One
HUDSON RIVER VALLEY
LATE OCTOBER 1888
If strolling through the drawing room with the hem of her gown trapped in the folds of her bustle, giving the two hundred upper-drawer society members attending Mrs. Ogden Nelson’s intimate dinner party an unfettered view of her drawers, was a precursor of things to come during the approaching New York Season, then Miss Adelaide Duveen was now of the belief she should abandon her quest—or rather, her mother’s quest—of acquiring one of those oh-so-coveted society matches and simply embrace her spinster state for the rest of her days.
Doing so would undoubtedly save her the bother of additional mortifying moments, which were inevitable if she kept pursuing what seemed to be a futile attempt to find a gentleman who was willing to overlook what society saw as numerous flaws and court her.
“Honestly, darling,” Phyllis Duveen, Adelaide’s mother, said, bustling up to join her as Adelaide backed out of a charming parlor that, unfortunately, contained a gathering of young ladies in it. “Any thoughts on how this latest catastrophe occurred? Imean, it’s not every day—or any day, for that matter—that a lady strolls about in such a questionable state of dishabille.”
“What thoughts could I possibly have about my recent fiasco?” Adelaide returned as she continued down the hallway, pausing in front of a portrait of a terrifying older gentleman with muttonchop whiskers who was undeniably a long-deceased relative of Mrs. Nelson, given the distinct resemblance the gentleman bore to their hostess. “It’s not as if I intended on giving everyone a glimpse of my undergarments.”
“Your fiascos are never intentional,” Phyllis murmured before she took hold of Adelaide’s hand. “Nevertheless, I must say this is one of your most unusual mishaps to date. I truly have no idea how such a circumstance could have transpired.”
“I imagine my latest calamity was a result of my attempting to readjust this monstrosity of a bustle. I was unaware that my hem got stuck in the dastardly contraption, which then resulted with me making a complete ninny of myself after I returned from the retiring room.”
Phyllis frowned. “Why were you readjusting your bustle? I gave your lady’s maid specific instructions to secure it with additional ties so you wouldn’t have to fuss with it this evening.”
“It wasn’t Marta’s fault. It was the bustle’s fault for shifting, or perhaps Mr. Hayworth is to blame since he’s the one who insisted his gown needed such a massive bustle to begin with. Why he designed such a gown for me is somewhat puzzling, though, because bustles are decreasing in size this year.” Adelaide gave her skirt a twitch. “The thought did cross my mind that you haven’t abandoned that nonsense about making me look more voluptuous through designs that add inches to what even I know is a boyish figure. I then discarded that notion because we supposedly came to an understanding about unusual design ploys after I attended that ball in Newport dressed like a peculiar version of a cake, what with all the frills and lace Mr. Hayworth added to that particular abomination.”
“I may have forgotten to mention the change in strategy to Mr. Hayworth, probably because he was so enthusiastic about having you try out a new type of bustle—one he invented himself,” Phyllis admitted. “From what I understand, he’s included coiled springs between the wires, which he’s hoping will allow you to sit with greater ease.”
“My bustle is spring-concocted?”
“Apparently, but after your latest incident, I’m going to suggest you don’t attempt to sit down often because, now that I consider the matter, coiled springs may be a certain recipe for disaster.”
Adelaide glanced over her shoulder to the bustle in question. “I certainly would have abandoned this gown for a less problematic one if I’d known about the coils.”
“Which would have been a shame because the blush hue of your gown does wonders for bringing out the color in your eyes.”
“My eyes are brown. It’s difficult to bring out any other color except brown, no matter what hue my gown might be.”
“An excellent point. Perhaps I should have said the blush is in direct contrast to your dark hair, which lends you an air of, ah, mystery.”
Adelaide choked back a laugh. “Simply because my hair is black does not mean I’m mysterious.”
“Sophia Campanini has black hair, and she’s considered very enigmatic indeed.”
“Sophia Campanini is a premier opera singer, something I’m most assuredly not. Everyone considers opera singers mysterious. However, it’s difficult to say whether Sophia’s hair is actually black. She’s known to frequently wear wigs. Case in point, a few weeks ago I spotted her strolling along the Ladies’ Mile wearing a platinum wig that was drawing everyone’s attention.”
Phyllis’s eyes began to gleam. “Ooh ... platinum.”
“Do not even consider hying yourself off to the nearest wigmaker and procuring platinum locks for me.”
“But that might be exactly what’s needed to give you that cloak of mystery that seems to be eluding you.”
“Mystery eludes me because I’m simply not mysterious.”
“That could very well change if we attach a noteworthy wig to your head.”
Adelaide arched a brow. “Do you honestly believe, what with how I cannot manage to keep a bustle in place, that I’d somehow be capable of keeping a wig securely fashioned to my head?”
“Another excellent point, which is why it’s fortunate Sophia Campanini is scheduled to perform after the midnight supper. I’ll simply have Mrs. Nelson introduce me to the famed opera singer, who I believe has already arrived, given all the oohs and aahs I heard before your unfortunate mishap.”
“I highly doubt Sophia Campanini will be keen to speak with the mother of the lady responsible for detracting attention away from what she undoubtedly was expecting to be a grand entrance. Even if people were oohing and aahing over her appearance, I’m sure that was cut short after everyone spotted me in all my unmentionable glory.”
Phyllis gave a bit of a shudder. “Perhaps it would be best if I simply seek out the advice of my hair stylist. I imagine she’s well versed in the language of wigs.”
