Seven o’clock. Still trying to feign calm, she waited until she saw Clancy go inside and then come out of the parlor. Step one was accomplished. Her bag was in place. If Bex showed, she wouldn’t have to think of anything or need any excuses.
Mrs. Fitterwall swished by, her strawberry-red hair matching her gingham skirts. “Good, you finally crawled out of your second bath. I swear you are going to be all wrinkled if you keep to that.”
Ester put her arms about her shoulders and swayed to the music beginning to filter down the stairs. “Nothing helps to make sense of things like soaking in a lilac-scented bath.”
The housekeeper stopped and pointed her finger at each sconce, then the chandelier. “The hired servants for the party lit that. One thing completed on your mother’s list. She frets so much about her parties. I’ve known her since we first worked together as maids in Mayfair. She’d get like this about our employers’ affairs, too.”
Affairs? That was the last thing Ester wanted to think of. “What more is there to do? The dining room is set. The musicians have arrived. You hear them practicing.”
Mrs. Fitterwall put a hand on her hip. “You know it’s not done till Mrs. Croome says it is. Her celebrations have to be perfect. I think she gets her love of big to-dos from the sugar plantations where she’s from.” The woman clasped her hands together. “You know she’ll make sure your upcoming wedding celebration is perfect. She truly wants to give one of her daughters a proper wedding breakfast.”
Running away with Bex would deprive her mother of all the things she seemed to enjoy. When Ruth’s arranged marriage had happened so fast, Mama hadn’t been able to plan a proper wedding. She’d been so sad about it. The family had lived at Fournier only two years then, after practically growing up in the two-room apartment above Papa’s warehouse. Had those small quarters, with the peephole to spy on things below, been better days? Had it been the last time the Croomes were all truly happy?
Another fiddler’s tune joined the first as more music filled the house. After dinner was done, they’d play full-on, and Nineteen Fournier would become a place for dancing. The perfect time to escape with Bex.
“Miss Ester,” said Mrs. Fitterwall. “Don’t doddle too long. Your mother needs you.”
The housekeeper went back upstairs. She was a good addition to Nineteen Fournier, maybe the best, for she and Mama had a wonderful friendship beyond employer and employee. Sometimes, Ester wished she and her mother were as close.
With slow steps, Ester started for the stairs to the dining room, and Mama, but stopped and twirled under the candelabra. That first day Papa had shown them this house, before anything inside had been restored, she and her father had danced under it. With his big thick arms, he’d twirled her high as Mama and Ruth had looked on, laughing. He had been perfect then. She’d known of no wrongs, no transgressions. How long had they lived a lie?
“Ester.”
She looked up and faced her father. “I see those dancing lessons I paid for have worked. You look like you could float.”
Dressed in his onyx tailcoat and formal white silk waistcoat over dark pantaloons, Papa came down from her parent’s second-floor bedchamber. His head swung from side to side, no doubt admiring the lighting, maybe remembering those easier times, too.
After tugging his white, white gloves over his big hands, he held out his palm. “May I twirl the loveliest daughter at the party?”
Ester stared at his pristine dancing gloves. This could be one of her last moments to spend with Papa before riding off with Bex. So, she’d pretend she was fifteen again and Papa was her hero. She took his hand, clutched it tight, and let him spin her until they both were laughing and breathless.
“Ester!” That was Mama’s voice.
Papa put his big arms about her and gave her a large hug. “She probably needs you, but I’m happy, sweet girl.”
“Happy about what?” Ester slipped away from him and smoothed the shimmering overdress that surrounded her robin’s-egg blue gown. She fingered the matching thin bonnet to make sure the hat wasn’t going to fall and unravel her thick braid. “Has something changed?”
Her father’s smile diminished. “You’ve come around to the idea of an engagement.”
“I am not happy about your arrangement. I won’t marry him.”
“Ester, this is best. You’ll be happy.”
“As happy as you and my mother?” Ester turned from Papa and the hurt in his dark eyes. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She couldn’t lie as well as Josiah Croome, either. “I need to go to Mama.”
She left him standing under the chandelier. She wasn’t fifteen anymore. Her new hero would come for her at five past midnight. But what if Bex’s sweet talk was acting, and he proved to be no better than Papa?
The hairs on her neck rose. She felt dizzy and clutched the banister more tightly. Then she bucked up her spirit. Bex was better than her father’s choice. At the second level, she moved toward the dining room and counted on her fingers the new servants she passed. Each wore crisp blue satin livery, no doubt some imported fabric that Papa had procured for this party. Four men, all tall, each with freshly-powdered locks. This party was even bigger than last Christmas Eve, when Papa had celebrated the new contract for the mantua-maker at Burlingame. Such a high moment for the Croomes. The next day, making room for Papa’s new desk, Ester had found the love letters.
“Ester?” her mother said. “I need your help. You’ll have your own home soon. You’ll need to know these things.”
“I’m not much for place settings. That was Ruth’s job.”
Mama looked off into the distance. Thirty seconds passed before she returned her gaze. “You will be under the scrutiny of the Jordans. I wouldn’t want you saying something unwarranted.”
Ester brow and her ire raised. “Unwarranted? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Politics, or your theater nonsense.”
