He made a small moue of distaste. At Crabbe's he fenced regularly with grace and skill; he knew it, and he enjoyed it. Dancing was something else.
“Look at them all,” he said. “Dancing as if they hadn't a care in the world. And all the while—”
All the while, underneath this glittering facade, lay scandal and ruin. Every week, these people, or people just like them, were—had been, he corrected himself—exposed to the Colonel's blackmail; every week, these people, orpeople just like them, had committed some indiscretion—or worse —that made them vulnerable to the Colonel's rapacious greed.
She knew his thoughts; she always did. “Yes,” she said. “Hard to believe, isn't it?”
A petite, brightly smiling woman approached; she wore a black silk gown and many diamonds.
“Hello, Caroline. Mr. Ames.”
It was Marian Trask, a little blackbird of a woman with shining black hair, bright black eyes, and a perky manner; some few years older than Caroline, she was one of the women known in Boston Society as “smart.” This meant that she'd kept her figure, kept her sense of style, and refused to allow herself to age, gracefully or not, as so many Boston dowagers did. It would be years before she was considered a dowager, but it was obvious that she intended to avoid the appellation as long as she could.
Anticipating female chatter, Ames greeted her and excused himself.
“This is a splendid turnout, isn't it?” Mrs. Trask chirped to Caroline. “I see your pretty young cousin—such a lovely girl, isn't she?”
“We think so,” Caroline replied.
“The wedding is when?”
“May.”
“Ah. Well, she'll make a lovely bride.” Mrs. Trask's busy brain hopped to its next thought. “Agatha needs clothing,” she said. “Might your church have anything extra?”
She referred to Agatha Montgomery, proprietress of a home for fallen women over in the South End.
“Really?” Caroline replied. “She didn't tell me that when I saw her last week. We might have some,” she added.
“Thursday is my afternoon there,” Mrs. Trask said. She and Caroline and others in their circle tutored Miss Montgomery's charges. “If you could let me know before then, so that I can tell her?”
Caroline scanned the room as Mrs. Trask moved away. She thought of Agatha's girls—so worn, so dejected—and compared them to these lively young women before her. Life, she thought: it's all luck.
Then she came back to the important business of the evening. Pearls: who is wearing pearls?
Nearly every one of the post-debs, it seemed; modest and not too showy, pearls were the thing for unmarried young women. Among the older women, relatives and chaperones, the display was more varied: diamonds, emeralds, a few rubies worn by the more daring. Nothing was new; as Caroline had said, Boston ladies did not buy their jewelry, they simply had it, passed down through the generations, occasionally reset, hardly ever purchased.
No. She couldn't see anything that looked remotely like the single pearl Addington had shown her.
A young man was coming her way. Their eyes had met; it was too late for him to pretend he hadn't seen her.
“Miss Ames.”
“Hello, George.”
George Putnam was tall and heavyset with a pale complexion and a wary air—a Putnam family trait. Caroline often had to remind herself, for Val's sake, that wariness was not the worst quality in a prospective husband; at the very least, George would never lose his money in some rash speculation.
He took her small hand in his large one and released it immediately.
“Val is pretty tonight, isn't she?” Caroline said.
“Oh—yes, she is,” George replied, as if that observation hadn't occurred to him.
“I haven't had the chance to speak to your mother,” she said. “Will you come with me while I do so?”
He hesitated, and then he realized she'd seen his hesitation, and he blushed.
“Thank you, George,” she said swiftly. She put her hand on his arm and moved toward the place along the wall where his mother sat.
As she approached, she felt Josephine Putnam's gaze boring into her. Go ahead, she thought, look me over. And I will do the same to you.
“Hello,” she said, planting herself in front of the unsmiling woman who was Val's prospective mother-in-law. “What a good turnout tonight, isn't it?”
Mrs. Putnam looked Caroline up and down before she replied. “Yes, it is,” she said; she did not smile, did not invite Caroline—as she should have done—to sit with her.
