She Walks in Beauty (38 page)

It was too late; I had already alerted Mr. Douglas.

He had turned. Upon seeing my companion, he made a swift bow.

Katherine took a step forward, to my side. But it was not made with any quickness or grace.

“Mr. Douglas, I would like to introduce you to Baroness von Bergholz. Formerly of this city.”

He inclined his head. “Baroness.”

“Mr. Douglas.” Her skin had gone translucent, her lips blue. “Miss Carter tells me you have been a great friend to her this season.”

“Not a friend. Simply an observer. Everything I have written is the truth.”

Her hand found mine as if it groped for some sure support.

“Madam? I can serve you?” The baron pushed into our conversation, eyes darting from Katherine to Mr. Douglas and back again.

“Oh, Gerhardt!” For the first time that I could remember, she said his name in relief and gratitude. She pulled her hand from mine and placed it into his. “I am not well.”

He glanced over at Mr. Douglas with some alarm, his blue eyes clouding. And then he offered his arm to her, covering her hand with his own. They left without excusing themselves.

Mr. Douglas glanced down at me with cool appraisal and then he turned and stalked away, leaving me quite alone. Alone with the feeling that I had done something terribly wrong.

Later that night, I chanced to overhear a conversation between Katherine and Mr. Douglas as I passed the library, on my way to the lavatory. I registered their presence in a glance as I passed the door. But it was the vehemence in their words that made me slow my pace. They were standing at the back of the room, by a window, the fire’s light reflecting in its panes. He had stretched out a hand to her.

She shrank from it. “Don’t, Charlie.”

“But—”

“Please. Stop.” She took a step backward. “I can only remember that your
kindness
cost me everything.”

His hand was still outstretched, as if he were trying to coax a wild animal close. “I didn’t mean—”

“And neither did I. But the truth is, it happened.”

He closed the distance between them and took up her hand. “If only you would let me see you.”

“To what end?”

“Kate.” His voice was a reproach. His hand had found her cheek.

She flinched, then closed her eyes as she leaned into his hand. “I am Katherine, Baroness von Bergholz. That is who you have made me. Do not ask me to become anything else for you.” The last words came cloaked in a sob as she turned from him.

I sped down the hall before they could see me.

I had done a very terrible thing indeed.

T
HE
N
EW
Y
ORK
J
OURNAL
—S
OCIETY
F
EBRUARY 19, 1892

Among all the bright flowers that have graced this social season, we will mourn Miss Clara Carter the most. The Lenten season to come does not bear thinking about absent the charms of her grace and elegance. We can only say that we hope her future plans will include Newport for the summer season.

T
HE
T
ATTLER
F
EBRUARY 19, 1892

As the season nears its conclusion, we can only say good riddance to those debutantes who grasp at the proverbial golden ring, who flirt and dance through balls and pretend their enemies are bosom friends. Which debutante was sure she had her rival out of the way for the rest of the season? The same girl whose dreams of fortune were destroyed when said rival returned unexpectedly.

I felt the blood drain from my face as I read it. I’d thought The Tattler was done. I’d thought he was dead. But Mr. Hooper was already buried by the time Lizzie had recovered from her injury. If he wasn’t The Tattler, then who was?

After breakfast I returned to my room and found my scrapbook. I read each
Tattler
article and tried to recall who had been at each event with me. The first event at which my attendance had been noted was the opera. Everyone had been there. So everyone from Mrs. Astor down to Aunt herself was suspect. That didn’t help at all.

I turned the page.

The Posts’ ball.

The Tattler had voiced a dissatisfaction with debutantes in general.

I read those words again:

If you asked any of them, they would tell you the same: They do what they do because they are told to do it. They line up every year and partake of the pageantry of the season because it’s what they’re expected to do. But can a girl who flirts with abandon truly be innocent of trawling for the fortunes of this city’s wealthiest citizens? Does naiveté beget stupidity as well?

Although the words applied to me, I could not quite convince myself that they were aimed at me in particular.

I went on to the next event. The Vandermeres’ ball.

. . . and at the Vandermeres’ ball, other intrigues were afoot. Let the observer remain vigilant. If the lives of past debutantes of this fair city are any indication, what is expected or predicted does not always occur. And many a presumably faithful heart has been known to wander.

Ah—she of faithless heart. Another piece that didn’t apply to me. So maybe … perhaps I was simply prone to hysterics, discerning a spy behind every palm tree and spite in every
Tattler
article. But I reread it just to be certain. No. Nothing.

I turned another page.

The dinner at Delmonico’s.

Ah! Now that had been much more limited in scope. A private dinner party. Franklin and Henry. Lizzie. Mr. Porter. Mr. Hamilton. A dozen other older guests.

I turned the page.

The runaway carriage. The piece in which
The Tattler
had mentioned my father. And the participants were even fewer than those who had attended the Delmonico’s dinner. There had been Mr. Douglas. And Harry.

