She Walks in Beauty (12 page)

“If one wishes to declare one’s love, it is done like this.” She raised the fan so that it hid her eyes.

I did as she had done.

“These gestures are not to be used lightly and must not be undertaken at all without the greatest of discretion. It would not do for you to flash about your sentiments indiscriminately. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Now, it might, under certain circumstances, be desirable to invite a kiss. One does it like this.” With a deft turn of her wrist, the fan retreated partially into itself and she touched it to her lips.

I did the same. Or tried to.

She sighed. “A man will not want to kiss a girl who handles her fan like a patrolman’s baton. Like this.” She repeated the gesture, only at a lesser speed.

This time I could see exactly how she turned her wrist. And soon I was able to do it without pause, without thought.

“Perfect. Now repeat for me the gestures. Heart.”

I tapped my chest above the heart.

“No.” She sighed once more. “The whole goal is to avoid any conspicuous motion.” She put her own fan into motion, gently using it to stir a breeze in front of her face. Her head became mobile, her eyes lively. And an illusion took hold. The years seemed to drop from her face and her eyes took on a certain sparkle. She turned first this way and that. Nodded as if to some unseen suitor across the room. “The goal is to be graceful. And elegant. And completely inconspicuous. Do you see?”

“Yes.” Indeed I did. If a fan in Lizzie’s hand was a toy, a fan in Aunt’s hand was a tool. I had watched a young girl at play. Now I was watching a master at work.

“And did you see that?”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes and then went into that strange trance once more. She fluttered and bowed and simpered and then … there! The fan had touched a place above her heart and lingered for just an instant. Then she nodded at me.

I tried to do the same. I fanned and nodded and smiled.

“No. No, no, no. The fan must become an extension of the arm. It can only be done properly when one is unaware of it’s being there. Do not mistake me—you have natural talent with your lean, slender arms. There is a certain grace already evident in your gestures. But you must grow into yourself. Do this: Carry a fan about for the next week. Wherever you go. Eat with it. Read with it … for I know you will.”

As she paused, I blushed.

“Sleep with it. And in that time, if I am not mistaken, it shall append itself to your body.”

At least she hadn’t told me to stop reading. Lizzie’s mother had commanded that very thing. Said it ruined the eyes.

“Well. This proved to be a less difficult lesson than I had feared. Perhaps there is some hope for you after all. When did you learn all of this?”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“I know you, my dear. This ought to have been a much more difficult lesson than it was.”

How did I learn? I couldn’t tell her I’d learned it all from Lizzie. I’d never be allowed out of Aunt’s sight again. And then I was struck by inspiration. “Miss Miller knew more than just popular songs and Italian.” She had known Latin and mathematics as well.

“Did she? Well.” She sniffed as she pulled a handkerchief from her cuff. “Perhaps I underestimated the extent of her education. And your own.”

11

AS I LEFT the dining room after lunch on Tuesday, Aunt looked up from her newspaper. “Don’t forget. We’re at home today.”

I might have slouched up the stairs if I hadn’t been corseted. I hoped this one would be more exciting than the first one.

It wasn’t.

“Well.” My aunt eyed the clock on the mantel. “It’s five o’clock.”

It was indeed.

“And not one visitor.”

Not a one. And Aunt had begun to frown.

“Perhaps they misread our cards. Perhaps they thought we are at-home on … Thursdays.”

“Impossible. No one misreads a calling card. I know how this game is played. And I can play it too.” She pushed herself from her chair and sailed from the parlor majestically, the skirts of her black silk gown trailing behind her.

It was with relief that I mounted the stairs. After being shed of my house gown, I spent the time until dinner between the pages of Byron, memorizing my favorites among his poems.

The next day at noon, Aunt informed me that we would be at-home that afternoon as well.

“But … didn’t our cards say Tuesday?”

“They did.”

“Then … why … ?” There must be a rule involved. Some rule I didn’t know. Another rule I could never hope to understand.

“Because this is how it is done: a card for a card, a call for a call. For years I have left cards all over the city, storing up connections against your debut. I knew from the moment Brother married your mother that she would never be able to cultivate the proper relationships. Not the way it ought to be done. You’ve only to look to the Barneses! Why Reginald Barnes went to Mississippi for a bride when there were plenty to choose from right here is beyond my comprehension. And most of those in good society cut her years ago.”

“But then why was Lizzie’s tea attended by so many people?”

“I said
good
society.”

And it was plain that the Barneses weren’t included among them. At least not by Aunt.

“They fit in well enough with the Vanderbilts and their ilk. But they have nothing to do with us. In any case, others from all parts of the city have left cards for me. It is time to elevate these relationships from cards to calls.”

“But—”

“We will only call on our social equals. At first. And then we will start calling on Brother’s patients. And you will see: They cannot fail to receive us. Not on days when they are at-home. They cannot risk the possibility of offending us. Now leave me in peace so that I can plan our course.”

That day, Aunt deigned to accept all of the callers who came instead of merely taking their cards. We were soon joined by a group of women who were of Aunt’s generation. Many of them wore a widow’s cap. Others dressed in skirts with hoops so unfashionably wide they looked like apparitions from our nation’s Civil War. They all seemed vaguely surprised to have been invited into the house. And Aunt always said the same thing as she greeted them.