“And Val looks perfectly lovely, doesn't she?” said Caroline. She lifted her chin and stared down her nose at Mrs. Putnam, who, after a moment, looked away.
“I hadn't noticed,” Mrs. Putnam said.
Caroline felt as though she'd been slapped. Hadn't noticed!
“There she is now,” she said, trying without success to keep the anger from her voice. “Just there, by the orchestra.”
Mrs. Putnam ostentatiously looked in the other direction. Caroline, for the first time in her life, understood what people meant when they said their blood boiled.
“Good evening,” she said abruptly, and turned away. She was so angry that she was trembling. Oh, that terrible woman! She would regret this—Caroline would see to it that she did! Insulting Val, insulting all of them—!
Halfway back to Dr. MacKenzie, she allowed a heretical thought to come into her mind. If the Putnams were to shun Val in the wake of Addington's unfortunate encounter with Colonel Mann, would that be the worst thing in the world to happen? Only that morning she had begged Addington to try to find Val's letters, and all because she hadn't wanted Val's marriage to George to be endangered. Had she been right to do that?
She sighed and shook her head as she climbed the stairs to the balcony to rejoin the doctor. It was all so complicated!
MacKenzie screwed up his courage. “What do they call this one?” he asked, meaning the name of the dance. People were galloping about energetically in time to the music—not a waltz; he wouldn't dare try it.
“The Boston,” she said, and laughed at his expression. “It's very athletic, isn't it? I used to do it, but I wouldn't try it now.”
“Perhaps—if we get something more—ah—sedate—you would favor me?” he asked. He heard himself stammer a bit, and he berated himself. She'd never accept if he sounded like such a dolt! Had she even understood what he'd meant?
But to his relief, she did understand, she did accept. She snapped open her fan, fluttered it a few times, and said, “That would be lovely, Doctor. Thank you.”
A few moments later, they made their way down to the dance floor. While the hippity-hop thing continued to its end, he waited while she spoke to this person and that. She knew everyone, it seemed.
Across the floor, he saw Ames. With a little shock, he realized that Ames had just been snubbed: he'd spoken to a fellow, and the fellow had turned away without a reply. Amazing! MacKenzie peered through the weaving, bobbing crowd; for a moment he lost sight of Ames, and then he saw him again, making his way toward them around the perimeter.
“… call on me and we'll see what we can do,” Caroline was saying to someone. Suddenly the music stopped and a hum of conversation rose to fill the void.
“Hello, Addington,” she said. “Any luck?”
He knew what she meant. “No,” he said shortly. He glanced at MacKenzie. “Rather a different reception here than at the St. Botolph,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Caroline asked.
He gave her a little smile. “At the club I was a hero. Not so here.”
He thought longingly of where he would be one week from tomorrow: safely on board ship, voyaging to Egypt. The vision glowed in his mind: the blazing sun, the vast desert. Who knew what treasure they would find? And—at the moment even more alluring—he would be far from Boston, far from this nasty mess, from people's prying eyes and malicious gossip. He couldn't wait to go.
His conscience
chafed at him then: poor Val! To leave her to this morass of scandal and possible ruin… But he'd anticipated this trip far too long to give it up now. Not even for Val would he do that.
As if to prick his conscience further—and his was a New England conscience, after all, sharp and relentless; a Puritan conscience, in fact—Val came up to them just then. She was laughing—thank goodness—and putting her hands to her hair in mock dismay. “Look at me, Caroline!” she exclaimed. “Has my back hair come undone?”
She turned slightly; Caroline inspected. “No, dear. It's fine. Why?”
“Bridget was clumsy tonight. She had to try three times before she got it right.” Bridget was Val's maid: a sharply intelligent Irish girl whom Val had selected over Euphemia's objections about having an Irish person in the household.
The music began again: a two-step, a slow, sentimental, popular song, “Lily of the Valley.” A young man approached, one of the Wigglesworth clan. “Miss Thorne?” he said brightly. “I believe I have this dance.”
She made a pretense of looking at the little dance card dangling from her kid-gloved wrist. “Yes,” she said. “You do.”
