Siri Mitchell

by Unrivaled

  At the Coliseum, we were escorted up the steps by the policemen. I didn’t know what they thought might happen to me on the way from the car to the building, but I arrived quite safely. Inside, my old dancing school instructor, Mr. Mahler, met us. His hair was slick with oil, and he was in his accustomed knee breeches, although this night he was not wearing his black velvet ballet slippers. And in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, chaos reigned.

  The girls in the court crowded close, exclaiming over my dress and paying compliments I now knew they could not mean. One of them commented on the scent of my delicious perfume. I resisted the temptation to check if my hair was still holding and told her it had come from an exclusive shop in Paris.

  Mr. Mahler made us all bow and curtsy several times before finally approving of our efforts. Then he drilled us on the steps to the Veiled Prophet lanciers and to his own dance, the Ostend. I hadn’t performed the steps in months, but my schoolgirl training took charge of my feet. Thankfully, the intricacies of the dance were hidden by my trailing skirts. By the time he sent me up to the box of honor to wait for the ceremony, I was more than ready.

  Up there, I had a bird’s-eye view of floor. As the attendees began to appear, some of them gave a surreptitious look around the room and then edged toward the table filled with refreshments. I could see Sam down there. He was standing behind the tables and—oh! He’d already put my candies on display. They were mounded on a silver tray, their cellophane wrappers gleaming in the electric lights.

  I held my breath as a man, resplendent in full dress with a swallowtail coat, snuck two chews from the tray. He placed one into his mouth and handed the other to the woman standing beside him. I could have clapped my hands in delight. Perhaps by the time I was crowned queen, word of my candies would already have spread through the room. Tonight could be nothing but a triumph!

  10

  Tuesday, October fourth, marked my entrance into St. Louis society. I’d spent the week before pasting posters onto telegraph poles outside schools. My neck still had a crick in it from all the time I’d spent peering up at walls and telegraph poles. My hand had callouses where I’d gripped the handle of a pail of paste. But I’d coaxed streetcar operators into letting me put posters on the outside and inside of their cars, and convinced my father that several dozen posters placed in prominent locations around South St. Louis weren’t a waste of my time or his posters. If Royal Taffy were a treat, then even the newsies and factory workers should be allowed to dream of them. One thousand posters were now up across the city.

  That night after supper I dressed in my new swallowtail coat. I took extra care with my razor, guiding it over the scar on my jaw, and I buffed my shoes to a first-class shine. It took three tries to get my white bow tie to sit straight, and by then it was already eight o’clock.

  I spat into my hand and then pressed it to the cowlick at my temple. It lay flat for a moment, then sprang back into place. I frowned at Charles-in-the-mirror, wondering if he were in danger of becoming as dull and stuffy as he looked.

  After taking my top hat from its box, I left my bedroom. I did a quick two-step before pulling my gloves on and walking down the stairs in what I hoped was a respectable manner. Someday, when no one was around, I planned to slide down the long curving banister.

  But not tonight.

  Not with my father and Augusta watching.

  My father clamped his cigar between his teeth, then grinned and nodded. I shoved down the pride that began to warm my chest at my father’s approval. Pretending I belonged, I followed them out the door.

  We were driven downtown to the Coliseum by Nelson. The buildings were still draped with bunting from the parade that had passed through town earlier in the day, and confetti still littered the streets. We’d watched, the three of us, from the safety of a private room at a hotel. But there were no processions now. No floats or dirigibles. We were one of many in a long line of cars waiting to pull up at the front steps of the building. As we sat there breathing in fumes, Augusta leaned around my father to look at me.

  “All the best families will be here, so we need to make sure you meet them. It’s best to just make the introductions now and get them over with. I wouldn’t want anyone to think we have anything to hide.”

  She’d already said that twice this evening.

  “The Veiled Prophet Ball is one of the most important events of the year.”

  I knew that too. “Who is he, by the way?”

  She frowned. “Whom do you mean?”

