Tonight there would be no Belle Moffats, no Major Lincolns. Tonight, in her House of Worth polonaise, in the company of Theodore Laurence and John Brooke, she was every bit a duchess. And she would not let her enjoyment be diminished a whit.
Even if Laurie himself seemed to regard the whole thing with dreary resignation.
From inside the carriage, he shrank into his elegant suit. “Well,” he said, groaning out the word as if it pained him, “I suppose there’s no more putting it off.”
“You’d think you were going to Judgment, the way you talk,” said Brooke, “rather than a society ball.”
Meg put her hand on Laurie’s arm. She knew he was missing Jo and felt a momentary stab of pity for the dear boy, who was trying—and failing—to woo the most stubborn girl in New England. But her excitement was too great to keep bottled up for long. “The sooner we go in, the sooner it will be over,” she said. “You can tell your grandfather you did his bidding. No one can ask more than that.”
He smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re here, Meg. I couldn’t bear it without . . . well, without a friend.”
And so Laurie helped her out the door of the carriage and up the stairs through the warm and warmly lit front door.
If only Sallie Gardiner could see her now, in her Parisian finery, walking into Carmichael Hall on Laurie’s arm! How she would enjoy recounting it all to her friends in Concord later: the chandelier in the foyer dripping with crystals and creamy candlelight, the cool white marble floors, the gilt tables and vases of flowers, the tables piled high with sugared fruit and bowls of cherries. She smiled to see them, remembering Amy’s appetite for the sweet things.
Perhaps tonight Meg would meet her own Cherry King.
She looked briefly at Brooke, who seemed already to be searching the room for Lady Hat, and felt her eyes smart with tears. For even in her House of Worth gown, she was still a poor girl with no prospects who could barely afford to buy gloves. The wealthy, beautiful Lady Hat would have the eye of every man in the room—even a good man like John Brooke.
Brooke gave her a polite bow and headed into the crowd.
Steady, Meg. It was her little sister Beth who came to her mind’s eye now. Remember who you are and where you come from. Remember everything and be cheerful, because this chance will never come again.
“I’m right here, Meg.” Laurie gave her arm a squeeze. “Never fear. I won’t leave you to the wolves.”
She wondered if he could feel her trembling. “Goodness,” she whispered. “I didn’t know there was so much wealth in all the world!”
“The Carmichael-Carlthorpes are a very old family,” Laurie explained. “They can name their ancestors back to the Norman invasion. Look at all the portraits—no one with such an ancient lineage ever lets anyone else forget it.”
“I don’t see how anyone could.” Meg laughed, feeling a bit better already. She did see several oils of various Carmichaels, or perhaps they were Carlthorpes, hung in prominent locations in the drawing-room, in the halls, in the dining-room: stern-faced men and women, all looking terribly important and desperately miserable. One or two had the look of an Old Master.
“None of them seem very happy, do they?” asked Meg.
“Maybe a bit gassy,” Laurie teased. “Especially that one.” He pointed, stopping in front of a particularly sour-faced fellow.
“Laurie!” Meg hit him with her fan.
“You know, Miss March, that’s the second time a beautiful woman with your name has hit me with a fan tonight,” Laurie said lightly. “So I suppose I am either doing something very right or something very wrong.”
Meg studied her companion’s face. “Is that truly a question, Mr. Laurence?”
“Everything is a question, Miss March,” he said, studying the painting. “As is the further question of whether or not to ask them.”
“At least you’re happier than he is,” Meg said, moving on to the next painting.
Laurie followed her. “Happiness is not a trait much desired in one’s ancestors, I’ve found.” With a nearly imperceptible sigh, he leaned forward to scratch a fingernail lightly against the portrait of a pale-skinned burgher in an enormous white ruff. “The more miserable the better, in fact. Something about money not being able to buy happiness, and all that.”
“The Marches must be the happiest family you’ve ever met, then,” Meg said wryly.
