“We’ll need rouge after all,” Alice calls over Cora’s shoulder to Béatrice. “Perhaps a bit on the lips. And bosom.”
“I thought I was meant to look wan, to allow the emerald to stand out,” Cora protests. She nods down at her gown’s low neckline, the solitaire emerald necklace shining against her pale skin.
“We shall have to compromise.” Alice holds up the note so Cora can read it:
Mr. Peyton the Younger has accepted the invitation.
“We’ll have two gems in play tonight,” Alice says briskly. “Both it and you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Cora says, closing her eyes as Béa sees to her face.
Alice nods in approval, and they set out. The Vandemeers have sent one of their own carriages to escort them to the dinner. It arrived half an hour ago and has been waiting ever since. They’ll be thirty minutes late for the party, by careful design. As she patiently explained to an irritatingly confused Cora, “On time is embarrassing. Fifteen minutes late is polite, twenty-five pushing the bounds of rudeness. Thirty will maximize our entrance. We’re not after decorum tonight so much as impact.”
Sure enough, when the carriage arrives at the Fifty-Seventh Street and Fifth Avenue beaux arts mansion belonging to the Vandemeers—the first in its style to be built in New York City, James will have you know—Alice and Cora are introduced by an English butler into a parlor already full of guests sipping champagne and nibbling canapés.
Relief breaks through the ever-present haze in Mrs. Vandemeer’s eyes when she turns from her conversation with Mrs. Ames to greet the new guests.
Ward shoots Alice a surreptitious wink as she passes. He’s played his part well, then. Sowing doubt as to whether they’d turn up.
“I must apologize wholeheartedly for our delay,” Alice says. “I received a telegram from my brother, you see, and it was such news that we felt we had to reply tonight, which delayed our departure. I hope you don’t find us too terribly rude.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Vandemeer murmurs distantly. “Notme, anyhow. Pearl thought it might be a European custom to arrive late.”
Over Mrs. Vandemeer’s elegant shoulder, Alice sees Mrs. Ames begin to sputter. “Not that I’ve ever observedyouto be late, merely that I believe I read somewhere about the differing habits between our continents, perhaps—”
“In Württemberg, we are very prompt,” Alice cuts in. “Though I myself have set a poor example tonight.”
“Shall we to dinner, then?” Mrs. Vandemeer announces abruptly, drawing a look of reproach from her husband, who appeared to be on the brink of offering the new arrivals aperitifs, as would be customary.
Her over-hastiness rather suggests an eagerness to get tonight over with, Alice notes, along with her hostess’s trembling hand.
“Wonderful,” Alice agrees.
“Thank heavens you came at last,” Alice hears Arabella whisper to Cora as they progress down the checkered marble hall to the dining room. “I thought I was going to be trapped alone with Mimi all night.”
Alice passes Cora a look of warning—don’t engage in petty gossip—but no need. Cora has simply flashed a brief, indulgent grin, then gathered her composure once more. Just in time for Harry Peyton to step forward and offer her an arm, to Arabella’s thinly masked discomfort.
It’s Mr. Vandemeer himself who escorts Alice into the dining room by arm, prompting a glower from Mr. Ogden worthy of Heathcliff stalking the moors.
Alice is seated between Vandemeer and Ogden, the couples split up according to custom. As she sits, she takes in the gathering around the candlelit table, noting their arrangement as ifthey are cutouts in a shooting gallery: immaculate Mr. Vandemeer at the head of the table to her left, then plump Mrs. Ames, Ward McAllister in a jaunty cravat, beautiful and glassy-eyed Mrs. Vandemeer, the thus-far entirely taciturn Mr. Ames, Cora seated beside Harry Peyton—Alice can only assume this was Ward’s influence—then sulky Mrs. Ogden, almost-as-sulky Mimi Vandemeer, little Arabella Ames, and Mr. Ogden to her right, already laying the smolder on thick.
“I’d thought the Witts might be joining us,” Ward notes lightly, reading the question in Alice’s expression.
Mrs. Vandemeer closes her eyes. “Youhadto mention the name.”
Too late. Mr. Vandemeer’s face has already gone red above his neatly trimmed beard. “That dreadful woman! That harridan! I don’t know who she thinks she is, won’t listen to a word—”
“She retains her husband’s shares in Manifest Rails and refuses to sell,” Mr. Ogden breathes into Alice’s ear. She smiles as if interested, while successfully fighting off a shudder. “I think Mrs. Witt enjoys turning up to shareholder meetings just to watch the rest of us squirm. She’ll be back in Vandemeer’s good graces within weeks, though. We all fall out, again and again, like clockwork automatons, but it never lasts. Too small a society to hold on to grievances. That’s why it’s so refreshing to have you and Miss Ritter brightening our drawing rooms.”
His finger plays on her bare forearm, his eyes dancing up to hers teasingly.
Alice is unsure how she is going to stomach this meal. All twelve courses of it.
The menu is written in French. Alice wonders how much of it Cora can now read. She’s caught her in conversation with Béatrice from time to time, in their apartment, working onher fluency beyond the limits of her earlier tutelage. A hungry mind.
And a hungry stomach too, by the looks of it. Cora nearly inhales her first course of oysters, but she slows down for the consommé printanier, careful not to slosh any drops onto that dress of hers. They’ll need to sell it on in good condition, after all.
By the time the blue trout and lobster rissoles arrive and Cora reaches for the correct fork and knife for each, Alice realizes she can safely turn her attention away from her protégée and onto the rest of the table...