  “The Veiled . . . person.”

  “Prophet. And no one knows. It’s a secret.” She put a hand to her head and adjusted the feathers that swirled out from her hair. “You do know how to dance a lanciers . . . ?”

  I assured her that I did. Dancing was as good a way as any to stay warm during long winter nights. So was drinking. I forced my thoughts away from saloons. I needed to figure out how to be more like Charles, to become the person I looked like. And fast.

  We walked into a room that evening that was even larger than the Standard factory buildings. Up around the ceiling it was ringed with a bunting-draped balcony. At the far end of the room was a platform. It was covered with fancy carpets. Potted plants and clusters of tall feathers surrounded a throne that had been placed in the middle. As I stood there, feeling as far from home as I’d ever felt, my father began introducing me around as his son who had finally come home to live with them. As if my absence had been my doing instead of his.

  “This is Mr. Gray, Mr. Campbell, and Mr. Perry.”

  They were Important People. I could tell by the way they carried themselves, as if dressing up in swallowtail coats and attending balls were things they did every night of their lives. As I shook hands with them, another man, younger and taller, joined them.

  “And this is Mr. Alfred Arthur.”

  I smiled and shook his hand too.

  Mr. Perry shot Father a look from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “Your son? I’d heard something about that.” He looked at me, lips pursed. “You should bring him out to the club, Warren.”

  Mr. Gray turned to me. “You can play a round of golf, can’t you?”

  Golf? I’d never done it before. Never had the chance to. “Sure. Sure, I can. I can swing a . . .” What did they call those things? “ . . . a bat along with the best of them.”

  They broke into laughter. All but the Arthur fellow. He sent me a wink. “Clarke’s got the right idea. Who hasn’t wished he could take a bat to one of those balls and hit a home run right down the fairway?” He clapped a hand to my shoulder, then nodded and walked away.

  I stood there for a while with my hands behind my back, listening to them talk about taxes and telephones and gas works. Eventually, when my collar began to itch and my feet had swelled, I excused myself and left the room. Out near the entrance, I found a staircase. It was quiet and it was dark, so I decided to see where it led. Soon I found myself stepping into the balcony.

  From up there, the ball was manageable. The air wasn’t as stuffy, and I didn’t have to worry so much about being Charles.

  I slipped a finger between my bow tie and my collar and gave a good tug. Turning my head from side to side, I cracked my neck.

  I wondered if this was how I was going to feel for the rest of my life: desperate to fit in with all these rich people and scared to death that I wouldn’t. When my mother had told me I had a gift, it wasn’t new information. I’d always been able to get people to like me. But that was back on the South Side.

  I didn’t know if it would work here.

  The crowd swelled and the rumble of conversation began to rival the noise at the factory. But then the band played the kind of music that signaled a change in events, and everyone fell silent. Someone stepped onto the stage and announced the Veiled Prophet himself. I propped my elbows against the railing and folded my hands atop it as I watched. I just needed a couple more minutes, and then I was sure I’d would feel like . . . my new self again.

&n
bsp; Charles Clarke. Son of Standard Manufacturing’s Warren Clarke.

  If only Manny White could see me now!

  I smiled at the thought.

  A man walked out onto the platform. His head was wrapped in a cloth, and a veil had been draped over it. He was dressed in a long robe that had all kinds of tassels and things dangling from it. He marched around the room, up and down, back and forth. Three girls dressed in white gowns followed him. Eventually, he led them back to the platform. The girls were escorted up onto it, then they turned to face the crowd as a fourth girl began walking toward them down the center of the room.

  The Queen of Love and Beauty.

  It had to be her. The long trailing end of her gown was carried by a pair of boys, and she held herself stiffly. But as I looked at her, it seemed to me she didn’t want to be there.

  She looked the way I felt.

  But who could blame her? Who could blame me? It was a silly business, dressing up in turbans and robes.

  She was given a crown, and then the veiled man said something I couldn’t hear. The queen was presented with a sash. And then she smiled.