He laughed, his melancholy entirely forgotten. “Positively giddy.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Thank you again for bringing me, Laurie. I shall never forget this night.”
“I’m sure your sister will never let you forget it, either.” Now he gave her a rueful smile. “I would give up my entire fortune and all my ancestors to be listening to Dickens right now with Jo rather than trying to make an impression on some dowdy old Harvard president.”
Meg patted his cheek with one gloved hand. “Then let’s make it a quick impression, so you can get it over with.”
“I like the way you think, Miss March,” said Laurie, and gave her a mock bow. Meg took his arm and let him lead her deeper into the belly of the beast.
* * *
• • •
“THERE YOU ARE, you wicked, wicked things!” Lady Hat called out, descending upon both of them with a tray of sugar mice. “I thought perhaps you’d thought better of coming. Mummy was positively devastated at the prospect of missing you.”
“Hullo, old Hat,” said Laurie. “You remember Miss March, of course.”
“Of course! How well you look tonight, Miss March. Is Cousin Jo not with you? I hope she’s not ill?” Lady Hat wore layer upon layer of peacock-hued crushed silk; a lone peacock feather emerged from the elaborate coil of braids and curls at her crown, and bounced when she spoke.
“Thank you,” Meg said, “but no. She had a previous engagement to attend.”
“I see,” said Lady Hat, looking more closely at Meg, who suddenly felt like a prime filet de beouf in a shop window. “And in your Worth! Every time I see it, it’s more lovely than the last. Or perhaps it’s just the lady wearing it.”
Every time. Meg felt her face burn, as Lady Hat had perhaps intended. But there was no question of wearing a different dress; nothing else owned by either March girl would have been suitable for an occasion as fine as the Ducal Ball. “Thank you,” she said, simply. “It brings me great joy.”
“But nothing compared to my own,” Laurie said, gallantly. “Which is why I insisted she wear it again tonight.”
Meg felt a burst of happiness, and the two smiled at each other.
“Of course you did,” Harriet said, studying the two of them. Then she leaned in close and whispered in Meg’s ear: “I hope I’m not embarrassing you, but you look as though you had trouble with the laces on your polonaise, my dear. If you come with me, I’ll have my lady’s maid do them up for you properly. We might even have a few pomegranate flowers to adorn your hair. Shall we?”
Jo had been the one to help Meg with the laces earlier, and it was like the middle March sister to make a mess of the job, especially on such an important occasion. Meg tried not to grimace. Hopeless Jo! Couldn’t you do a careful job this one time?
But she remembered her earlier admonition to herself: Remember who you are. She would not let herself be pampered and petted a second time, not when she remembered so well how she’d felt when Belle Moffat had turned her into a doll. When she’d gone to Vanity Fair, or so she’d thought at the time. Belle Moffat’s coming-out couldn’t hold a candle to the Ducal Ball, but laces or no laces, she would not let Lady Hat fuss over her. Meg March was no longer just a girl, longing for silk stockings and her first glass of champagne.
So she gathered herself into a smile, then replied, “It’s quite all right, Lady Harriet. My sister did my laces since, as you must know, we have no lady’s maid. And I think my hair doesn’t quite need
any more adornment right now. I’m sure it would only get in the way during the dance, don’t you think?”
“Indeed, in the way of the dance, and in the way of the view—as I, myself, greatly prefer to see Miss March’s face,” Laurie said with a bow.
Meg touched his arm affectionately. “Silly boy.”
“I see,” Lady Hat said, though she clearly did not, for she looked bewildered, as if she were unused to being refused anything. She handed off her tray of sugar mice to a passing servant and said, “Well, I suspect the particulars of your Concord customs are lost on me. But you will let me know if you change your mind.”
“Of course,” Meg said, going on to lavish Lady Hat’s own dress and the decorations for the ball with sincere praise. She didn’t want the other girl to take her refusal as an insult. “I’ve never seen such loveliness,” Meg was saying. “Your kindness in including me tonight will never be forgotten.”
