Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

over a visiting diplomat. I looked at the white gown that Fig’s maid had ironed for me. Oh, golly, was white a sensible color? What if I dripped some kind of sauce down my front? I wasn’t very good at eating in public, especially in royal circles. At least we’d removed the train so I didn’t have that to trip over.
    I was about to try on the dress when our butler, Hamilton, tapped on my bedroom door.
    “You are wanted on the telephone, my lady,” he said.
    I went downstairs, mystified. Nobody ever telephoned me. Perhaps the reception had been canceled? I felt a wave of relief flood over me.
    I picked up the mouthpiece. “Hello,” I said cautiously.
    “Is that Lady Georgiana?” an American voice said. “Honey, this is Dottie Merriman. You’re coming to our ball, and I just wanted to tell you that we’ve ordered a whole rack of costumes and masks, so don’t worry about bringing a thing. It seems that nobody in Britain stocks proper Halloween costumes—no skeletons or vampires or anything terrifying and ripping fun, so I had a whole trunk-load shipped over from the States. I do insist that my guests look creepy. Which train are you catching, honey? I’ll have Cavendish meet you at the station.”
    I realized I hadn’t managed to say a single word until now. “I planned to arrive about five o’clock,” I said. “And after the ball, is one expected to stay the night?”
    She had a delightfully musical laugh. “Honey, the ball will end with breakfast as the sun comes up. We never do things by halves at Broxley. See you on Saturday then. I know you’re going to have a ball.” And she burst into laughter as she hung up, leaving me breathless.
    Reassured that I wouldn’t have to put together a costume, I rang for Fig’s maid to dress me for the reception. By the time I was secured into the white dress and my hair was arranged around the family tiara, which had been a gift from Queen Victoria to her daughter (my grandmother), I actually looked the part. I didn’t feel very regal inside as the taxicab dropped me at the visitors’ entrance to the palace and I was escorted up the grand staircase. In fact my knees were shivering violently under that thin white dress, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. A footman appeared offering champagne. A small orchestra played Strauss waltzes in the far corner. Other people stood about in little groups, chatting awkwardly. I looked around desperately for anyone I might know, but the other guests all seemed to be my parents’ age or older. And my white dress stood out horribly.
    There was no sign of Their Majesties nor of any of their children. A large red-faced man, his uniform dripping in medals, slunk up beside me.
    “I say, hello, you delectable creature,” he said. “Don’t tell me. You’re the token sacrificial virgin.”
    He laughed a hearty
haw haw
. I gave him what I hoped was a cold stare.
    “Which one is the Hun then?” he asked.
    “I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.
    “Rum do this, what? Doesn’t seem that long ago that we were fighting the blighters and now we’re welcoming them with open arms.” He moved closer to me and slid a finger down my bare arm. “I say, you’re an attractive little filly. If it turns out to be too frightfully boring why don’t we just pop off somewhere alone? I know a quiet little nightclub where we could be very cozy.”
    At that moment trumpets sounded the fanfare; the national anthem was played. A hush fell on the company as double doors opened and Their Majesties came in, the queen on the arm of a large, portly and very Germanic-looking man wearing more braid and medals than my obnoxious companion. They came forward, nodding and smiling through the room, pausing to chat here and there, until they stopped beside me.
    “Georgiana, dear. How good of you to come,” the queen said, holding out her hand as I managed a curtsy without falling over. (As if one refused a queen!) She turned to her escort. “Rupert, may I introduce our young cousin Georgiana Rannoch.”
    He took my hand, clicked his heels, then, to my horror, he drew my hand up to his lips. “Delighted,” he said. “Zis is the young lady of whom vee vere speaking,
ja
? My cousin too, I believe.” He looked at the king and queen for confirmation.
    “That’s right,” the king said. “Her father and I were first cousins, just as we were with your father the kaiser.”
    “Bertie Rannoch. I remember him. Good