“It has been such a long time since I have talked with you that I couldn’t let you escape without a chat.” And chat we all did. About the weather and the season and who it was that had recently passed.

The next day we ventured out to make calls. The women we called on all seemed rather surprised at our visit, brows raised or furrowed as they greeted us, but the welcome they offered seemed genuine.

Aunt would give her card to the butler, who would disappear with it into a parlor. And then we would wait for an invitation to enter. As the afternoon progressed, sometimes our wait stretched on for several minutes. It was only when we visited the home of a particularly deaf old dowager that I realized what the delay was about.

“Who?” The shout came floating toward us through the open door.

“Mrs. Lewis Stuart and Miss Clara Carter.” The words were tinged with the butler’s foreign accent.

“I don’t know any Carters.”

“Of the Dr. Willard Carters.”

“Dr. Carter you say?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then I expect I shall have to see them. Send them in.”

The butler returned, his manner cool. We went into the parlor and sat for the appointed minutes. And we talked. About the weather mostly.

The family names of those we called on were familiar—Howard, Knowles, and Clayton—though their connection to our family was not. Indeed, as Aunt explained as we rode home, most of them were related to Mr. Lewis Stuart, her late husband. By blood or by marriage.

“Are you listening, Clara?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes.” I had been—just barely—while looking out upon the city we were passing through.

“That went very well indeed.”

“But none of them seemed to want to see us. At least none that we visited later on.”

“Of course they didn’t. But they did, didn’t they? And now, if I’m not mistaken, they shall all feel obliged to visit us. And then we shall visit them, and don’t you see, my dear—I have just gained you entrée into the highest circles!”

But at what cost?
I couldn’t help but question. Clearly none of those women really wanted to know us. So why then had they felt compelled to receive us?

It was a puzzle that had no solution. And by Sunday I was bored to death of conversation with no real meaning and etiquette that seemed to serve no purpose. It was with relief that I anticipated church.

As we walked down the aisle, I braved a look at the De Vries pew. They were there, all of them. And as we came abreast of their aisle, I looked once more.

The fashionable, dashing one leaned back slightly and, if I was not mistaken, he winked at me!

My face flamed as I sat down, praying that no one else had seen him. Flirting in a drawing room was one thing. Flirting at church … was that even proper?

After service, as we filed out of the pew, the De Vrieses filed out of theirs. They fell into step beside us. Mr. De Vries beside Father, Mrs. De Vries beside Aunt. And then it was my turn. I was to be matched with one of the brothers.

The winking one.

I blushed again—I could not help it. To hide my face from his view, I turned my head away from him, took up my skirts with my right hand, and began to turn around the edge of the pew into the aisle.

But the folds of my skirt got caught on the corner of the pew. When I tried to turn, I was jerked backward. The jolt sent my Bible flying from my left hand.

It landed in the middle of the aisle, right in front of the winking brother’s shoe.

As I stumbled, a firm hand gripped me at the elbow. The scent of sandalwood enveloped me and a low voice spoke into my ear. “Are you all right?”

My face must have gone scarlet. I could feel it. And it could only have contrasted horribly with the green of my gown. In lieu of speaking, which I feared I would garble, I simply nodded.

I took an unsteady step forward, away from the hand that still cupped my elbow.

The other brother, the disheveled one, handed me my Bible.

I barely dared to look at him, merely nodded my thanks. Then I turned from them both, raised my chin as if nothing had happened, and continued down the aisle for all of Grace Church to see. At least I wouldn’t have to speak of it to Lizzie. Her family had exited the church well ahead of ours. As I settled myself into the carriage, I waited for the rebuke that would surely come.

But Aunt only smiled. “Well done, Clara! Such a clever way to catch the heir’s attention.”

The heir? That one, the winking one, was the heir?

Then Lizzie had been right.

The following day, among the mail was an invitation. Aunt handed it over to me.

Mrs. John Moffatt
Requests the pleasure of your Company
on Tuesday Evening, December 15,
at Ten o’clock.
1062 Fifth Avenue.
Dancing.

“You’ve been invited to a ball, Clara! Well done. Not to the De Vrieses’, perhaps, but at least you’ve been invited to the Moffatts’. It seems you have made an impression.”

“To a ball? But there was no mention of a ball.”

“It mentioned dancing. And being invited to dance at a private house is a private ball. It’s the last word in vulgarity to invite someone to a ‘ball’ or an ‘evening party.’ No hostess of worth would ever think of such a thing. But to mention dancing … then a ball is assumed.”

“I can’t dance.”

“If it’s at the Moffatts’, then it’s virtually assured that the De Vries heir will be there. It will be your chance to make a first and lasting impression.”

She clearly hadn’t heard me. I repeated my objection. “I can’t dance.”

“It will be cold, of course, and possibly snowy. But I think that you should wear your debutante’s gown. Still. It will be expected.”

“But, Aunt, I can’t dance.” I spoke the words louder this time.

“What do you mean you can’t dance?”

“I can’t.”

She sat up a bit straighter as her brows knit themselves together. “But … surely you’ve had lessons.”

“I haven’t.”