“Never,” Laurie repeated, though it was Meg who he now regarded with admiration. Truly, this was a side of the eldest March he had never before seen and would not soon forget.
“Tosh,” said Lady Hat, smiling and taking Meg by the arm. “Any friend of the Laurences, you know.” She led her, crooked laces and all, toward the ballroom, looking back over her shoulder at Laurie only once. “Do you mind, dear boy?” she asked. “I simply must make Meg here my pet.”
“Just be careful she doesn’t bite you,” said Laurie.
Lady Hat’s laughter floated over Meg’s head to him. “Theodore Laurence! How can you talk so about our dear Cousin Meg?”
Laurie gave Lady Hat a wicked grin. “I was talking about you, old girl,” he said with a nod. Then he straightened, looking at Meg questioningly. When she nodded his dismissal, he turned back to the crowd, straightening his vest. “I’m off to dance with Harvard, then.”
“Good luck, Laurie!” Meg called after him.
He disappeared from sight.
As Lady Hat and Meg stood in the doorway to the ballroom, the musicians struck up “Crystal Schottische,” and the beautifully gowned and perfectly suited dancers began to spin in a slow, glorious whirl around that vast gilded space.
This is a ball, Meg thought, breathing it all in. A real one.
Lady Hat watched her with fascination. “I can see why Laurie is so fond of you. You’re a bit breathtaking, aren’t you?”
“You are too kind,” Meg demurred.
“Now! You must let me help you, Cousin Meg. I am determined that tonight you will be the most admired girl in the room.” She spoke as if it were a game—a favorite one. “With whom should you dance? You shall have your pick, if I have my way!”
“Which is, I imagine, most often?” Meg ventured.
“Oftener.” Lady Hat winked.
Meg blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. What an impertinent girl this Lady Hat was—it was no wonder Laurie liked her. She was an uppertens version of Jo, Meg thought, though it was only her wealth that allowed her to say outrageous things and get away with it. With Jo it was simply her character. Everyone knew there was no help for it, and all attempts to correct her would be met with disappointment.
The very rich and the very poor have so much in common, Meg thought. No one expects them to conform to social niceties. It’s only those of us in the middle who must constantly prove our worth on both sides.
Beside Meg, Harriet was already running down a list of eligible young men, none of whose names Meg recognized. And none of whom, she noticed, included either John Brooke or Theodore Laurence, the only men in the room Meg actually knew. She was slightly horrified.
“Now then,” said Harriet. “Who sounds like a good partner for you?” She pointed with a gloved finger, ticking off the targets across the room, one by one. “Steel? Oil? Coal? Finance? The odd lesser lord?”
“I shouldn’t even guess,” said Meg, haltingly.
“Then I should!” Harriet winked again. “Railroads it is!”
Meg was flustered. “I—don’t—”
“Oh, but you do!” said Harriet. “Here comes Mr. Brooke. Let’s ask him, shall we?”
“No, please, Lady Harriet—I couldn’t possibly—” said Meg, nearly ready to faint now as John Brooke crossed the room, coming closer.
Remember yourself, Meg.
14
A DEPARTURE
My dear Brooke!” cried Lady Hat, putting a hand possessively on Brooke’s arm.
Meg couldn’t help but notice, which was perhaps the whole point. “Now then, you know our friend Meg better than I; who would be a good partner for her?”
Mr. Brooke was caught off guard. Meg looked away. “Miss March might have her pick of all the young men, I’m certain. As for partners, I couldn’t say. My own acquaintances here are few, as I don’t normally travel in such fashionable circles.”
“Tosh!” said Harriet. “You’re the equal—nay, the superior—to any man here.” She drew closer to him. “A soldier. A philosopher. And, I daresay—a hero.”
I will ram that peacock feather down your pretty throat, Meg thought.
“How could you know that?” said Brooke. “You’ve only just met me. I might be . . . a pirate, for all you know.”
If it was at all possible, Meg realized, Brooke was flirting with Harriet.
