a grim looking bastard," reflected Wiremu.
"It’s what's on the inside that counts," deflected Max.
"Which is?"
Max clicked his tongue.
"That, my friend is the mystery of the Masquerade! Besides you hardly appear all sweetness and light yourself."
Wiremu wore well cut trousers and over a white shirt, a matching waistcoat of black and beige mixed weave. It suited him well and was very smart with a black high collar and brown frog clasps down the front. His eyes, nose and cheeks were covered however with a wooden mask, the face of which was slashed with black, downward arching, tiger like, stripes. It was a simple but effective design, fearsome and clearly fashioned on the classic image of the tattooed Māori warrior. A wooden comb held two huia tail feathers upright at the back of his head.
An attendant came out from behind his desk then and as he approached, the new arrivals presented him with their tickets. Upon viewing these he nodded nicely and retreated once more to his station.
"Let us go then and hope we find dance partners more suited to us, than each other!" remarked Wiremu.
"Of that I have no doubt," replied Max, striding toward the double door as a white gloved manservant reached to open them.
“Bravado?”
“And Bluster,” added Wiremu.
Inside was all colour and movement and sound. Max resisted the temptation to pause and stand flat-footed to gape. Instead, he pushed forward through the crowd with confidence, meeting each inquiring eye squarely, his mask doing its work. All was as he imagined it; students mingling, dancing, laughing and posing. Beyond an orchestra, to one side a bar, while cordoned off stairs lead to a gallery above. There were many Goths present, complete in their blacks with white masks, students past and present. Naturally not a single Classic had been invited, and Max was pleased that he wouldn't be needing to tolerate any of Ginger's foolishness. He need only worry about The Five. As at the Iron Arena the previous evening the Engineers were out in force, their eclectic fashion choices making its own brown and bronze statement. Everyone else swelled the room with the looks of the day; for the most part fine suits and waistcoats for the gentlemen, although one character wore a full suit of armour, and another a pink feather in a musketeer’s hat, all much to the amusement of their fellows. The young ladies were splendid in ball gowns of all colours and fashions. Citrine and diamonds sparkled on ears, necks were draped with laces of Bohemian garnet, amethyst and the dazzling blues of turquoise and lapis lazuli. The Goths wore black lacquered pieces cast in Berlin Iron about their wrists and throats. Onyx stones hung from ears, pendants and black ribbon chokers.
But in front of every individuals’ eyes, halting casual identification, was the masquerade mask. Venetian styles were prevalent, as were golden half-moons, and bird feathered pieces, some with outlandish plumes towering high above the wearer’s heads. The occasional hooked crow nose appeared in the crowd, with simple Casanovas, riotous butterflies and grim grotesques. Gentlemen, for the most part preferred the plain Casanova, Phantom, Pimpernel or Greek Comedy.
Clearly, from the groups of carousing friends and classmates, the masks were only a limited disguise. Hair styles, head shapes, postures and other personal mannerisms would give most away to their acquaintances. But to Max the identities of those behind the masks were almost all a complete mystery. For as a first year he did not know many of those present even under normal circumstances.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Doubt they know me either. Probably work out who Wiremu is in no time.
Max led his friend to the edge of the dance floor where they stood surveying their swirling peers.
"Good luck my man," he said.
"I think I'll get a drink," responded Wiremu before departing. Max enjoyed the music for a moment letting himself relax and become attuned to the party.
"I know who we have here," said a warm female voice next to Max's ear, as from behind, two hands planted themselves lightly on his hips. A moment later Rebecca Salasor had slipped under his arm and was standing before him. Max's stomach lurched as her elegant hand briefly bushed one of the buckles on the front of his armour. "This is a fetching piece..."
You are a fetching piece.
She looked up at him from behind her eye mask. In one glance he took in her stunning, deep green, floor length dress, that pinched in around her slender waist perfectly and covered her bust in a way that was both appropriate but somehow... Her brown hair was held back by a single, fine jewelled comb and tumbled down her back in ringlets to leave her shoulders and neck bare, but for an ornate gold pendant.
"...most suitable for a rogue, or maybe... a notorious outlaw."
"Are you looking for a story where there isn't one? Or a dance where there could be?" challenged Max.
"A dance, of course," she answered with a laugh. Then taking Max's offered hand she followed him onto the dance floor, where his hand moved to her waist and hers rested on his shoulder, and he swept her into the swing of the current waltz without pause.
"So you have me all figured out?" she asked.
"That, Miss Salasor, I very much doubt."
She laughed again, this time at his use of her name, the name she had never given him, and together they spun deeper into the crowd.
