by Jen Turano
The very idea of Miss Permilia Griswold being forever in his debt was curiously intriguing and had him nodding his head before he could stop himself. “I see no reason not to abandon our formality, especially since it does seem as if we’re becoming friends of a sort. It would be my pleasure to address you as Permilia, and you, of course, must call me Asher in return.”
“Wonderful, and you’ll try your very best to call me Permilia, in a somewhat carrying tone of voice, when we pass my stepmother on our way to take our place for the quadrille?”
Something that felt very much like caution settled over him, replacing the sense of intrigue he’d been feeling just a moment before. “Aren’t you concerned this sauntering and using an informal attitude between us will result in a misunderstanding with your father? I’ve heard stories regarding his proficiency with a gun, and I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that proficiency if he comes to the conclusion I’ve behaved in an untoward manner with his daughter.”
“Of course I’m not. Besides, my father knows I’m more proficient with a gun than he is. He also knows I’d never tolerate a gentleman behaving in an untoward manner with me in the first place and am perfectly able of settling such a situation without my father stepping in.”
Asher frowned. “Your father is rumored to be an expert marksman.”
“Indeed.”
Refusing to wince, Asher smiled instead. “You’re a very unusual lady, Miss Griswold, er, Permilia. But since you’re also somewhat frightening—and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways—I think it might be prudent to agree to your conditions.”
“How delightful,” Permilia exclaimed as she thrust her dance card his way again, actually allowing him to take it from her this time.
Adding his name to not one, but two dances, he lifted his head, finding that while he’d been distracted with the card, Permilia had become distracted by something over his shoulder.
Turning, he discovered a young lady, one he’d never seen before, inching her way toward them, holding a small pad of paper in her hand, along with a pencil. That the paper did not seem to be part of her outfit, given that she was dressed as Joan of Arc, was a bit confusing, as was the scowl Permilia was now sending the woman.
“Do you know that lady?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
Lifting her chin and not waiting for him to escort her, Permilia began marching toward the lady in question, stopping in her tracks almost before she’d gotten a good march going when the lady did an about-face and bolted straightaway, disappearing into the crowd with a clank of chainmail.
Marching her way back to his side, Permilia crossed her arms over her chest. “I think we may very well have just witnessed another reporter, and one who seemed far too curious about the two of us.”
“Are you suggesting we may very well find references to us in print in the next edition of a paper or two?”
“I would love to be able to say no, but . . . that does seem a distinct possibility.” She blew out a breath. “I can’t help but wonder what Mrs. Vanderbilt was thinking, purposefully inviting members of the press into the very midst of her ball.”
Asher handed Permilia her dance card. “She was evidently thinking that the times need to change. Society has never wanted the press to witness our little frivolities, as can be seen by the outrage that descended on society when the column Miss Quill’s Quality Corner first began appearing in the New York Sun two years ago. That column, I’m afraid, is soon to be considered quite charming, especially since Miss Quill has always kept her columns to descriptions of what society is wearing and what is to be glimpsed design-wise behind the closed curtains of our homes.”
Permilia’s pale cheeks turned a shade paler. “Do you honestly believe that the reporters skulking amongst us at this very minute are going to report on more salacious tidbits than what Miss Quill reports on?”
“I’m afraid I do, especially since Mrs. Vanderbilt is a lady determined to secure her position within society once and for all. She’s almost done just that by securing Mrs. Astor’s approval, along with throwing a ball that will be remarked upon for years. However, if she obtains the admiration of the masses, she’ll be more powerful than Mrs. Astor in the end.”
“How . . . disturbing,” Permilia whispered, her obvious distress having Asher moving closer to her.
“I doubt you have anything to worry about, Permilia, especially since I’m quite certain these reporters are attempting to sniff out matters of a scandalous nature. You don’t appear to be a lady prone to scandal, so I’m sure the reporters will give you a wide berth. It is interesting, though, now that I think on it, that the reporter from the New-York Tribune singled you out to question.”
“He probably discovered I’m a wallflower, and everyone knows that wallflowers are normally deprived of attention. That situation, if I were to hazard a guess, probably led the man to believe that I’d be only too happy to disclose any information, or observations, I might have had at my disposal.”
Asher smiled. “I’m sure if that truly was the case, you delivered the man a crushing disappointment instead of the gossip he was evidently trying to gather.” He looked over her shoulder and nodded. “But since it does appear as if the guests who are performing in the quadrilles are beginning to quit this room, shall we join them as they make their way to the first floor and watch them perform in what is certain to be an impressive affair?”
Permilia, to his surprise, shook her head. “I’m afraid I have a matter of a rather pressing nature to attend to, Asher, so if you’ll excuse me, we’ll meet again in the ballroom for the—” she looked down at the dance card in her hand—“Go-As-You-Please Quadrille. Although . . .” She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “It appears as if you’ve claimed two of my dances this evening.”
“You do want that stepmother of yours to cease with her lectures, at least for the immediate future, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course, but . . . two dances with me seems a bit much when you and I both know your offer to dance with me can only be considered a charitable endeavor.”
