Catherine's fingers lingered on his arm as he moved the final piece into position and Blake understood the possibility implied there. Before he had met Jamie, he had been living well in the promiscuous London singles scene, fueled by alcohol and a desire to forget. He had never had any trouble finding willing partners, but he struggled to take anything further than a one-night stand. Questions about his scars and doubts about his own demons had stopped him. But Jamie had given him hope that he could give more of himself, and tonight he would see her at the masquerade ball. Perhaps tonight they would be more than friends.
He took a step back, away from Catherine's touch.
"It looks great," he said. "I like that you've added humor to what could be a – difficult – exhibition."
"I'm glad you think so, but I also wanted to portray the darker side," Catherine said. "Whores who got on the wrong side of the law were sent to Bridewell house of correction and whipped in public. There were many who enjoyed watching and who paid for the privilege. Who were the real sinners after all?"
Catherine's eyes hardened and even with her small stature, Blake could see how much this exhibition meant to her.
"It's good that you're the curator," he said. "It's almost a feminist take on the sex trade, something that many wouldn't have considered."
Catherine's face softened and she sighed.
"Thank you. It means a lot to me to reclaim some of the myths. Of course the sex trade had its horrific side, but there were also women who made a lot of money with it. If they didn't die of disease or violence, they could live more independently than ever. Profits from the sex industry actually financed the development of huge swathes of the city. It was one of the most valuable commercial activities in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, as important as even the London Docks."
Blake shook his head. "It's one of the paradoxes of London. Some of its greatest achievements come from the shadow side."
"Of course, it's difficult to know where to draw the line," Catherine said, the cheeky smile returning to her face. "The truth of London's past is often hidden for good reason." She pulled out some old street signs. "I want to put a couple of these up around the exhibit. What do you think?"
She shuffled through them so Blake could read the texts: Maiden Lane, Love Lane, Codpiece Lane, Gropecunt Lane. He put a hand up to stop her, laughing a little.
"I think that last one would bring in a raft of complaints," he said.
"It became Grape Street and then Grub Street over time," Catherine said. "But I quite like the original name. At least you knew what you were going to get there."
They worked with an easy camaraderie for the rest of the afternoon, the exhibition taking shape around them. Blake enjoyed watching Catherine work, her strong sense of what she wanted to portray commanding the space. Flirtation aside, she inspired him with the way she could use an exhibit to make people laugh and think, to make them feel. He understood why Margaret wanted him up here. He was reminded once more what a future in the museum might mean, what he could do with his gifts. He could bring the past alive and the thought enlivened him.
Blake looked at his watch. He still needed to pick up the tuxedo from the rental shop before heading to the Tate Modern for the ball.
"I've got to run," Blake said. "But I can help you tomorrow if you like?"
"I'll look forward to it," Catherine said with a smile that promised far more.
Blake emerged from the central exhibition space into the crowded Great Court. Tourists and families thronged the space and the noise of the crowd rose in waves. A lone figure caught Blake's eye. The man with the scar on his nose stood by the door of the Enlightenment Room, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Blake.
Blake's heart thudded in his chest as he recognized aspects of his father in the man's face, and the promise of the north in his eyes.
He took a step forward.
The man ducked into the Enlightenment Room behind him. Blake followed, expecting to find him there, wanting to challenge him. The room swirled with people, but the man was gone. For now, at least.
Chapter 18
The vast expanse of the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern was transformed for the masquerade ball.
High ceilings were crisscrossed with thin wires at one end and acrobats walked with long poles over the crowd. Trapeze artists swung across the expanse, tumbling across the space to be caught before the long drop to the concrete floor. Long silk ribbons hung down in another area and four lithe women wound themselves up before letting themselves spin towards the ground, plunging in barely controlled descent. The acrobats wore close-fitting, almost see-through body suits with artfully placed embroidery and crystals reflecting the light. Their limbs were etched against the black roof, the embodied perfection of human art in this temple to creation.
Jamie stood for a moment, looking up in wonder at the kaleidoscope of color and movement above. The sounds of a live jazz band accompanied the performers, although the dancing would start in earnest as the alcohol flowed more freely. Jamie remembered the night she had taken Polly to Cirque du Soleil, a circus that celebrates the extremes of the human body, communicating story through movement and music. Polly's body had been ravaged by motor neuron disease by then, but her eyes had been alive with joy that night.
With a smile on her lips at the memory, Jamie walked towards one of the bars. Tempted as she was by the multicolored cocktails, she chose a small glass of white wine and took it to stand on the edge of the dance area, scanning the crowd.
Most wore masks, some attached over their faces while others held them on long poles in the Venetian way. Those who wanted to be recognized held their masks casually, but most were incognito.
A couple spun past on the dance floor, the woman in an ice-white dress, her face masked in branches of icicles, her lips painted blue. Her partner was a Green Man, his face obscured by the leaves of the pagan god. There were men in the crowd with the long nose masks of the Scaramuccia, a rogue and adventurer from the Venetian Commedia Dell'Arte. The wearers had a swagger that matched their characters. Two women walked past in steampunk half-masks of copper and rivets, cogs and wheels, extravagant Victorian dress with bustles and petticoats. The flash of photographers captured everything, some attendees striking coquettish poses and others turning away from the light.
The masquerade ball was the society event of the season and Jamie was aware of how her outfit was nothing compared to some in the room. She wore a black chiffon dress with layers that flowed around her legs, with a bodice in a peacock feather design. A matching butterfly mask hid the upper part of her face with its gauzy wings. It fitted well and although extravagant on her budget, Jamie looked forward to wearing the outfit at tango another night. The feeling of the dress swishing around her legs as she walked made her want to dance, but tonight she was here to watch.
A man walked past in white tie, his black suit tailored to perfection, the lining bright scarlet. He turned and Jamie saw that he wore the mask of the Devil, his face half perfect angel, the other half a demon with twisted features.
She knew the one she sought wouldn't wear such a mask. His peculiar fetish for flesh made him a demon in her mind, but he would no doubt be as mundane as other criminals she had encountered in her years in the police. Yet she wanted the man to come tonight, and she wanted to face him in the darkness.