Some introductions are arranged long before names are exchanged,
It was a cool June evening when Charlotte Celridge slipped into her pale blue dress, ahead of the Scarlet Lounge Social. It was a masquerade event, though the occasion itself was rather low-key. A stately home full of normal people. That much she knew.
Charlotte booked an executive taxi for her arrival at The Emberly. Not that she imagined anyone would judge her, but it was too much of a risk to be arriving in a conventional one.
Posh place, posh cars, she told herself.
With her hair in a bun and her fascinator in place, Charlotte made her way out to the car.
Charlotte didn’t know a whole lot about The Emberly, but she did know that it was a manor-style hotel owned by one of the attendees, with a bar room that had been lent for the night. It warmed her heart the way the Scarlet Lounge looked out for its members.
The drive to The Emberly took about thirty minutes, along dual carriageways and down country lanes. The car passed homes and neighbourhoods that Charlotte had never seen before, and she wondered about the lives they lived. What were their children called? What pets did they have? What did they do for work?
“Here we are,” the driver said, indicating and turning down the driveway. Charlotte sat up in her seat and drank in the view of the hotel. It was stately, certainly, but not overly posh.
Taking the pale-blue-and-silver mask from her handbag, Charlotte slipped the mask over her eyes and tied the ribbon in a bow around her bun. She slid her fascinator out slightly and back in, pinning the bow in place.
The car stopped on the forecourt, a few metres from the entrance steps. The driver, an older gentleman, stepped out of the taxi and swung around the boot to hold the rear door open. Charlotte placed a tentative kitten-heeled foot on the asphalt below.
“Have a good evening,” the driver said, pulling Charlotte from her reverie as she gazed at the building in front of her.
“Thank you,” she replied, turning her attention back to the driver. “You too.”
Charlotte lifted her dress slightly, pulling the pale blue duchess satin from the ground in front of her. She made her way up the short flight of steps, careful not to trip and make a disastrous entrance. The doorman — also in a simple black mask — welcomed her.
The Emberly is not huge, but it is a lot larger (and grander) than most of the hotels Charlotte had stayed in before. Deep red walls line the main entrance, while white and black checkerboard marble covers the floor. A matching staircase swept in at the left, and a crystal chandelier hung down from above. It was the kind of stay she’d only seen on websites.
Before her stood two large wooden doors, and a masked porter.
“Charlotte Celridge,” Charlotte said, unsure why her name suddenly sounded so unfamiliar. She waited nervously while the porter checked the guest list.
“This way, Ms Celridge,” the porter replied with a smile as he held open one of the doors. Charlotte took one deep stabilising breath as she made her way into the room.
Beyond the door was the bar lounge, full of easy red leather couches, tables and a roaring fireplace. A grand piano sat in one corner, and a warmly lit bar sat at the far end. The room was full of lively conversation, hearty laughter and soft jazz.
Charlotte wondered about her introductions, how she might introduce herself to people, or the people she might know. Even “Charlotte”, she realised, might not be enough for some people to recognise, and masquerade masks make it hard to know people by face. Why hadn’t she thought of all this before?
She wound her way through the crowd, smiling and nodding to people as she went. A few complimented Charlotte on her choice dress for the evening, and she thanked them for their kind words. Masked men look up, and Charlotte couldn’t help but feel vulnerable in their presence. Why are men in masks always so much more… intimidating?
“I like your dress!” a bubbly blond in a green tulle dress said, offering a handshake. Charlotte didn’t recognise her, but accepted the handshake anyway.
“Thanks,” she replied, shaking the girl’s outstretched hand. “AlbionFlame. Or Charlotte, in real life.”
“Jess, or Jessica,” the girl replied. “Or SassySparkles, as you’ll know me.” Both laughed in their newfound familiarity.
“Have you met anyone so far tonight?”
“I’ve just arrived,” Charlotte said, “so not yet. You?”
“A few familiar names,” Jess replied. “One more now,” she added. The ladies laughed again.
Charlotte made her way to the bar, passing couples and chatting groups as she did. She could already guess some of the plans being made for the night ahead, even if she knew that’s not what the evening is really about. This is a social, she thought to herself, not a hook-up.
A friendly bar lady in a glittery silver mask greeted Charlotte with an enthusiastic smile, and Charlotte ordered a French Martini — her favourite. She wouldn’t normally order cocktails on a night out, she reminded herself, but she wanted to keep it classy here.
Charlotte turned, drinking in the sight of the gathering once more, along with the first sip of her Martini — it was quite the show. Glancing left, she saw more people chatting and socialising, and glancing right, she saw a broad, bearded man in a tuxedo and a kilt, being harassed by two giggling girls trying to steal peeks underneath it. Charlotte shook her head in disapproval at their behaviour. Not the time, ladies, nor the place.
Even in spite of his unfortunate situation, Charlotte knew she knew him. Taking another grounding breath and another sip of her drink, she walked over to the familiar stranger.
“You must be Wildside78,” Charlotte said with a smile. The man’s eyes flicked up to hers and the giggling ladies stopped with their behaviour.
“And you must be AlbionFlame,” he replied.
“Charlotte. Charlotte Celridge,” she said, offering a hand.
“Gordon. Gordon Wildham,” the man replied, taking Charlotte’s hand and raising her knuckles to his lips, his blue eyes never once leaving hers. Charlotte raised a discerning eyebrow from behind her mask, quietly impressed by his gentle demeanour and unwavering confidence. He was every bit the gentleman she’d imagined he’d be.
To Be Continued…
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