“It is mainly Württembergian berry wine,” Alice adds. “Plus honey, spices, and a splash of fig liqueur.Prost!”
“Prost,” Vandemeer mutters.
“And for zee young lady.” The cook-turned-secretary hands Cora an identical glass of plain old juice.
How Cora wishes her own drink was spiked. She could use something right now to calm her nerves.
Entering soon after is Mrs. Witt, by herself. She struts inside, dressed to the hilt, a garish feathered hat, head to toe in blinding green. She’s also clutching the largest crocodile skin handbag Cora has ever seen.
A minute later, Mr. Ogden arrives, alone as well. Cora imagines he must have suffered quite the argument leaving his clinging wife to venture out for a meeting with Alice.
Next come the Peytons. Harry, suit pressed, hair combed, wearing a cautious smile, pushes inside a golden wheelchair bearing a livered scowl of a man.
Alice and the ambassador hurry to greet them at the door, while Cora trails behind.
“Mr. Peyton,” Alice says crisply. “What a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“Are you the gal my blockhead son plans to marry?” Peyton Senior sneers up at Alice in appraising silence.
She stares back at the ancient man, every bit as coldly. To any unsuspecting onlooker, this would be the natural response of any upstanding woman to a man as boorish as this. But Cora can see a deeper satisfaction in the set of Alice’s smile.
She’s locked eyes on him at last. Drawn him out, into her web. The worst of them.
“Ah, no,” Cora says quickly, stepping forward, lest the bald hatred playing over Alice’s face becomes evident to everyone. “That would be me.” Cora gives a deferential curtsy. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Peyton.”
“Humph.” Peyton Senior’s eyes narrow as he studies her like a piece of meat. Cora resists the urge to squirm. She must have passed his examination, at least in some fashion, because the old man nods faintly, then shouts behind him, “Move it, Harry!”
Harry does as commanded, flashing Cora a manic smile.
“It’s all very exciting,” he murmurs, wheeling the chair forward. “My father hardly likes anyone, but I dare say—”
“Quit jabbering and let’s get on with it!” Peyton Senior snarls. “What did I tellyou, boy?”
“Simply waiting for one more,” Alice says. “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”
The marks attempt to mingle, a general air of expectation, discomfort, as the morning ticks toward the inevitable opening bell. Eventually, though, they all take their seats, accepting Dagmar’s aggressive urging to try the Esslingen cordial, sipping on the oversweet beverage with barely disguised reluctance. The room now reeks of impatience.
Alice glances conspicuously at the clock.
“Nearly opening time for the markets,” she says, feigning nonchalance. “Does everyone have their initial buy-in amounts at the ready? Am I saying that right, Mr. McAllister?”
She laughs helplessly.
“You are indeed, Your Grace,” Ward calls out from his seat in the corner, a wide ledger on his lap, pen at the ready.
The ambassador adds with gravity, “I do hope you all understood zee need for an initial deposeet of zee cash.”
This time Alice barely suppresses a glare. Yes, Konrad is most certainly overplaying his role—that was meant to be Alice’s line, wasn’t it? And she would have pronounced the words far more convincingly.
“Izz everybody here?” he adds curiously.
“What the hell is the holdup?” Peyton Senior snaps.
“We’re expecting two more.” Alice stands swiftly but keeps herself anchored to her silk-upholstered chair, knuckles turning white against its back. “Perhaps they’ve gotten lost.”
The Ameses,Cora realizes, her thoughts beginning to free-fall.The Ameses are the ones missing.
In a panic, she replays her conversation with Arabella during the poverty ball. Her request for the girl to not only join them but follow Cora’s lead. Did Cora’s appeal tip her off in some fashion? Could Arabella have sensed something amiss? Did she warn her parents, implore them not to come?