Which of our city’s lovely debutantes wandered far from Fifth Avenue on a winter’s afternoon when a runaway carriage pulled her into The Bowery? Through some cajoling of The Bowery element and the aid of a gentleman, all was put right. But that is not the first time that a person of her name has ventured into the bowels of our fair city.

Slowly, as I went through the events, I discovered only one name that kept appearing. One person with whom I had done nearly everything this season.

Harry.

I went to sleep that night in utter desolation. Harry was the only person The Tattler could possibly be. And it didn’t make sense. Why would the De Vries family strenuously oppose a match with Franklin when they could simply scuttle it in The Tattler’s column through insinuation and misrepresentation? They could have simply let the paper do their work for them. So what kind of game were they playing? Their words and their actions seemed at odds. And why had Harry agreed to such a task? I had thought … had hoped that … he liked me.

At least a little.

But perhaps … had I misinterpreted everything? And wasn’t Lizzie always accusing me of doing just that? It was quite clear to me now that he despised me.

34

IT WAS WITH a heavy heart that I attended the Schemerhorns’ ball the next evening. But thankfully, Harry was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s at home in bed with a cold.” Katherine had smiled when she saw me and at intermission had come over to kiss the air in front of my cheek.

“Who?” I had no idea of whom she spoke.

“Harry. He’s quite miserable really. And even so, we nearly had to lock him in his room to get him to stay in bed.”

“Oh.” Not that it mattered. At least there would be no one this night who could tattle on me.

Mr. Hamilton danced two dances with me. And two with Lizzie. Mr. Lorillard flirted during an intermission. And in between all of it, in between the wretched boredom of the dances and the tedium of observing such extravagant displays of wealth, I decided to imbibe in champagne.

Why not?

Who would it hurt?

And besides, what more could be said about me that
The Tattler
had not already said?

I drained my glass and gave it to a passing waiter. My lips itched abominably. I couldn’t scratch them, of course, least not with my gloved fingers. But I could let my fan do the work. I tried to scratch them with my fan open, brushing it against my lips as I half turned toward the wall, but it didn’t work. I only succeeded in putting a dent in the fan.

I smoothed it out. Turned back toward the crowds. Closed the fan a bit and tried again.

Ah, relief!

It felt so marvelous, so satisfying, that I even smiled at Mr. Porter as I did it. He of tall stature and red nose. I danced several more dances and then, at the next intermission, decided to take some air. I had just taken a step away from Aunt and plunged into the cool of the night when I was accosted.

“You darling creature!” It was Mr. Porter. And he placed his arms about me.

“Please—oh, don’t. Please, stop.”

“All my prayers were answered when I saw you flash your fan at me.”

“My … my fan? At you?”

“Let me kiss you, my darling.”

“No!”

He took up my hand and simpered. “Don’t be coy.”

“Really, Mr. Porter!” I tried to push him away with my other hand.

“Ah. Miss Carter, there you are!”

Mr. Porter stopped pressing his case at the sound of Mr. Douglas’s voice.

I took the opportunity to remove myself from his embrace. “I must have been rather thoughtless in the deployment of my fan, Mr. Porter. I do apologize for any misunderstanding.” I took my leave before he could say more.

Mr. Douglas was still standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the ballroom’s light.

“Thank you.” I whispered the words as I passed him by.

“May I claim a dance?”

“You may have as many as you like. As long as you can explain them away.” I held my card up to him.

He glanced it over. “What happy fortuitousness. I see a dance has just opened up—I don’t expect that Mr. Porter will be claiming his.”

Later in the evening, at the appointed time, he escorted me to the dance floor.

“Thank you. Again.”

“Mr. Porter is a dolt. You shouldn’t have encouraged him.”

“I didn’t!” How could he even imagine that I would have?

“You must have given him some reason to hope.”

“I gave him none. I merely scratched my lip with the tip of my fan. And then, perhaps, I smiled at him.”

“No more than that?”

“None.” I said it with conviction.

“Surely you must know the significance of such a display.”

“But I was exhibiting no affection. I was only revealing a deep desire to scratch at an itch.”

He raised a brow. “On lesser desires whole dynasties have been founded. And marriages arranged.”

T
HE
T
ATTLER
F
EBRUARY 21, 1892

Which debutante escorted herself into the night air at the Schemerhorns’ ball? And with which young scion did she have an amorous interlude? Careful, little dove, or you may find your reputation is soon irrevocably soiled!

What was The Tattler insinuating? That I would … that I … was some kind of base woman? Of all of the attacks, this was the most personal. And the most despicable. That Harry would think such a thing, let alone write it! If I never saw him again, it would be too soon. I was of half a mind to cut him the next time I saw him. And certainly, I would warn Lizzie about him.