She Walks in Beauty (11 page)

Though the question was for me, Aunt answered it in my stead. “With the Barnes girl, several Vandermeres, and a Remstell. A Moffat and a Sturbridge as well as some other young girls.”

Mrs. Hobbs smiled at me.

I smiled back.

She turned her attentions back to Aunt. “I really do wish I could say something about Mrs. Cole’s coffin. But I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t say anything you don’t want to.”

Mrs. Hobbs sat there on a chair across from us, looking doubtful. “No. No, I probably shouldn’t.” Her face brightened. “Have you heard about the Vanderbilts’ new livery? For their servants?”

“I hadn’t. Didn’t they just order new? Several years ago?”

“They did. But they weren’t noticeable enough.”

“But isn’t that the point? Of having servants? One shouldn’t notice, should one?”

Mrs. Hobbs lifted a brow. “Well, whether they should be or shouldn’t, they will be now. They’ve all been done up in red.”

“Red!”

“Well. Burgundy. Burgundy
satin
.” She turned to me once more. “Tell me, Miss Carter, how do you feel about your prospects?”

My prospects? I blinked. I felt intimidated by all of them. And plagued by Mr. De Vries in particular. But that was not what she wanted to hear, and it was certainly not what Aunt would want me to say. And so I tried, furiously, to think of something polite and charming instead. “I think … I’m sure . . .” I smiled and started once more. “I can’t believe that my debut has finally come.” Which was nothing but the truth. I had been hoping I could put it off for another year. Or two.

In truth, I had been hoping to go to Vassar instead.

Mrs. Hobbs’s own smile faltered. Then she nodded. “Yes. But better to do now those things that you may not be able to do later. Like poor Mrs. Cole. If only
she’d
had a choice.”

If only I had a choice. If I had a choice, I would make Mrs. Hobbs divulge whatever secret it was that was trying to worm its way out of her.

She leaned toward me. “Are you healthy, dear?”

“Am I … ?”

“Healthy.” She overpronounced the word in both volume and syllables. “Oh dear. They say hearing is usually the first to go.”

“Hearing?”

“No.
Healthy.
Are you healthy?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Because I’ve always thought young girls make the most lovely corpses. And you’re so tall and thin. Not like that Mrs. Cole.”

Aunt’s smile had become rather thin. “I expect that Clara will be among us for some time to come. Some
long
time to come.”

“Because we were thinking about a new advertisement. For Hobbs. Think of it, dear: What better way to leave this earth than to know that your face would be on every milk truck in the city.”

“Oh dear!” Aunt had half risen from the sofa and was looking toward the mantel. “I think our clock has stopped working again, Clara. I’m sure it’s long past four o’clock.”

Mrs. Hobbs looked over her shoulder at the mantel with a jerk. “Is it? Well then, I must be going.” She gathered her voluminous skirts and pushed herself to standing. Then she removed a card from her reticule and handed it straight to me. “If you start to feel peaked, let me know. What a sensation it would be to have a debutante die during the season!”

I glanced down at the card.
Hobbs Mortuary Services: Your death, our sacred trust
.

Mrs. Hobbs moved from me toward my aunt. “I wish I could have told you about Mrs. Cole, but I just can’t. So sorry.”

“Think nothing of it. Thank you for visiting.”

“Miss Carter’s face just kept floating in my mind after the tea. Like a vision. And it came to me this morning that she would be the perfect corpse.” She leaned close to Aunt. “Do you think it’s prophetic?”

“Probably not. Good day.”

Mrs. Hobbs smiled at me and then wandered out toward the front hall.

Aunt glared at her back until she disappeared around the corner. “She has no idea just how uncouth she is!”

“She wanted me for an advertisement. As a dead person!”

“Honestly, that woman has only ever had one thing on her mind. And no one has ever been able to discover what it is at any given time!”

I held a hand to my mouth and swallowed an importunate giggle.

“Just remember: It never pays to alienate a mortician. One never knows when one might have need of his services.”

“Have I … did I … meet Mr. Hobbs? The son?”

“Yes, of course you did. He came to your tea.”

“He did?”

“Yes. But don’t worry. He was much more interested in the tea table and talking to the older people than he was in talking to you. A nose for business, one might say.”

I felt my own nose curl in distaste and I felt, for some odd reason, as if I should wash my hands. And my face. And my arms.

“Don’t let her worry you. She had consumption when she was younger and somehow came to be cured. She’s thought ever since that it was some cruel hoax that left her among the living instead of the dead. And she believes everyone else ought to think the same. It’s good for their business, you know.”

“Yes, but … will I ever have to talk to Mr. Hobbs? The younger?”

“I sincerely hope not!”

We remained seated on the sofa for nearly another hour and then the clock struck five. “Well. I shall have to consult the papers. I had thought Tuesdays were a safe day for our at-home, but … there must have been some other event this afternoon. I am sure we’ll see an increase in callers next week. And you can wear that lovely gown again.”

10

ON THURSDAY AFTERNON, Thanksgiving Day, I slipped downstairs while Aunt was dozing. I noticed the door to Father’s study was open. He looked up at my knock. “Ah—the season’s loveliest debutante! And to what do I owe the pleasure of your charming company?” There were times when my father could make me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. And there were times when he seemed to forget my very existence.

I smiled. “I would like to ask the good Dr. Carter a question.”

