Chasing Secrets (11 page)

S
aturday morning, before I'm even out of my night-clothes, Nettie is in my room searing my scalp with a curling iron; then she twists combed whorls of my hair up tight, each pin like a weapon. I beg for Maggy, but Nettie says, “Fiddle-faddle. Maggy isn't a lady's maid. She doesn't know how to do hair. If Maggy worked in the Sweetings' household, she'd be a scullery maid.”

When Nettie leaves, I rip out half of the hairpins and loosen the rest.

But Aunt Hortense loves my hair. All day she and Nettie hover, drilling me: Which fork do I use for dessert? Which is my water glass? My bread and butter plate? Then Nettie insists on giving me a manicure. Torture.

I can't get a moment to visit Noah. Luckily, I brought him extra food and water last night.

When it's finally time to get dressed, it takes me half an hour to get everything on, even with Maggy's help. The bodice of my dress has layers of white feathers. It fits so snugly, Maggy can barely get the dress fastened over my corset. She has to put my shoes on for me, because I can't lean over to hook them.

The shoes pinch. The dress is so tight, my ribs may crack. Will I be able to sit down? Will I leave a trail of chicken feathers wherever I go?

When I see myself in the mirror, my heart stops.

I look from the side. Straight on. From the back with a hand mirror. I run down to the bathroom to check that mirror, and the downstairs one, too.

I see me…but the prettiest me imaginable. I almost look like Hattie or one of the beautiful girls at Miss Barstow's. How could this be?

From one side of the room to the other I sashay, just to hear the swish of the dress on the floor, imagining what Gemma will say when she sees me. I peek in the mirror again. In my regular clothes I'm straight up and down. Now I have curves. It's almost worth the bother to look this way.

When Billy comes downstairs, he gapes at me, then whistles.

I glare at him. “It's nothing,” I say, but his response shocks me. I really do look different.

When Aunt Hortense sees me, her eyes beam so brightly, I have to look away. “Oh, how I wish your papa were here to see this. You are looking more and more like your mother every day.”

I should thank her, but the words won't come out. I let her hug me, then stomp out the back door, my face hot. I walk across to the Sweeting carriage house, which is like a palace, with electric lights and hot and cold running water and a carpet in the tack room. Tonight I'll be riding like a princess in a fine carriage.

Ho has the black carriage harnessed to four bay horses, each with four white socks. The horses have been bathed and groomed, and their coats are gleaming. Petting their sleek necks and soft muzzles makes me feel like myself again. Then I dust off my gloves. Can't go to La Jeunesse smelling like a horse.

I climb into the carriage. Ho picks up the lines, and the horses trot forward, four pairs of ears pricked.

We pick up Billy in front of our house. Even with a faint black eye, Billy is impressive in his Prince Albert cutaway and black gloves. Ho scoots over, and Billy slides in to command the team.

Uncle Karl and Aunt Hortense stand together in the driveway. Aunt Hortense's smile is radiant. I meet her eyes and smile, but I can't admit that I'm glad she went to all this trouble for me. Still, I think she knows.

“Is that our Peanut?” Uncle Karl asks Aunt Hortense.

“The very same,” my aunt replies.

Billy waves goodbye, and the horses trot out the grand entrance, tails swishing, hooves clacking.

When we get to the Palace Hotel, the line is a block long, filled with the finest carriages, fringe-topped surreys, hacks, landaus, coaches, and buggies. A lone automobile waits in line, its motor spewing steam. Horses champ at
their bits, paw the ground, spread their legs, and pee in the driveway. Silk-coated Chinese porters with velvet-handled shovels scurry about picking up green manure the second it drops to the ground.

Ho will return at eleven when the cotillion ends. Can I manage that long in this corset, making conversation about warts and excessive earwax with a boy I barely know? I'd like to see a young man tied into a corset for an evening. He'd never put up with it! Still, I can't wait to see Gemma and Hattie. What will they say about me?

We roll into the Palace courtyard, making a splendid show. At the front of the line, a man with a big stomach and a topper swings a jewel-handled cane as he announces our arrival. It's Peter, the man who works for Uncle Karl. He's got a deep voice perfect for announcing. Plus, he knows everyone. Somebody must have pegged him for this.

“And here we have the lovely coach of Mr. and Mrs. Karl Sweeting. Mr. William and Miss Elizabeth Kennedy…what an honor to ride in your uncle's finest.”

“The coach gets better billing than we do,” I whisper to Billy as I step out, barely avoiding tripping on my hem.

But Billy's attention is on a girl with a waist the circumference of a teacup, black hair, and a crimson dress. Everyone's watching her, but she doesn't seem to see them. Her face lights up when Billy takes her hand.

Then Gus appears in a cutaway with a boutonniere. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward. His hair is newly cut, his shoes as shiny as polished spoons.

When he sees me, he smiles and stands up straight.

“Don't say anything. I know I look like a giant chicken,” I tell him under my breath.

“Luckily, I like chicken,” he mumbles.

I smile at him. His hands are still jammed into his pockets, but for a second I see the man he is becoming. My cheeks are hot as we walk together.

What do I say? Launching a discussion about earwax suddenly seems like a bad idea. “Where's Gemma?” I ask.

“She's supposed to be with Spencer, but he doesn't seem to know that.”

“Oh no! He doesn't know he's Gemma's escort?”

Gus shrugs. “He knows.”

“Let's go find her.”

