Ta-ta,
Venus
Elswyth stared at the letter for a moment before unwinding the twine and opening the box. A slip of emerald silk fell from the corner. She pulled out the dress and examined the shimmering fabric. Then she stood, holding the gown up in the air, just as Mrs. Rose opened the door.
Mrs. Rose saw the gown, dropped her tea tray to the ground, and screamed.
Several hours later, Elswyth entered the lavish greenhouse of Syon House. It wasn’t a true greenhouse, as far as she was concerned. It was not intended for the cultivation of species for collection or observation but rather for the beauty of the building itself. The ballroom within was made of glass and iron made to look like a temple, and the main atrium was like that of the Pantheon, complete with glass grottos and apses, with a single oculus punctuating the apex. The summer moon peered through, its glow drowned out by gaslight blaring from four chandeliers that hung on gilded chains. Wisteria branches bloomed above the crowd, attached bywires to the chandeliers, like clouds of living violet. Tropical flowers grew from vines that crept up the Doric columns, and their perfume swept over the room in an invisible mist. And everywhere there were decorative bouquets: violets and lilies and roses, marigolds and orchids and other, rarer blooms.
The herald announced Elswyth, and every eye turned to her. There was some mumbling upon her entrance, and Elswyth supposed that they were commenting on her lack of a chaperone. Her Uncle Percival had somewhat abruptly informed her that he would not be joining her that evening. Apparently it was the opinion of Mrs. Rose—and therefore her father—that the presence of Percival was reflecting poorly on Elswyth, boisterous eccentric that he was. Elswyth found that she actually missed him. He had been someone to turn to at every society event. Now, she was alone.
Venus approached Elswyth and curtsied. Elswyth returned the gesture, although she still felt eyes crawling over her.
“Darling, you look divine. I simply can’t believe it.” She turned to Begonia Pritchett and Drusilla Wilton, who followed behind her like ducklings. They both smiled, seeming amused. “Madam de Lis has outdone herself, don’t you think so?”
Elswyth forced a smile, careful not to smudge the makeup around her scar. The gown she wore was a masterpiece in emerald: a bodice of deep arsenic green with a flaring skirt of darker evergreen. Real gemstones lined the hem, jades and peridots the size of pomegranate seeds. The bust of the gown was scandalously low, revealing the curve of her breasts and the place where her scar arced toward her heart. Mrs. Rose had slathered Elswyth’s scar in white paste, from her face and neck all the way down her chest and left arm. It gave Elswyth the sickly complexion of a China doll.
“It is certainly something,” Elswyth said, clearing her throat.“When I opened the box, I was quite certain she’d forgotten the rest of the dress.”
Venus laughed, the sound of tinkling bells. Her own dress was a marvel of golden silk with matching metallic scales around the bust. Around her throat were the largest diamonds Elswyth had ever seen, and a tiara graced her golden hair. Her floromantic touches were subtle. Marigolds bloomed from her hair and wrists, and each one was encased, seemingly, in gold.
Venus touched her shoulder, just above the ivy that traced along Elswyth’s bust. “Nonsense. Now they won’t be able to ignore you. You must make an impression, after all, one they won’t forget. And what you’ve done with the gown’s floristry—it’s intoxicating, really.”
Elswyth fidgeted, careful not to pick at the gown. The gown’s floristry was incredible; interwoven throughout the fabric was real ivy. It was a peculiar varietal that Elswyth had never seen before, something likeHedera helixbut with a pleasant red tinge to the leaves. The color went strikingly with the deep green of the silk, almost matching the autumn-red of her hair. Madame de Lis’s design had even included a croquis of the floristry meant to accompany the gown. Elswyth had followed the design as closely as she could, growing the ivy along her arms and letting tendrils of it wrap around her fingers like rings.
Elswyth lowered into another curtsy. “I must thank you again, Miss Forscythe. This gown is extravagant, and your generosity has not gone unappreciated.”
Venus rolled her eyes. “Look around you, silly. My father owns half the mines in Africa. One ballgown will not a beggar make.”
Elswyth smiled and thanked her again, but her voice was drowned out by the band starting up. Venus, Begonia, and Drusillahurried away to the dance floor. Their dance cards were already full for the evening. She moved to follow them and then realized that she had no one to dance with.
Instead she stayed on the edge of the greenhouse, admiring a stone bust of Queen Viscaria. No one spoke to her. No gentleman asked for her hand in a dance. Not that she expected them to, or even wanted it; she hated dancing, and no amount of practicing the Romany polka would change that.
Venus danced with Lord Forrester, throwing her head back to laugh as he spun her around the room. Above her, the glass dome twinkled with the reflection of the chandeliers. Her golden gown shimmered in the light of the gas lamps, scales refracting their illumination in rays. She looked like she’d been born dancing. If she really did marry Prince Oliver, she would make a fine princess—graceful, beautiful, beloved. Everything Elswyth was not.
The song ended. The dancers bowed and applauded for the band. Miss Forscythe strode over to where Elswyth stood with the more unfashionable guests—herself, Mr. Plum, and a few other outsiders and eccentrics, sipping drinks and making half-hearted conversation. They’d moved on from discussing the murder of Captain Burr. Now the topic was the latest flower girl, a woman from Hong Kong named Hua Lin who was found the night before.
Miss Forscythe smiled and took a flute of champagne from a passing servant. She seemed almost out of breath. “Oh Elswyth, you simply must join for the next dance.”
“That’s very kind, Venus, but I’m afraid—”
“I won’t hear any of it, darling. This will be good practice. How will you ever find a match if you are too shy to dance?”
“Perhaps you are right, but I would need a partner, and no one has asked me,” Elswyth said. Her father had written her with areminder that the season was passing quickly and that Cousin Ficus waited for her in two short months. She thought for a moment and then decided to be bold. “I had rather hoped that, after you introduced me to Lord Forrester at the soirée, he would ask me. But I did not get to speak to him much at your dinner party.”
Venus grinned. “I knew it. It’s not just about your sister. You fancy him, don’t you?”
Elswyth flushed. “Well, no. I primarily want to speak to him about my sister. But if I must find a husband while I am in London, well, I suppose that Lord Forrester would be amenable.”
Venus giggled. “You’re hopelessly in love. Of course I’ll help. You don’t need to ask. But you don’t want to throw yourself at him, Elswyth. It would seem desperate. That’s why I sat you away from him. You must be coy. Men always want what they can’t have, isn’t that true? No. I’ll sit out this round, and you can have whoever is next on my dance card. I’ll have you dance with…”
She read through the list of names on her dance card and then looked around at the gathered guests. Then she made her way toward Mr. Plum and tapped him on the shoulder. “Lignus, Lignus darling—won’t you dance with Miss Elderwood for the tendrille? I’m so exhausted, I don’t think I can dance another moment.”
Mr. Plum turned around, chins wobbling. The woman he was talking to—Hyacinth Thatcher—looked relieved. She quickly turned to face Lord Ashdown.
Mr. Plum’s wet eyes appraised Elswyth, and his lips quirked downward. “But, Miss Forscythe, I thought that…”
“It’s only one dance, Lignus. I’ll join you for the waltz. Please? For me?” Venus said. She all but batted her eyelashes at him.