* * *
Rebecca Salasor stayed with Max for two dances, after which another young gentleman approached her politely asking;
"Will you honour me with your hand for the next dance?" He wore a dark blue suit and hid his eyes behind a pair of golden wings. Max guessed that he would be an Aeronaut. Rebecca shared a secret look of disappointment with Max, but as is appropriate acquiesced and departed with her new partier.
Max took a moment to study the other dancers as they paused and re-partnered. If Harriet or Gilbert or even Julian Roil were amongst them he had no way of knowing. The Five he had seen, as he danced, leaning against a wall under the mezzanine gallery. It seemed that they were reluctant to partake in the gentile art of the ball room. It certainly was a far cry from the haka that they had performed on their first day at Victoria.
Now Max suddenly found himself with little time left to redeem the interval by the finding of his next partner, to walk off once the music starts was not done and most embarrassing. But he needn't have worried, quite a collection of young ladies were watching him, if somewhat apprehensively. He bowed upon noticing their attention and strode to the nearest in the group offering his hand.
"Shall I have the honour of dancing this set with you?"
Although he could tell she was a little nervous, she lowered her head graciously and took his hand, following him back out onto the floor. They only had time to bow again to each other before the music recompensed.
This new partner, though a head shorter than Max, cut a fine figure in her dark red gown and followed Max well, although a little stiffly, through the steps of the Schottische.
"Don't be afraid," he said, on a whim. She smiled self-consciously and bobbed her head, hiding a blush that was already secret behind her mask and causing her dark hair to tumble forward. Then regaining her composure quickly, she looked up and responded;
"You present such a fearsome visage... but still many an eye is drawn to you. May I ask your name Sir?"
Max gave a happy laugh at that and let the orchestra carry them another full circle before answering.
"My name is Max."
"Max," she repeated. "No, I don't think I have... oh!"
"What is it?"
"Do you mean you are... Max Skilton!?"
"Yes... I believe I am," he answered hesitantly. She was silent then as they parted for the running steps and the turning step where she circled around him. Coming back together once more she asked;
"Is it true that you humiliated Gilbert Lavisham in the first session of Captain Von Tempsky's new fencing class?"
Max didn't miss a step, but took a moment to answer, his stock at hearing this again, hidden behind his mask.
"Maybe more by mistake than design," he replied.
"You undersell yourself."
"It is the better of the two faults."
"Indeed. Although that action must be why you have been invited here a year before time."
"Does it make me that remarkable?" asked Max, failing to see the connection. She bowed her head once more.
"Your dancing is enough for me."
And she also seemed reluctant to part with him at the end of the dance. But the next set was called as the 'Gay Gordon's' and two circles formed, gentlemen on the inside, ladies on the out. In their couples they would complete a short progress facing forward and then backward, and a regress facing forward and then backward, followed by a polka together, before parting, the ladies circle moving forward and thus her being passed onward to the next gentleman.
Now a string young ladies moved through Max's arms as the orchestra played 'Scotland the Brave'. Rebecca came by and in her turn seemed to hold him tighter than the others and lingered a little in his hand as he passed her on at the end of the polka. Two other circles had formed in other parts of the room and Max was glad to glance over and see Wiremu in one, busily putting young ladies through their paces.
Then Max reached out, took the next hand in his circle, drew the young lady to him and knew at once that it was Harriet Leith. As they quickly stood side by side and he reached blind to take the offered hand from above her right shoulder, he had to fight to maintain the composure that seconds ago had been so naturally his, as they linking their left hands together in front.
Starting on your right foot, walk forward for four steps. Moving in the same direction still, and without letting go, pivot on the spot. Now your left hand is behind your lady and your right hand is in front. Now take four steps backwards.
It wasn't until they had made the pivot that he realised that she hadn't recognised him. In fact she was hardly paying him any attention at all. For his part Max was sure it was her; the red hair drawn up to display her elegant neck, the hoop earrings, the blush in her pink lips. He would have known her a mile off. But she hung her head, not in the demur way of a gracious ball room partner, but in...
Repeat in the opposite direction.
...maybe in thoughtfulness, certainly she was distracted, possibly sad.
Of course, she has no expectation that I would be here. Would she care anyway?
Drop left hands, raise right hands above your lady's head. Lady pivots on the spot.
Her masked face turned inches in front of him now. He could smell her sweet perfume. See her green eyes behind the black enamelled mask. He almost said something then, when she was so close. But he knew not what, and what discovering him would mean to her; embarrassment, shame, anger, compassion, pity, flight? Furthermore, he was unsure if he even wanted her to know him behind the mask, if he in fact still cared.
Joining hands in ballroom hold, polka round the room.