Brooke. Flirting. With Harriet.
“I’m certain Mr. Laurence would never hire anyone except a first-rate scholar and gentleman for his grandson’s tutor,” said Harriet, “much less as chaperone for our dear Cousin Meg.”
“I’ll do my best to live up to your enormous expectations, mademoiselle.”
“See that you do.” The feather bobbed.
Meanwhile, Cousin Meg was trying, and failing, to turn into wallpaper. She couldn’t bear what she was hearing.
“Now then,” said Harriet, “why don’t you dance with her first, Mr. Brooke?”
Mr. Brooke bowed stiffly to Meg, then said, “I should be happy to.”
Meg’s joy in the evening shrank. She didn’t want Brooke to dance with her out of pity. “Oh, please,” she whispered. She was mortified. “We needn’t dance at all.”
Harriet and Brooke didn’t seem to notice. “Aren’t you a dear!” said the lady to Brooke, sending them off to the dance floor together. “And when you’ve danced with her, I shall find her another partner.”
“Perhaps you would save me a dance as well?” Brooke asked Harriet.
“Of course.”
Oh, no. Meg thought she would shrivel up and disappear.
Brooke gave Lady Hat a gentlemanly bow, then took Meg by the arm toward the dance floor. “Thank you,” she said in a low voice as they moved out of earshot of Lady Hat. “It is very kind of you to dance with me.”
“No, Miss March, it’s I who should thank you,” said Mr. Brooke, giving her a warm smile, as if Harriet were already forgotten. “I’ve been waiting all night to ask you to dance. I’m glad the lady gave me a chance to do so.”
Meg blushed, relaxing just a little bit.
Mr. Brooke—John—did seem more like his old self.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing, she thought, and went twirling to the dance floor on the philosopher-hero’s arm.
* * *
• • •
ACROSS THE ROOM, Laurie watched with interest.
He saw his old friend and tutor lead Meg to the dance floor for the waltz. He saw how pleased they both looked, turning around and around the ballroom floor in the newest dance, only just imported all the way from London.
Which was why Laurie had just now asked Brooke to chaperone Meg home for the evening, instead of himself.
Nothing would suit them better, he was sure of it—and if a dance led to a growing friendship between his tutor and his friend Miss March, so much the better. It would keep her in Concord, near her family, which would be good
for everyone.
Myself included.
He could see other things, too. He saw the way Harriet watched Brooke and Meg dancing, how quickly she found him again when the song was over, how often she hooked her arm through Brooke’s. Poor Meg looked aghast but said nothing.
That old game.
It was like Harriet to set her heart on Brooke, a man without title or money, a man whose mere presence in Harriet’s affections would irritate the dowager no end.
Harriet had done this once before, with a poor musician of Laurie’s acquaintance in London; that time, she’d threatened to elope with the man, causing all kinds of scenes between herself and her mother. It had been the talk of the town for months. The romance of poverty, the thrill of illicit affair, all that rubbish—Harriet reveled in it. Only her mother’s threat of disinheritance had persuaded Harriet to drop the entire scheme, which Hat had done in the end—furious and in tears.
It was possible that was the reason the Carmichael-Carlthorpes had come to New York in the first place. No one had said as much to Laurie, but he could see the wisdom of it: the dowager taking her daughter away to America for her own good, trying to put the incident—and the scandal—behind them.
Except that Harriet had quite a talent for finding trouble wherever she went. She never suffered from a lack of suitors, impoverished or no.
Laurie didn’t see that Brooke was any better of a choice than the musician had been. Not only was he poor and lacking in land or titles, but Brooke had spent the last few months entirely smitten with Meg March. Anyone could see that much.
Surely not even the prolific charms of Lady Harriet Carmichael-Carlthorpe—not to mention her enormous wealth—could turn Brooke’s head in a single evening.
No, indeed.
Nothing so fine as the forty apple-trees of Orchard House, here.
Jo & Laurie Page 12