“A question? Questions are free. It’s the answers I charge for.” As he leaned back in his chair, the springs protested the motion.

“Did you ever have a Miss Hooper as a patient?”

His chair bobbed upright. “Hooper?”

“Miss Minnie Hooper.”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I met her brother. Mr. Ira Hooper.”

“Ah. Her brother. I thought I saw him at the tea. Lurking in the corner?”

I nodded.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have need to protect you from him. He was quite distraught at his sister’s death, and I’m afraid his grief has altered his mind.”

“He came to my first at-home as well.”

Father frowned. “I’d rather he not come anywhere near you. He’s prone to wild accusations. Accused me once of quackery!” His lips pursed as if affronted by the very thought.

“What happened to her?”

He shrugged. “She had always been delicate. Fainting spells and hysteria. Dyspepsia.” He coughed. “In any case, I was treating her with strychnine, but by last spring, it no longer seemed to help. So I increased the dose. She began to seize—it was quite terrible. She bent nearly double … there was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do. I still don’t understand. It was working before. A simple increase in dose shouldn’t have done anything at all but cure the problem. I told them that. She should have responded. Perhaps . . .” His voice trailed away as his eyes fixed on something that I could not see. “That’s never happened to me before. Such a terrible seizure . . .”

“I’m sorry.”

“So was I. But at least she died in her own bed.”

“Mr. Hooper said she would have debuted this year.”

“She probably would have. With you.” He took up a sheaf of papers. “But don’t give it another thought.” He took up a pen, and I interpreted the gesture as permission to leave.

Don’t give it another thought.

I would try not to. But I was quite certain that it was all Mr. Hooper ever thought about.

An hour later I went out to meet Lizzie in the garden. I brought a fan, just as she had ordered me to.

“Don’t just stand there!” The hiss came from the hedge. “Come here.”

I sidled toward the hedge and then, once I was hidden from view of the house, I pushed aside some branches to look inside. “There you are.”

“Did you bring a fan?”

I pushed through the hedge into the space by the gate. And then I pulled the fan from my sleeve and threw it open with a flourish.

Lizzie began to frown. “I didn’t think you knew any of this.”

“I don’t. That’s all I know.”

“Good! I’m going to teach you. Mother had a woman come to the house last week. We spent endless hours on fans. First . . .” She leaned forward to inspect my hand. Then she frowned. “You must always hold it like this.” She demonstrated the proper technique.

“Like this?”

“Yes. Exactly. This is going to be so much fun! We can talk to each other without speaking.”

“How?”

“With our fans. If I twirl my fan like this”—she twirled it in her left hand as she was speaking—“it means that you’re being watched.”

“I’m being watched!”

“By a suitor. That’s the first signal to learn. That way we can tell each other how many beaux we have.”

“But … isn’t he supposed to be Mr. De Vries?”

“We can’t have just one.”

“Why not? We can only marry one.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes and sighed. “Just pay attention. Pretend you’re my beau.”

“Right.”

She set the fan in motion. “If I want to tell you that you’ve won my heart, I place the fan just here.” The fan paused for a moment above her heart and then it started once more. “You try.”

“If I want to tell you that you’ve won my heart, I place the fan just here.” I stopped the fan, knocked myself against the chest, and started fanning myself once more.

Lizzie laughed. “You don’t want to tell him that he’s bloodied it. You just want him to know that he’s won it. Gently. Just a delicate touch. Like a butterfly’s wings.”

I tried again.

“Well done. Now. If I want to say ‘I love you,’ I do it like this.” She raised the fan so that it hid her eyes. And then she withdrew it, raising her brow at me.

I did as she had done. “But why wouldn’t you just tell him so?”

“You would. Later. But the point is that you could do it in the middle of a ball. On a crowded dance floor. You could send a message that only he could interpret. Isn’t that romantic?”

I supposed. I tried to imitate the gesture.

“A bit more gracefully would be nice, but yes. Just like that. And now, since you’ve told him that you love him, you can kiss him. And you invite the kiss like this.” She folded up the fan partially and touched it to her lips.

I did the same.

“Perfect.”

She drilled me for several minutes, calling out “Heart! Love! Kiss!” in rapid succession. By the time she had tired of the game, my wrist ached and we were laughing from the sport of it.

“But really, Lizzie, will the men truly know all of this?”

“The ones we want will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I do. There wouldn’t be tutors if it weren’t important.”

The next day, Aunt asked for me to meet her in her bedroom after lunch. When I appeared, she gestured for me to sit in the chair opposite her own.

“There is an ancient but useful language that I wish for you to learn.” She snapped her wrist and a fan bloomed as if by magic. “The language of the fan. It might seem old-fashioned, but it’s worth learning. And sometimes, it can prove to be useful. Not, of course, in flirtation, for well-bred girls never flirt, but useful in communication.” She leaned forward and offered me the fan, taking up another one from her lap.

I opened it with a flick.

Aunt raised a brow. “Listen well. This is a tedious business and I do not wish to repeat myself.”

I nodded, feeling for once quite worthy of the task.

“If one wishes to tell a suitor such as the De Vries heir that he has won one’s heart, the fan is placed just here above one’s heart.”

I debated about whether to display my knowledge, but in the end efficiency won over prudence. If I could finish this lesson quickly enough, Byron awaited. And so I mimicked Aunt’s gesture with perfect ease.