  Was that . . . ? I squinted, trying to get a good look at her as she stood beneath the bright electric lights. Was she the girl who’d walked into me on Olive Street? Before I had a chance to decide, the band began to play again and the Veiled Prophet swept her into a dance.

  A lanciers.

  If she were my partner, I would have asked for a waltz. A waltz allowed you to take a girl into your arms and let her know you liked her being there. A lanciers meant a whole lot of bowing and shuffling and trading partners. It was for people who couldn’t decide who they wanted to dance with and were too dull to have a good time. It was probably impolite to think so, but I didn’t care.

  I went back to the ballroom after the ceremony. There were people to meet, and as Augusta had said, this was Important. I put on my best Charles face: that slightly bored, impatient look that all those rich fellows seemed to wear. I shook hands for a while as she made introductions, signing the dance cards of the girls she told me to.

  “I’d like you to meet Winnie Compton, Charles.” She indicated a girl with a mass of straw-colored hair and a very large smile. “She’s from the Compton Consolidated Company Comptons. You ought to try to get on her card.”

  I let Augusta make the introduction and then tried to use the words pleasure, delighted, and happy in the same sentence as I asked if she had a dance available.

  She took a look at her card. “I do. I have a two-step left if you’d like it.”

  I didn’t really. I didn’t want to dance with anyone, but I figured I shouldn’t say that. I smiled instead as she handed me her pencil.

  “It must be very trying to be the talk of the ballroom.”

  I glanced over and saw that she was smiling. I smiled back; I didn’t know what else to do. “I . . . didn’t realize that I was.”

  “Everyone’s talking about you! But don’t worry. When they ask, I’ll tell them all that you were a perfect gentleman.”

  Was she implying that I wasn’t? Was I supposed to thank her?

  Eventually, people started to come up and introduce themselves to me. “I hear you’re Warren’s boy.” They said it as if they didn’t quite know what to think of me. I’d smile, they’d smile. “It’s a good thing, what your father’s done for you.” That was one way of looking at it. I knew they were only trying to be polite, but I was starting to feel the same way I had when I’d been Manny’s message boy. As if I owed my father a debt for something I wasn’t quite sure I wanted . . . and that I could never hope to repay.

  11

  The crowning ceremony was performed with quite a lot of fanfare. I did Mr. Mahler proud, bowing low before the Veiled Prophet and standing supremely straight while the previous year’s queen transferred her crown to my head. Once I’d danced the Veiled Prophet lanciers, the ball was officially declared open.

  After that first dance, I pulled away from well-wishers and friends just as politely as I could. I saw people at the refreshments table trying my candy and wanted to make my way over, but my progress was blocked by my mother. She had a gentleman in tow. I thought . . . he seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite put a name to his face.

  “Look who’s here, Lucy!” She was smiling brightly. “It’s Mr. Alfred Arthur.”

  I bit the inside of my lip to keep from giggling. We had always joked, my girlfriends and I, about which of those two names was his first and which was his last. He was a good ten years older than I, and his father owned the city’s electricity company. Often present at the social events in the city, he seemed to prefer to watch and hang about the fringes rather than participate. He was not unhandsome. Pleasant was the word I would have used to describe him, rather than attractive or even stylish.

  He nodded at me. “I’d heard of your return, Miss Kendall, and I’m delighted to see you crowned our queen.”

  “Thank you.” In spite of his years, I was flattered that he would take the trouble to tell me that himself.

  The mother of one of my school friends approached us, clasping my gloved hand in hers and kissing my cheek. As she left, another woman came to take her place, clucking about my father’s illness. As I greeted her, Mr. Alfred . . . Arthur . . . stepped back and disappeared into the crowd.

  Walter Minard joined us, boldly taking up my gloved hand and planting a kiss atop it.

  I vowed to throw the glove away once I got home.

  “I don’t see how they could have chosen anyone else. You’re first in the city. A veritable model of pristine beauty.”