Gemma is wearing a painted silk dress with a blue beaded bodice that brings out the blue in her eyes. She's already seated at one of the long white tables ablaze with candles. When she sees me, her eyes glisten. “Lizzie! You look so pretty.”

“You do, too,” I say. “What happened to Spencer?”

Her nostrils flare. She looks away.

“Want us to go find him?”

She nods.

I follow Gus to the back of the enormous, glass-domed courtyard filled with palms. Light pours in from the glowing ceiling, and violins play. In the middle of the floor, Spencer dances with a beautiful blond girl in a dress the color of the evening sky. Spencer can't take his eyes off her.

“Spencer.” I'm about to lurch forward and give him a
piece of my mind. How dare he dance with someone else when he came with Gemma?

Gus takes me by the hand, which stops me cold. Sweat drips down under my corset. “Do we have to dance?”

Gus smiles at me.

We stand at the edge of the dance floor full of glittering dresses and dark pressed suits. It smells of perfume and perspiration. Spencer and the girl in the evening-sky dress look as if they'll never come off the floor. If we're going to talk to him, we'll have to dance out there.

I close my eyes and pretend Gus is Noah and this grand courtyard is my cozy room at home.

Gus's hand is on the small of my back. His touch is lighter than Noah's. He's taller; we're eye to eye. Where do I look? Gus's steps are quick as he steers me over to Spencer. I'm a half beat behind him. He slows down; I speed up. Where are his feet? I barely miss stepping on them. My face gets hotter.

“Can I talk to you?” Gus murmers to Spencer.

Spencer tries to swing the evening-sky girl away.

Gus repeats his question, boldly.

Spencer frowns. “Now?”

“Yes.” Gus cuts in. He takes the hand of Spencer's partner.

Oh no!
I
have to dance with Spencer? I stand stock-still as Gus and the girl dance away.

Spencer offers his hand to me, as if mine is covered in snot. He holds me with stiff arms so our bodies don't touch. His feet move in a square, his eye on the girl, his
every move meant to say how irritated he is to dance with the likes of me.

I screw up my courage. “I thought you were here with Gemma.”

“She's on crutches. How am I supposed to dance with her?” He swirls me closer to Gus.

“She can still dance.”

He snorts.

“Why'd you ask her, then?”

“Our mothers arranged it,” he says. He and Gus switch partners again.

A smile darts across Gus's lips as he takes my hand. He's happy to have me back! Maybe it wasn't Gemma's idea for him to ask me to La Jeunesse. Could it have been Gus's?

“I don't like Spencer,” I say. Billy and the pretty dark-haired girl float by.

“He's full of himself.”

“He said it wasn't his idea to ask Gemma.”

“That's true. Gemma's always plotting. It backfired this time. I just hope she doesn't fall again. She's accident-prone when she gets upset.”

A waiter in a white jacket announces, “Dinner is served.”

We follow the flow of the crowd into the dining room. A band plays, and girls in sweeping dresses and boys in black jackets load their plates with oysters and creamed lobsters, sizzling soups and sourdough bread. Crab cakes and crumb-crust pies. Pork chops, pear tarts, and Parmesan potatoes. Bear meat and beef bourguignon. The tables of food go on and on.

We fill plates for ourselves and for Gemma, then join Hattie and her partner at Gemma's table. Spencer's hat and gloves sit on the chair next to Gemma, but that's all we see of him. With Hattie here, I stiffen. She says nothing about my dress, but her eyes judge me.

“Lizzie, I'm surprised to see you here,” she says. “Have you ever even been to a cotillion dance before?”

“No,” I say.

“Did you dance?”

“Yes.”

“I'm so sorry I missed it.” Hattie puts her lipstick in her tiny beaded purse.

I think about what Noah would do. He'd tell the truth. I look Hattie straight in the eye. “I'm not half the dancer you are, Hattie. None of us are. But I like dancing with Gus.”

Gus turns bright red, and so do I. Why do I have to be so awkward? Still, it's true. And saying this makes Hattie back off. I can't wait to tell Noah.

I concentrate on my food, which I have been shoveling in. When my chest feels like a furnace packed with coal, I set my fork down and look around. That's when I notice Peter walk by.

“I'll be right back,” I whisper to Gus, then charge after Peter as best I can in my long ruffly skirt and high heels. “Excuse me, sir?”

Peter ignores me.

“Sir…Peter,” I practically shout, nearly tripping over a brocade-covered table.

He glances back. “Lizzie Kennedy, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.” I hurry to catch him. “I'm sorry I only know you by Peter.”

“Indeed. What can I do for you, Miss Kennedy?” He's picked up speed.

“I want you to tell me the truth, sir.” I scramble after him.

“The truth, is it?” He glances back. “Always a dangerous prospect.”

“About the monkey.”

“Ahh, yes. What, if I may ask, is your great interest in primates?” I'm trying my best to keep up.

“Well, sir, there's something going on with a monkey. People aren't talking about it, and I don't know why.”

“Ah, my dear, there are many things people don't see fit to discuss. Surely you've learned that in your fourteen years.”

“Thirteen.”

“Even so.”

Now I see that he's headed to the bar, where women aren't allowed. “You know what I want to know.”

“My fair lady, you give me far more credit than I deserve.”

I jump in front of him, trying to prevent him from going inside.

“Miss Kennedy, I'm sorry I can't be of more help. If you'll excuse me.” He dips around me.