Max led her faithfully though the turns of the polka, his heart pumping loudly in his chest, and releasing her at the right moment to the next gentleman. Then at the very last, maybe his hand betrayed him squeezing hers a little, or not, but something, she looked back, looked him in the face, and he saw her mouth open a little and heard her breath catch. She had recognised him. Then she was in the hands of his successor and another young lady had come to him.
Thus for the next set Harriet was right in front of Max and when they all turned he was before her. Therefore, their eyes did not meet again and although etiquette demands that one make no extra effort to acknowledge another who is not the current partner, Max doubted that they would have even if it did not. Still the poor girl currently in Max's care got very little attention.
After two more partners Harriet was gone from view and after a few more the dark-haired girl in the red dress with whom Max had started the dance was back in his hands. They greeted each other warmly with mock surprise and the second around, always much more relaxed than the first, commenced.
At some point Max saw a tall, dark gentleman on the far side of the circle. He wore fine grey pinstripes and a gold mask in the Casanova style. Everything about his manner told Max that it was Gilbert Lavisham. Max wondered at the words of the girl in the dark red dress; had he really been invited to the Bal Masquerade simply because he had 'humiliated', not won, a fencing bout against Gilbert Lavisham? Lavisham was obviously a 'personage' around the university, but Max doubted the idea that the little skirmish was the reason for his own invitation. Noting his onetime adversaries place in the circle, though unconcerned due to his own mask and the unexpectedness of his invitation, Max let the music carry him on.
Although the encounter with Harriet had given Max much to think about, including the simple relief that she appeared to have emerged from the robot battle unscathed, His stomach lurched again with excitement when the dance returned Rebecca to his side. She felt warm in his hands, responsive to his every move. He was sure that she discretely turned to quickly brush his fingers with her lips when he held her hand above her right shoulder. Then when he raised her hands above their heads she presented him with a very alluring smile as she spun beneath. When all the couples broke for the polka she came in close to Max so that he had to hold her, instead, in an imitate waltz. Then she was gone again and other young ladies he recognised from the first round were passed to him.
All around him long dresses spun and rustled, young gentlemen murmured polite complements to their newest partner, the orchestra transitioned from 'Scotland the Brave' to 'Bonnie Lass Of Fyvie' and Harriet retook his hand.
"You are here," she said looking straight ahead, as they progressed side by side, left hands linked in front, right hands over her right shoulder.
"I am," he confirmed.
"I mean... it's really you?"
...without letting go, pivot on the spot. Now your left hand is behind your lady and your right hand is in front. Now take four steps backwards.
"No one else..."
"No don't talk," she interrupted, a trace of panic in her voice. "Just be close. It's too dangerous."
Repeat in the opposite direction.
Dangerous!? What could that mean?
"Gilbert?"
She didn't answer. But her hand gripped his that little bit firmer.
Just be close.
Drop left hands, raise right hands above your lady's head. Lady pivots on the spot.
Her eyes, this time no longer distant, met his with such intensity that he wished for nothing other than to gather her into his arms. Only her warning and all his unanswered questions and hurt prevented him. Instead, they linked hands and completed the polka cycle, which Max counted a stupid step for such a moment. And then their hands slipped apart… and she went to her next partner, only feet away and his next was ready for him.
But as it turned out the next pairing was the last of the dance. On completing the final polka each gentleman bowed to his current lady, who inclined her head and made a small curtsy. After which the couple clapped each other and then they all applauded the orchestra. It was a good hearty noise and when it was done Max looked ahead to Harriet and found her turning to meet his eyes.
"Would you buy a lady a drink?" said Rebecca sweetly, appearing at Max's elbow and slipping her arm into his.
"Ah, certainly, Yes," replied Max, taken by surprised. And she led him off to the bar.
Max was in a daze for a few moments. He stumbled through buying Rebecca a drink and ordering himself something that he hardly tasted. She noticed, even with a mask hiding most of his face, that something was amiss. Still, she engaged him valiantly with friendly chatter and over-close physical proximity. Max liked her, or in the least he found her very attractive.
But right then he was feeling very confused. Harriet had wanted him close. The old bitterness threatened to boil up.
She is still playing you. If she cares why not declare it? Break with Gilbert. Are you not good enough? Just a secret play thing? Something to cruelly torture, laughing at how you perform before casting you aside and enjoying how you run back for more?!
He struggled for clarity, for something solid. A mad part of him wished to tear off both his and Rebecca's masks, to seize her in his arms and kiss her red lips. He fought the idea. She would welcome it, maybe not right then and there, but she was sending all the signals. She would, but not for the reasons that were pushing him.
He studied her as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She had ulterior motives too, not that they had resurfaced since the start of the evening.
That doesn't justify any crass action on my behalf.
