For the twentieth time that evening I look down at my flawless white gown, the vast hooped skirt awkward and walking requires a lot of concentration. Taking a last look in the mirror I admire how my thick chestnut coloured hair has been curled into ringlets and piled atop my head, complementing my green eyes and the tight white bodice curves my figure magnificently. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and am startled to see how prominent my bosom is. It may prove to be a good distraction should things go wrong. I stand in the grand hallway at the front door to greet the guests and run a final appraising eye over the place. The gorgeous creamy marble floor shines in the golden light cast by the massive chandelier and electric sconces. The effect complements the colourful wall friezes wonderfully. It will be a grand entrance for my guests. As they arrive I am glad to see how much trouble they have gone to for all their costumes are expensive and authentic, many ladies balancing ridiculously high wigs atop their heads. Just above where I stand is a massive portrait of Lord Carmichael, the fourth earl of the estate who held the masked balls back in the eighteenth century that I have based tonight’s on. He was responsible for most of the dazzling colourful decor. He looks down upon this world with stern black eyes, his face strong and handsome, black hair held back in a coordinating black velvet ribbon and I hope he would approve of my efforts.
