“Mamma, have you thought aboutwhichbachelors might be in attendance tonight? Other friends and acquaintances with whom we might be afforded a reunion?”
“Are you sleepwalking, child? I just said they do not matter!” Pearl scoffs. “Except to introduce the cousin to, I suppose.”
Arabella steals a breath. “I did hear a rumor that Harry Peyton would be invited.”
Pearl startles at the name but waves to the maids. “This will do, thank you, time’s up. Now, the headpiece.”
After the maids secure two matching diamond wings into Arabella’s hair, they gather their things and go.
As soon as they are alone, Arabella continues, “I haven’t seen him in years. Do you remember how close we once were? During those days of the railroad merger, when Father and Mr. Peyton were working together? It’s been ever so long, and I know the Peytons do rather keep to themselves these days, but I had wondered whether Harry might step out tonight, given that he’s only a bit older than me and hasn’t gone off to university or anything like that, if the rumors are to be believed.Which surprises me, as he always was so intellectually inclined during our lessons and in his letters...”
Through this insipid speech, Pearl steals a centering breath. Why her otherwise malleable child decides to be obstinate only at wholly inconvenient times, she’ll never know.
Truth be told, Pearl does now remember how well Arabella and Harry got on when they were small. They shared the same governess, ever together chasing butterflies in Central Park or making up games in the parlor as their fathers conducted business in the library, and their mothers... Well, Harry didn’t have a mother. Dead in childbirth. As for Pearl, she was busy. Securing her daughter’s future through society connections.
That was all before the Manifest and Midwest mess, obviously. Before the unpleasantness. Before Harold Senior collected his substantial winnings and disappeared into retirement, eventually walling himself and that son of his in that Upper East Side palace like Fortunato and Montresor.
She forces a dismissive laugh, severing Arabella’s monologue like a snip. “Why on earth are you thinking about little Harry Peyton when the latest letter from theGrand Prince of Württembergis sitting on your bedside table? Unopened!”
Arabella blushes. “I’ll admit there’s something in me that’s afraid to see what he’s written. To respond to it, to feel anything at all—”
“Yes, yes, yes. Well, all of this is just to say, best not to concern yourself with the likes of Harold Peyton Jr. For goodness’ sake!”
In a rare display of affection, Pearl pinches Arabella’s cheek. Her daughter flinches.
Robert pauses mid-stroll down the hall, examining hispocket watch. Even in his beautifully fitted tuxedo, the wallpaper seems to absorb him entirely, as if his body is disappearing as quickly as his thinning hair.
“Doesn’t she look lovely, darling?” Pearl calls out to her husband.
He looks up, utterly incurious, and continues away without a word. Absolutely typical.
“We have far grander aspirations tonight than the son of arailroad man,” Pearl whispers peevishly to her daughter. “Come now. It’s twenty minutes to ten. We don’t want to be late!”
Chapter 8
The Line and the Lure
“Another ten minutes, I think,” Alice calls over her shoulder. “We won’t want to be early.”
She gazes into the mirror. She looks rather drawn, pallid, but it suits the character she’s playing. The gown is secondhand but doesn’t seem it, procured discreetly from a shop in Philadelphia. It took Béatrice twenty hours to go there and back, but the expense of her rail ticket was offset by the money they’ve saved not having a dress made to order. This is a Worth gown, Parisian, cast off by a Pennsylvania debutante only last season. It suits Alice’s complexion well.
Béatrice has an eye for these things. She really is remarkable.
Here she is now, behind Alice in the mirror, frowning so charmingly as she tries to add a little life to that French twist, but Alice waves her off. “See to Cora one more time, final details. She must be the object of all eyes tonight.”
“That will be difficult standing next to you,” Béatrice says quietly.
Alice smiles just as faintly. Only Béa would believe that.
“We won’t be locked at the hip tonight as we’ve been these past weeks,” Alice notes with a sigh. “I hope she’s ready.”
“She is. It is all lining up exactly as it should.”
Béatrice presses a hand to Alice’s shoulder before she goes. Alice feels her touch lingering there even after she’s left the room.
She draws a few deep breaths, soothed somehow by the confines of her corset, a reassurance that she is here, she is real, even if all else is illusion. That she is held in, not overspilling. Calm and prepared.
“My bustle barely fits through any of the doors!” Cora’s giggles erupt from the sitting room. “This dress is divine, though. Even you have to admit it, Dag.Gefällt dir mein Kleid?”
