She meets Mrs. Ames halfway across the room, Cora and Arabella trailing behind the two elder women like dinghies pulled by yachts.
“So the rumors are true,” Mrs. Ames coos. Her smile is bright, tinged with desperation. “Your Grace’s cousin, is it?”
“Mrs. Ames, may I present Miss Cora Ritter, daughter of my late uncle Reginald.”
Cora, as rehearsed, dips her head in grief, even as she extends her gloved hand to Mrs. Ames.
“Oh, he’s... he’s dead, then?” Mrs. Ames sputters, her hand flying to her broad bosom. Then she leans in to whisper, “It wasn’t the Austrians, was it?”
“In a way, it may have been,” Cora murmurs. “He pledged his heart to Württemberg and his king,meinpapa. In the end, it could not withstand the strain of all that we have lost.”
There is a somber silence before Mrs. Ames chirps, “My daughter, Arabella. You two will be quick friends, I’m sure of it. Arabella, don’t be rude. Take Lady Cora to meet your other young acquaintances. She doesn’t know a soul on these shores, do you, poor thing?”
“I’m afraid I do not,” Cora answers, turning to Arabella with a shy smile.
“Come with me, then,” Arabella answers eagerly, the pink of her cheeks flushing to match her rose gown. “I should love to ask you about Württemberg, if you don’t mind. Mamma tells me you fled here for your safety? That must have been terrifying for you...”
As little Arabella and Cora break away toward a clutch of gathered debutantes, the two arm in arm already like childhood friends, Alice notices not for the first time that there’s a genuine sweetness to the younger Ames woman’s expression that does not appear to have sprung from either of her parents.
She swallows away the stab of compunction that accompanies that observation. There is no leeway for mercy in this plan of hers—not even for Cora, who shoots Alice an alarmed look over one champagne puff of a shoulder. Sometimes you have to push the baby bird from the nest in order to get them to fly.
“Dare I ask about the resistance?” Mrs. Ames asks, her face a rictus of feigned worry. “Your brother, safe, I hope?”
Before Alice can draw breath to answer, Mrs. Ames glances in apparent panic over Alice’s shoulder. Alice follows her gaze to see Mrs. Witt flinging her fur warmer and winter cloak at an attendant maid and rapidly crossing the room to intercept the conversation.
Mrs. Ames leans in and frantically whispers, “Mybrother nearly died in an ice-skating accident when he was seven and I’ve had a terror of ponds ever since. Isn’t that silly? Don’t tell anyone; it’ll be our secret.”
She laughs shrilly as Mrs. Witt reaches them. Thank goodness Alice has the other woman’s cheek kisses to use as an excuse not to bother conjuring up a reaction to whatever bizarre display of intimacy Mrs. Ames was clearly attempting.
If they are all birds, then Mrs. Witt, in her feathered lime-green gown, is an Amazonian parrot. An exceedingly gangly one.
“My darling friend,” she drawls, acting for all the world as if they’ve been intimates since childhood. “You’re looking ever so well, considering. Did you see I dressed in your honor tonight? Emeralds! I’ve got tiny ones sewn into the bodice, you see—not Württembergian ones, alas, but I did try. Now, where’s your poor orphaned niece? I’m sure she’s as pretty as they say, but it amuses me to picture her as some haggard waif out of Dickens. It’ll be a shame to spoil the illusion, but either way, my son will want to meet her.”
“My cousin,” Alice corrects gently, “who does still have a mother living, I’m pleased to say, is making new friends, thanks to Miss Ames.”
She nods to where Cora seems to be engaged in pleasant enough conversation with a decidedly unpleasant coterie of pretty young women.
“Ah, there she is! Pretty, alas, how dull. Eyeing up the competition, is she?” Mrs. Witt swipes a restless hand over the white streak in her hair. “Including my own little debutante doll. Strange to feel envy for one’s own daughter, but I do miss those days sometimes. Leaving blood on the dance floor after every ball. Proverbially, of course.”
“I can imagine it,” Alice says, feigning admiration. “And I’m very glad to have met you as a friend rather than a rival.”
As Mrs. Ames grows pallid at the wordfriendused for anyone but her, Mrs. Witt laughs so loudly that she silences all surrounding conversation. “You are such a tonic, Your Graci... ness.”
Now Alice is quite sure Mrs. Witt’s had a pre-party tipple.
She grasps Alice’s arm and wobbles with her toward the now-opening ballroom doors, leaving Mrs. Ames abandoned behind them.
“You’ve no idea how boring it is, season after season, the same dull faces, the same excruciating conversations. You’re the only thing that gets me out the door and into society these days, I swear— Oh, Sarah!” She waves past Alice as they walk down the hall. “I must say a swift hello and goodbye to Sarah Newbold or she’ll corner me later with anecdotes about her newborn, nothing in the world more agonizing. Back in a flash.”
She won’t be back.Alice smiles to herself.I was right about her weakness. A desperation for novelty. Anything shiny and new.
Two smart footmen stand at attention beside a wide set of white-painted doors, leading to the brilliantly lit ballroom beyond. Romantic, baroque-style lanterns pepper the large room’s perimeter, lushly draped balconies looming over like the loges of gods, the teeming space awash with frothy ball gowns and elegant tailcoats. Darting back and forth through the crowd are servers distributing pebble ice trays of oysters and caviar, rounds upon rounds of sherry and Green Swizzles. The air itself is thick and scented with perfume and powder. It’s all one big champagne coupe come to life.
The only thing marring the view is dour little Mrs. Ogden, who has afforded herself few favors in her choice of a bronze gown that gives her complexion a greenish tint. Priscilla Ogden’s expression is even more sour than usual as she turns to eye Alice with a hostility that is almost shocking in its baldness.
What affects Mrs. Ogden most is being bypassed in favor of others—and so Alice does just that, gliding straight past heras if she were a servant standing ready with an unappetizing hors d’oeuvre. She catches the eager eye of Mr. Ogden instead. He stands waiting beside a flower arrangement in rather careful three-quarter profile, all the better to highlight his Byronic silhouette, complete with a lock of dark hair falling upon his brow.
Alice slows her step ever so slightly to allow him to dart in front of her and bow in greeting, the very picture of ardent but respectful regard. She alone is positioned close enough to note the lascivious gleam in the aging lech’s eye.
