The Vespertine (4 page)

With the eye tempted, nose and mouth followed—spices and salts, the dark, savory pleasure of roast duck set off by jellies in glass. Fish soups and lamb braises and damson tarts—it was so like the abundance of a Thanksgiving dinner that I struggled with the temptation to marvel. Instead, I sipped my tea and smiled at the conversation flying around me.

"Mama thinks we should roll the carpets back and host a dance ourselves," said Sarah Holbrook. She waved a hand to finish her thought. "Which is madness, plainly."

A gangling boy leaned over his plate. "It's always madness with you."

"He's right," another said. "This week it's hosting a dance, madness! Last week it was ... what was it, Wills?"

"Why, Caleb, it was inviting Dr. Rea to morning tea."

"Madness!" they exclaimed at once.

Rolling her eyes, Sarah turned her plate with a smart twist. "I shan't say what else is madness, but it has to do with inviting donkeys to dinner parties."

Amused, I reached for my glass and found my knuckles skimming against Nathaniel's.

He ate with his sinister hand, and since the first soup service, his touch often collided with mine. When we held knives to cut meat, our elbows danced. My satin and his velvet whispered together. I can't say how distracting it was. I'd never been so aware of my own skin. I'd never known how quickly it could tighten with even a glancing caress.

"Apologies," he murmured.

"Accepted," I said, and I finished my glass.

Nathaniel moved to refill it with impeccable precision, manners
à la russe.
But as he held the decanter leftward instead of right, he slipped his arm beneath mine, tangling us intimately as he refreshed my tea.

How sweet a sting could feel! In my cheeks, in my lips—I found myself asking without a thought, with a light sort of amusement that came from some uncharted portion of my own wit, "What sort of schoolmaster did you have, who failed to beat you into using your proper hand, Mr. Witherspoon?"

His brow twitched, lips curled to keep a smile from coming on them too broadly. "If I said a blind one, would you blush?"

Heat flashed across my face, so it seemed the answer was yes. "Shame on you for wanting to embarrass me."

"Shame on you for indulging me."

Laughter rose with the clatter of china and silver, and I felt so very close to Zora's circle but not quite in it. It wasn't Zora's fault, because she addressed me often and encouraged her cousins to speak to me—once or twice with kicks beneath the table.

But she couldn't know that the light on her circle paled to the light in mine. Even when I looked at the cousins, admiring their smiles and pretty laughter, I felt myself drawn back to Nathaniel Witherspoon. And each time I caught him looking at me. At my mouth.

"Mr. Witherspoon, you're acquainted with the theatre," Zora said, cutting through our haze for his attention. "Have you heard anything about the Mysterious Lady Privalovna's engagement?"

And as if it were perfectly natural to be caught twined on a lady's arm at dinner, Nathaniel answered smoothly. "Only that you shouldn't miss it."

"Why is that, sir?"

"I'm given to understand that her spirits coalesce onstage. An ethereal mist drawn out of her for all to behold." To emphasize his point, Nathaniel fluidly swirled a hand in the air before him, unlatching us and performing all at once.

"Is that so?" Sarah asked, suddenly turned our way.

Zora reminded Sarah with a nudge, "Miss Avery promised that, too."

One of the boys groaned. "That was a waste of a nickel. Just at the climax, she claimed the spirits were too perturbed to materialize."

"Should've taken the warning at the window seriously. No refunds—for you'll be back asking for one, no doubt!"

Sarah frowned. "Just once I'd like to see a real one! It's tedious, wasting money on false spiritualists."

One of the boys cackled. "It's not madness?"

The table exploded in laughter, and they disappeared into familiar jests and stories only they knew. I was outside their consideration and wonderfully alone with Nathaniel again. Offering a smile, he raised his glass and his gaze to me once more.

And I drank deeply.

***

After dinner, we girls retired to the parlor while the boys converged on the back porch. They shouldn't have been smoking, though the sweet scent of tobacco crept into the house, nonetheless.

We shouldn't have stolen tastes of the sherry, but there we were at the fireside with one glass to share among us. There was wine at dinner, and that should have been more than enough spirits for any party. But all the same, with surreptitious dips of the crystal decanter, Zora handed around seven tastes in quick order.