  The Alps were pristine; I didn’t see how the word could be applied to a person. But then, he had never been especially bright. Just terrifically loud.

  He flashed his large, yellow teeth at me in a grin.

  I’d forgotten how obsequious he could be. “You’re too kind, Walter. But you mustn’t say things like that. The rest of the court would consider your compliments a snub.” I struggled to see over his shoulder. If only I could reach Sam! I wanted to know what people were saying.

  “A word to the wise.” He stepped close enough that I could smell the stench of his breath. “I’d stay away from the refreshments if I were you. There’s some sort of funny-tasting candy on the tray in the center.”

  I felt as if someone had pinched me. Quite hard. My breath hitched for just a moment. “It’s not nice to tease, Walter. Someone must have gone to a great deal of trouble to make it.”

  “Of course.” He flashed those horrid teeth again in a semblance of apology. “Be glad it wasn’t City Confectionery! And please give my regards to your father.” He saluted and moved away.

  Funny-tasting? Well! No one had ever accused Walter Minard of having any taste at all. “I need some punch.” I left Mother before she could stop me and pushed through the crowds toward Sam.

  Or tried to.

  With every step someone stopped to congratulate me. Or welcome me back to the city. Or commiserate about my father. Sam bobbed in and out of view, but he never looked in my direction.

  “Lucy!” A woman seized me by the shoulders and embraced me.

  Did I know her?

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “Of course I do.” I smiled, hoping that I would, and soon, before I embarrassed myself.

  “Alice Fulton.”

  “Fulton . . . ?” The Alice I knew had been a Bingham. And she’d still been a gangly girl when I left, not a full-figured woman.

  “I’m ever so glad you’re back.”

  Her voice sounded right. And her eyes were that appealing shade of brown that I remembered. It had to be her . . . didn’t it?

  “Look at you! The Queen of Love and Beauty. I might have made the court last year, but I was already married by then.”

  “Married?” The Alice Bingham I’d known hadn’t been able to talk to any boy without bursting into giggles.

  “Hadn’t you heard? To Peter Fulton.”

 
A vision of a towheaded boy chasing her down a street with a frog danced in my head.

  “You have to come over. Sometime this week. We can—or maybe . . . no. I forgot that Georgie has the colic. Maybe next week. He should be over it by then. I’ll let you know. I’ll send a note.” She kissed me on the cheek and moved away, leaving me standing there watching her.

  Who was Georgie?

  A fluttering hand caught my eye. “Yoo-hoo!”

  I had no trouble recognizing that wave. Or that voice: Winnie Compton. I grabbed the hand of the woman standing next to me and shook it. “So pleased to see you here tonight.”

  Her eyes registered surprise and then her brows drew together in consternation. “Have we . . . met?”

  No. We hadn’t met. But talking to a stranger was better than talking to Winnie Compton. I was hoping the woman would feel compelled to say something—anything!—but she only gathered up the skirts of her gown and turned her shoulder to me.

  I felt a tap on my arm. “Lucy Kendall. It is you, isn’t it?”

  What could I say? Of course it was me! Who else would it be? Talking to Winnie always made me feel so irritated. And surly.

  “So you’re back.” She was smiling at me. She was always smiling. I used to think that if someone threatened to murder her, the only thing she’d do in reply would be to smile and thank him.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re the queen this year.”

  Yes. I was.

  “We’re the only two from our class that haven’t married yet. Or gone off to the Orient as missionaries. Or gone to college. Or . . .” She leaned closer. “Eloped. I guess it’s just the pair of us.”

  I felt a desperate longing to be engaged. “It was so nice talking to you, Winnie, but I really need to go now.”

  Her smile wobbled. “Oh. All right, then. That’s fine.” Another reason I felt like throttling Winnie: She always made me feel as if I’d somehow disappointed her. And she was awfully nice. She’d never done anything to anyone except smile. I was a bad person.