Free My Pleasure by Connie Brockway

me, I was to scream bloody murder. So, will it be tuppence then, or I’ll start screaming?”
    Helena laughed and tossed her a groat before tucking the flowers under the lip of her soft hat and moving on, amused and fascinated that this little scrap of a girl would own such self-assurance and aplomb. She could not remember ever having been so summarily dismissed.
    It was the mask, she realized. No one could see her countenance or hair. Always before, her looks had attracted conspicuous attention. It was novel for her to move anonymously through a crowd. Here, dressed thus, she could say whatever she wished and never pay the penalty for a chance indiscretion or pointed observation, for laughing too loudly or saying something inappropriate. That was the danger of masks, Helena realized, no doubt of it: the euphoria of freedom. And of such freedom she’d had scant experience.
    Before this past month, she had never gone anywhere like Vauxhall Garden. In fact, she had never been anywhere at all without the escort of at least a maid or footman. This was heady stuff, indeed. She might—
    “I could do anything I wanted to you. Right now. You’re mine,” a hoarse voice whispered close to her ear.
    Helena spun about, but the crowd was thick, and the owner of the voice might have been any of a dozen people surrounding her: the fat man in the Tudor robes, the woman in kimono and plaster mask, the sailor or American Indian princess. She forced herself to calm down. The words probably hadn’t even been meant for her. The feeling of being followed that had dogged her all week had stimulated her imagination. She was simply reacting to her sudden freedom with the ingrained conviction that nothing came without a price.
    Her pleasure dimmed by the distasteful episode, she made her way to the centerpiece of the gardens, called the Grove, and from there to Lovers Walk. With any luck, Oswald would be there tonight. She fervently hoped so. Flora’s constant tears were mildewing her pillow shams.
    “My dear, my exquisite, my kind and generous Miss Nash!” The harlequin raised Helena’s hands to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss upon her knuckles. Helena gazed sardonically at the tinkling bells decorating the foolscap bent over her hands; Oswald Goodwin could not have found a more fitting disguise. At least this time Flora’s husband had been waiting for her at the shadowy end of Lovers Walk.
    “Thank you so much for coming,” Oswald continued. “I cannot apologize enough for my failure to meet with you last week—”
    Helena pulled her hands free of his and wordlessly withdrew Flora’s note from inside her velvet jacket. She handed it to him, glad to be rid of the thing; it was so drenched in perfume that carrying it had given her a headache.
    His face alighting with joy, Oswald took the note, held it to his nose, and inhaled, his eyes slitting in a delirium of bliss. Grudgingly Helena felt her ire fading to simple exasperation when she saw the unfeigned pleasure with which he broke the seal. Whatever was to become of Flora and him? She did not doubt his love was real—but how deep was it? Would it survive years of separation? Poverty? Hardship? Social banishment?
    He read for a few seconds and looked up, holding the paper to his heart. “She is well!” he breathed rapturously.
    Helena refrained from pointing out that if Flora had been ailing, Helena would hardly be here delivering love notes.
    He read a little more and once again clutched the paper to his breast. “She misses me!”
    “So she has informed me,” Helena answered dryly. “Many times.”
    His large hazel eyes filled with tears. “I miss her, too.”
    “Yes, yes,” Helena said impatiently. “It will be grand when you can be together again. And speaking of this, at the risk of sounding meddlesome, what exactly are you doing by way of hastening that happy day’s arrival?”
    She could barely believe it was herself speaking to him this way. She was always most