She had been lovely company. His old fashioned nobility won out, and he wondered if he could forget Harriet with Rebecca.
He smiled at her then and watched as the worry that had appeared in her eyes smoothed away.
"Walk with me. Let us talk and watch the dancers together," he said.
She retook his arm at once and he led her to the balustrade that separated the bar tables from the dance floor.
"Tell me, if you don't mind my asking, where are your people from?" It was a standard and obvious question among the emigrant colonists, one which normally didn't fail to start a conversation. Although some, maybe those with pasts or pain, sometimes resented the inquiry to their station in the Old Country. A thing that was seldom a problem for those born in the Dominion.
"Not at all," she responded resting her arm of the polished rimu hand rail. "From The Capital for the most part. My Grandfather was an engraver for the Illustrated London News. My Father grew up in a house were the news always arrived first, hot off the telegram and later the telegraph. His Father would come home at night saying that the SS Great Britain had run aground in Ireland or that Mr Brunel had passed away and then the next day it would be in the papers and Grandfather's engraving would be there right next to the story. My Father loved knowing before the rest."
"No surprise he ended up doing what he does."
"Exactly," she laughed. "It is much the same with me. You understand?"
She seemed to be asking for acceptance.
"Of course."
"And you? Your people?"
"My Father and his Father were from Cornwall. Grandfather worked Beam Engines atop tin mines, but told stories about fighting smugglers, and smuggling, and being a pirate, and carrying powder for Lord Nelson, and riding to the relief of Lucknow with Sir Colin Campbell during the Indian Mutiny, and fighting the Tzar's Russians in the Crimean. The Professor... I mean Father, says that the tin mines part of the story is true."
She laughed at that.
"Sounds a real character."
"Cornish," confirmed Max. "The Professor was always more interested in spying falcons and Choughs on the sea cliffs than running steam engines... or dreaming about fighting pirates. My Mother... well Grandfather says she came from The North."
"Scotland?" Rebecca asked. "Northumberland?"
Max shook his head.
"The white hills of Dorset."
She covered her mouth with her hand to hide the smile.
"Grandfather," continued Max. "Called any place north of Plymouth 'The North'. Didn't want his son marrying a Saxon Northerner. Said my Mother had weak bones because of the chalky soil around Dorchester. Also wasn't true. It was him that couldn't walk in the end and her that picked him up and carried his old bones up to his bed."
"Quite a woman."
"She is."
For a moment they turned away from each other and watched the dancers.
"I wonder who that is?" said Max indicating a woman on the far side of the dance floor. She was wrapped in fitting blue silk dress and masked in a subtle Asian style reminiscent of an orange and black striped tiger.
"The word is..." said Rebecca knowingly "...that it is the Chinese. She is called Jasmine."
That gave Max pause.
"So another first year invited," he reflected matter-of-factly. "She is in my Archaeology class. I guess she would fit the Goth's requirement for being an interesting guest."
"Must do. There has never been Chinese at Victoria."
"Now that would make an interesting story for you."
"Max," she looked at him bashfully. "Thank you for having a concern for my journalistic career. But I can assure you that I currently have quite enough stories to work on." Max couldn't help thinking that he was one of them. Not that he minded. As long as she steered well clear of the Murderer's Bay Musketeers bit. If not, things would go down hill very quickly. As lovely as she was, he had Wang and Wiremu to think of. "But listen," she continued. "What about you? Archaeology you've mentioned. Are you taking Māori Studies?"
"Indeed I am," he confirmed.
"So off to the Northern Isle, when is it? Tomorrow morning?"
Max nodded, taking a sip of his drink and watching Jasmine.
"Now that is a story I could write. Real history. You'll have to tell me all about it when you get back." She stood up on her tip toes to say this and beamed at Max. "I could interview you!"
He had to smile at her almost childlike enthusiasm.
"Of course. That would be nice. We'll do coffee when I get back."
"I would like that," she said suddenly quiet, and though Max had other things on his mind a jolt of electricity shot through him at her hushed words. He cleared his throat.
"Listen, who is that fellow with her now? With Jasmine? They have similar masks, look like they have come as a couple."
Rebecca hit him playfully on the arm.
"Don't tease!"
"What how so?!"
"Really?! You don't know?"
"No, how should I?"
"Because it's your friend Peng Wang!"
Max's mouth dropped open in surprise.
"Wang?"
Wang! What are you doing? You sly dog.
"You really didn't know?"
Max shook his head.
"He said he wasn't coming." Then minimising the confusing deception added; "Full of surprises."
A lively Mazurka was being danced in the wide space between were Max and Rebecca watched and the Chinese couple stood. Max caught a flash of red hair and saw Harriet, for a split second, look his way.