“What an interesting manner of thinking you have, Permilia, but believe me, my offer was not a charitable endeavor at all. It was the result of a true desire to take to the floor with you.”
Permilia’s nose wrinkled. “You’re not in need of additional investors for that fine store of yours, are you?”
A quirk of his brow was his only response to that nonsense.
Blowing out another breath, she allowed her shoulders to sag. “Of course you’re not, and it was quite rude of me to suggest differently.”
“I won’t argue with you there.”
“I did warn you that I don’t have the gift of conversing well within polite society, but even for me, that was an uncalled for remark, and I do beg your pardon.”
“Apology accepted, Permilia. And allow me to say that there very well may be hope for you yet with that whole not conversing well in polite society. Most members I know in that society don’t have the ability to apologize—something you just did, and very prettily at that.”
Sticking the dance card back into the muff, Permilia shook her head. “Which doesn’t speak well of society as a whole, but thank you for accepting my apology.” She smiled. “Now, since we’ve gotten that out of the way, and I do promise to try harder not to insult you in the future, I need to take my leave of your company. I’ll meet up with you in the ballroom before our quadrille begins.” With that, she turned and walked away, drawing the attention of more than a few gentlemen as she walked.
Unwilling to dwell on why that attention set his teeth to grinding, Asher moved back into the midst of the crowd and was soon joined by two young ladies, both of whom he knew full well would never consider insulting him, unintentionally or not. Extending an arm to each of them, he pushed aside the surprising disappointment he felt over Permilia having abandoned him and walked from the gymnasium, anticipation running through
him as he wondered exactly what type of extravagances he was soon to witness as Mrs. Vanderbilt officially opened her ball.
Chapter
Five
Permilia was rapidly coming to the conclusion that attempting to eavesdrop in the midst of a ball where twelve hundred guests had assembled was not a feat to be undertaken by the faint of heart.
Add in the pesky notion that she was continuing to attract unexpected attention from a wide assortment of gentlemen, and the task she’d originally thought would be fairly straightforward in nature was turning out to be nothing of the sort.
Quite honestly, she was now of the belief that Alva Vanderbilt’s ball was a disaster in the making, especially because her position as a mysterious society columnist might very well be put into jeopardy before the night was complete.
Everyone knew that positions of a mysterious nature were only good for as long as the person embracing a mysterious attitude remained, well . . . mysterious.
The attention she kept drawing was making it difficult indeed to proceed with her business in a covert manner. That meant her job with the New York Sun might very well be terminated since her status as a confirmed wallflower was the very reason she’d been given the responsibility of the society column in the first place.
Wallflowers, as everyone was aware, tended to fade into the background. That right there was exactly why she’d been wooed by one of the editors at the New York Sun. He had believed Permilia would be able to obtain information for her column under the cloak of anonymity she wore at every society event she attended.
Now, however, after discovering that Alva Vanderbilt had invited members of the press into what should have been the hallowed midst of her ball, Permilia couldn’t help but feel as if her position was soon to be obsolete.
Reporters, unlike Permilia, were not affiliated with society, and as such, they would not need to spend nearly the amount of time she did gathering information in a clandestine manner. They would have the luxury of traveling at will about an event, scooping up delicious tidbits for their respective papers with relative ease. They also didn’t have to face the daunting threat of reaping extreme displeasure from society if their true identities became known.
Permilia, on the other hand, knew full well she’d be condemned as a traitor, banished from society for all time—which was no reason to get caught even if that idea was tempting—and embarrass her family no small amount if she were to be found out.
Even though she wasn’t what anyone would call fond of her stepmother or stepsister, she certainly didn’t want to cause them embarrassment or, worse yet, hurt Lucy’s chances of forming a suitable alliance with a society gentleman in the future.
“The Hobbyhorse Quadrille is about to begin,” a young lady standing on the other side of the Greek statue Permilia had chosen to lurk behind said. “My goodness, but I am curious to see the costumes for this particular quadrille. I’ve heard no expense was spared in the creation of them.”
Edging as casually as she could from behind the statue, Permilia adopted what she hoped would be taken as an innocent attitude, allowing her gaze to wander over the crowd milling about while keeping an ear turned in the direction of the lady who’d been speaking, Miss Martha Norton.
That Miss Norton was always apprised of information Permilia needed for her column, such as the names of the most fashionably dressed at any given event, or better yet, where they’d acquired their fashions for those events, was reason enough for Permilia to remain in that lady’s direct vicinity.
True to form, Miss Norton did not disappoint, even though she did begin moving forward, making it more difficult for Permilia to maintain an air of nonchalance as she trailed after her.
“Miss Edith Fish’s portrayal of the Duchess of Burgundy is quite lovely, and do make certain to take note of the real sapphires, rubies, and emeralds attached to the front of her gown,” Miss Norton continued even as her steps slowed considerably, quite as if she couldn’t navigate talking and walking with any momentum at the same time. “I do have to say, in my humble opinion of course, that one of the most delicious gowns here tonight is being worn by none other than Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt II. She’s dressed as the ‘Electric Light’ and her entire gown lights up, as well as the torch she’s carrying.” Miss Norton let out a charming laugh. “I would be rather nervous to wear a gown that lights up, fearing it would catch on fire at some point in the evening.”