"I'm not entirely well," I said when the glass finally came to me.

But I caught a glimpse of myself in the marbled glass above the mantel—tall, rough, rustic—surrounded by glorious Baltimore belles who each seemed like her own jewel set on velvet.

Sarah Holbrook shone as if she were summer itself. Her skin was bronzed chestnut, her hair rich black, braided into loops and weft with white ribbon. Beside her stood Matilda Corey—Mattie—another cousin perhaps, I had lost track in the introductions. She was Sarah's ghost in every way—platinum-haired and milk-skinned, her ribbons scarlet.

Their gowns bared their shoulders. Seed pearls and chokers made their necks seem that much more slender. I was the plain center of the blossom, buttoned to the chin in an old-fashioned suit and gloves of no remarkable style.

Kindly, Zora moved to pour the sherry back into its bottle, but I changed my mind. I took it and swallowed my portion in two sips. Smiling with a braveness I didn't quite feel, I said, "Now I'm fortified, I think."

"Good! Let's call the boys in," Sarah said.

She led the march—she on her toes and the rest of us following in kind. At the back door, we pressed in to listen, trying to steal snatches of the masculine conversation taking place just outside. I couldn't make much of it, only that they were loud and wild, and most certainly burning away cigars like they were grown men.

Rocking on her heels, Zora stole a look at Sarah, a portent of some ritual trick to come. Anticipation and a dash of sherry warmed my face, and I watched Sarah turn the doorknob slowly, squinting when the latch gave with a click. In quivering silence, we all stood, then Sarah began to count beneath her breath.

"One, two," she said, barely containing laughter, "three!"

She threw the door open, and our party—the ones familiar with the trick—screamed in a single banshee wail.

Orange embers scattered, dancing like fireflies. I saw the boys loping through the yard, dousing their cigars and catching their breath from the start. We dissolved into laughter as those nimble, timid boys came sheepishly back to the porch.

"Good luck marrying you lot off," Caleb said, narrowing his eyes at Sarah in a way both familiar and intimate. He passed close to her, a breath away.

Watching those two, I felt like I'd pulled the curtains back on their bed, as if I'd intruded on a moment meant only for them. When they slipped inside, I shook my head. Travel and wine and fantasies had addled me, plainly.

Nathaniel came in last.

Silently, he offered his elbow. It was maddening, how unsteady that simple gesture left me. It was like I needed to take it to keep myself on my feet. Slipping my arm through his, I looked at the floor instead of his face. I didn't want him to realize I was blushing again.

"May I call on you?" he asked.

Courting had rules. I didn't want to follow them. But I did, because I hadn't even spent an entire day in Maryland. When Lizzy and August sent me to find a husband, they certainly meant for me to find someone suitable. Someone with prospects. That discounted an artist making ends meet on hired dinners.

Ruination before midnight, before a single gown bought, before one seat won at classes? No matter how strange the day, I couldn't disgrace myself for the charm of one wicked Fourteenth.

Finally, I shook my head. "You may not, Mr. Witherspoon."

"Would You call on me, then?"

"You're mad."

"I'm fascinated," he said.

And, oh, it was no idle fascination. When he spoke, he looked not at my eyes, but at the curve of my brow. His gaze washed over my face. I saw him make out the shape of my lashes, turning his head to study my cheeks. He lingered long at the part of my lips.

Exposed by his consideration, I slipped from his arm and told him unconvincingly, "Miss Stewart will be miss-ing you."

"I wish Miss van den Broek would miss me instead." He touched his palm to his chest and gave a little bow before walking around me. But instead of turning toward the parlor, he made his way to the foyer.

Laughter and accusations rang out from the parlor, some diversion already at its start, but I ignored Zora's guests to follow him. With only one lamp glowing, the air was a hazy, glowing curtain, and I caught my breath when I saw Nathaniel slipping into his coat.

Pointing the way, I said, "The games are beginning."

Nathaniel raised an envelope, holding it between us. "My wage is for making up numbers at the table. I'm not invited to the games."

He couldn't leave, not yet. I couldn't stand the idea of playing snapdragon with Zora's cousins, all those strangers, all alone. Then I had to wonder at myself—how had Nathaniel Witherspoon captured me so completely? I wasn't even startled to hear myself demand, "What if I wish it?"

He shook his head at me slowly, like a lament. Tucking his wage in his pocket, he met my gaze and said, "It was a pleasure, I hope."

A flutter rose in my chest. "You're going."

"All good things..."

There was a moment to say something, but nothing came. Did the slant of his eyes mean anything at all? All these games were new to me—how could I know the difference between a charming façade and an earnest heart? I couldn't begin to.

Swallowed by the most curious numb, I watched him go. It was like I had known the fierceness of the sun once but could remember it only faintly.

Knotted inside and out, I opened the door to call after him, bid him call on me, or leave his card, or anything at all. But there was no one to hear me.

The street was empty.

***

Bundled beneath the sheets, Zora and I bumped and squirmed for possession of the middle. I suppose we were both spoiled, since neither of us had ever had to share a bed. But lying awake had its advantages—namely, the pleasure of gossiping in the dark.

"I think Wills is fond of you," Zora said. She bounced as she rolled over, making the mattress groan on its ropes.

I peered over my shoulder. "Which one is Wills?"

"The exceedingly tall one. It's good he fancies you this year. Last year he was a scarecrow in a suit." Suddenly, Zora leaned over my shoulder. Her face glowed in the moonlight, turning her into an otherworldly vision that would have frightened me if she hadn't crinkled her nose in delight. "We're waltzing this week-end. Dare you to put him on your card."

"I can't."

"I'll teach you," Zora said, exasperated.

This once, though, it wasn't my country manners keeping me from city pleasures. "I know how to dance, thank you!"

"Then what's the matter?"

Nothing. I just didn't want to dance close to someone I couldn't remember without help. I shook my head, as much an answer as I could offer, then said, "The funniest thing happened when we were waiting for dinner."

Zora grew wary. "Charlie didn't bother you, did he?"

"Which one's Charlie?" I asked.

In truth, I had some vague idea which cousin she meant, so I deserved it when she shoved me. But I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep my giggles in. Outside our room, footsteps crossed the stairs. We must have roused Mrs. Stewart with our laughter. We held our tongues until the night watch had passed.

Once it had, I murmured, "I was looking out the window, right when the vespers bells tolled. My thoughts drifted, and I saw you. In a new dress."

This was hardly the relevant bit of the vision, but it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I should test Zora's patience for supernatural whimsies before admitting mine. I wasn't sure about it.

It was a singular event. I'd never been struck by premonition in Maine, never had the slightest sensation of it. Spiritualists and seances and reincarnations were fashionable. Considering my anxiety, I might have simply retreated into a hundred stories I'd read before in magazines.

So this vision, of Zora in lilies—I decided to let her think I wasn't too serious about it. What if it turned out to be nothing but gilt-edged fantasy? How stupid I would feel.

"Was it a very good dress?" she asked. "I picked one from the
Harper's
book, but Mama said it would have to wait. It called for twelve yards of Irish lace. Twelve! But it was glorious!"

With alight smile, I said, "I hope it has lilies embroidered on the sleeves. That's the dress I saw you in, dancing with Thomas."

"It does! The entire polonaise is lace, embroidered with lilies!"

"Twelve yards!"

The bed groaned again when Zora pulled me to sit with her. She clutched my fingers, imploring with wide eyes. "Did You see it, really? All of it?"

I abandoned my studied lightness at once. "All of it," I swore.

With such earnest desperation, Zora stirred a heat inside me, an ardent hope that my sending would come true. Such a sweet soul, such a pure longing.

She deserves it,
I thought.
Wanting something that badly should make it true.

Then, as if she couldn't bear the possibility, Zora sighed and fell back on her pillow. "Thomas never comes to dances. Just another one of his mysteries, I suppose."

"This time, he shall." I pulled my pillow in my lap. "Once you have your dress."

"The twelfth of never, then." Zora murmured something to herself, then tugged my sleeve. "Lie down, dreamer."

As I lay back, I asked thoughtfully, "What do Fourteenths do, besides round out the numbers and pursue their arts?"

"Were You taken by him? Truly?"

"It was only a question." Punching the pillow, I stuffed it beneath my head and turned my back to her.