Miss Ann Greene, the young lady Miss Norton was strolling beside, shook her head. “I don’t believe the lights are dangerous, Miss Norton. From what I’ve been told, Jean Philippe Worth installed batteries in Mrs. Vanderbilt’s skirt, and that’s what powers the lights. Batteries, from what little I know of them, aren’t supposed to catch on fire.”
Pulling a dance card from the muff, Permilia looked around, saw that no one seemed to be paying her any mind, so jotted down the words electric dress, knowing her readers would adore reading about such a novelty and not wanting to forget about the dress with all the excitement of the night.
She didn’t need to make a notation about Miss Norton being the source of her information because she never wrote about anything of a scandalous nature, or included snippets of gossip—or rather, she almost never included gossip in her well-received newspaper column, Miss Quill’s Quality Corner.
She had done exactly one column during her two years working for the paper in which she had delved into a bit of fiction that had a distinct ring of gossip to it—fiction that had been needed in order to spare her friend Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff undue scrutiny by society for getting caught in a less than scandalous, though tenuous, situation. That situation could have very well seen Miss Radcliff ostracized from society and without the income her position as a society secretary provided. So Permilia published an article that had been more of a fairy tale than an actual article. That fairy tale had lent Miss Radcliff’s situation a sense of romance, not scandal, thus sparing her the wrath of society.
Other than that one time, though, Permilia strove to report only the most innocent of details regarding society and the people who moved within it. Her readers enjoyed learning about what society members were wearing, the foods they were consuming during their eight or more course meals, the different wines that were served at those meals, and what their large homes looked like behind the windows always curtained against the curious regard of what they considered the riffraff of New York.
Miss Quill’s Quality Corner had allowed that riffraff—although they were nothing of the sort—to see into the world of the socially elite, while providing her with a sense of purpose as she traveled from one society event to another. Her column also provided funds for a charitable endeavor she’d become involved with years before, an endeavor she, and she alone, funded.
Oddly enough, she’d come to enjoy crafting her articles, even though she knew full well she was simply biding her time with her writing until her father came to his senses and allowed her back into his business.
“I’m not certain I understand Miss Kate Strong’s costume. Is that a stuffed cat on her head?” Miss Norton asked, her question prompting Permilia to tuck her dance card back into the muff as she looked around for a lady wearing a cat on her head.
“It is a cat’s head,” Miss Greene replied. “And I believe she chose her outfit because of how everyone calls her Puss, although . . . it’s not a costume I would have chosen, especially not with what appear to be real cat tails sewn to her gown.” Miss Greene gave a delicate shudder. “Quite frankly, I think wearing a dead cat on one’s person is somewhat gruesome.”
Standing on tiptoe, Permilia searched the crowd for the cat lady but abandoned her search as a collective gasp echoed around the ballroom as music began, signaling the official start of the ball. A mere moment after the first notes played, dancers dressed for the Hobbyhorse Quadrille cantered into view.
For the briefest of seconds, Permilia forgot all about her column as she watched the Hobbyhorse Quadrille unfold ri
ght before her eyes.
Permilia’s stepsister, Lucy, had mentioned that the costumes for the Hobbyhorse Quadrille were made out of real horsehides and had taken over two months to make. But, even knowing that, Permilia had not been expecting the attention to detail that had gone into creating the look for this particular dance.
The ladies were dressed in scarlet coats, white satin vests and breeches, paired with patent leather boots, gold spurs, and riding crops. They were riding around the room astride their hobbyhorses, which turned out to be none other than their gentlemen partners.
Life-sized horse heads had been placed over the gentlemen’s heads and attached to their waists, while what truly did appear to be real horsehides draped over the rest of their bodies. Their feet and hands were covered with embroidered hangings—the embroidery having been done in a pattern that looked exactly like horse legs.
As they galloped about, the guests broke into applause, the sound bringing Permilia back to her situation at hand.
Knowing her readers would expect nothing less than a detailed article, explaining in depth exactly what the Hobbyhorse Quadrille entailed and who the society members were who’d been privileged enough to dance in it, Permilia fought her way across the crowded room. Taking cover behind another fern, she couldn’t help but feel grateful to Alva Vanderbilt for her extravagant decorations. Those decorations were providing Permilia time after time with exactly the right hiding place to complete her mission for the evening, especially since the fronds of the ferns were remarkably easy to peer through without undue notice being sent her way.
After watching the Mother Goose Quadrille, in which Lucy had looked quite charming as she’d glided about the room, Permilia then enjoyed watching the Dresden Quadrille. That dance had the dancers garbed all in white, evoking thoughts of Frederick the Great and lending the lady dancers the look of porcelain dolls, a look that was mesmerizing, if rather unsettling.