MacKenzie turned to Caroline.
“Of course,” she murmured. They stepped to the dance floor.
He was not the best dance partner she'd ever had, but no matter. She adjusted her steps to his, being careful not to step on his boot toes; carefully, she maintained the proper six inches of distance between them. Not that he tried to hold her more closely; he was, she thought, the soul of propriety, as much as any Boston man. He was just slightly taller than she was, and she found that much more comfortable than tilting back her head to look up at someone tall— like Addington, for instance.
One-two, one-two. She hummed the tune; she felt— amazingly!—quite young. As she passed Val and the Wigglesworth boy, she lifted her left hand from MacKenzie's shoulder to wave at them. Val waved back.
Oh, it was delightful to be on the dance floor again! When she was young—Val's age—she'd loved dancing more than anything, particularly the waltz. When Dr. MacKen—zie's knee healed more, perhaps she'd waltz with him sometime; and then, at that daring thought, she felt herself flush and hoped he wouldn't notice. Her breath came a little fast, and she felt the pressure of her corset against her ribs. She longed to take a truly deep breath, but she could not; through long years of habit, she forced a succession of rapid little shallow breaths instead.
The music ended. They made their way to the edge of the dance floor. Caroline glanced around. Addington was talking to a tall, white-haired man who had been, she knew, a partner in their late father's law office. And where was Val—?
There she was.
Val—and Alice Dane. They were talking rapidly, as if they hadn't a moment to spare. And indeed they did not, for now Caroline saw Isabel Dane bearing down on them, her face dark with disapproval.
Yes, she thought, you are a bully, Isabel Dane, and you will bully that daughter of yours into a nervous collapse if you don't take care. She edged nearer, Dr. MacKenzie forgotten for the moment. It would be rude to intervene, but then, it was rude of Isabel in the first place, to behave so.
“… must insist,” Isabel was saying to Val.
Val's eyes flashed with anger. “I don't care, Mrs. Dane!” she blurted. “I think you are very unkind!” Abruptly, she turned away.
“Val—” Caroline put out her hand to stop her, but Val pulled away and plunged into the crowd.
Caroline felt a surge of righteous anger well up inside her. How unfair of Isabel! She must say something to the woman; she couldn't let this snub pass unremarked.
She halted perhaps six feet away. Alice looked distraught, her face deathly white. Her thin little bosom heaved beneath the modest pale blue bodice of her very expensive but not terribly flattering gown.
Caroline froze. She hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but now she did.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Alice,” Isabel said. She didn't seem to notice Caroline. “You are not to see that girl again!”
“But, Mama—”
“Don't argue with me!” Menacingly, Isabel seemed to swell; the cords in her neck stood out, and her mouth barely opened to emit her words. “You are not to associate with her! Do you understand?”
Alice visibly wilted. “Yes, Mama.”
“Good. Now try to seem as though you are enjoying yourself. There he is, over there, and he is coming toward us. Look as if you are happy to see him. Quick, or else—”
“Hello, Alice.” Marian Trask stepped up beside them. Caroline stared, fascinated, at the expression on Alice's face: a flash of horrified recognition.
“How pretty you look this evening, dear,” Mrs. Trask went on. “I haven't seen you since Newport. Your summer there was most enjoyable, wasn't it? Such an interesting place, Newport.”
Bright little blackbird that she was, Mrs. Trask gleamed merrily at Alice. Her little white teeth glistened as she smiled at the girl; her still-pretty little face crinkled up in delight, her little pink tongue darted in and out once, twice, moistening her little red lips.
Alice stared at her for a moment, seemingly spellbound.
Then Mrs. Trask turned away, and as the music started up again, Isabel began to berate her daughter once more. But because of the music, Caroline couldn't hear; she could only see Isabel's angry expression, Alice's trembling form, her contorted face as she listened to her mother's chastisements.
And then, suddenly, Alice fainted.
No one noticed at first; the dancers thronged the dance floor, the music drowned out every voice, the crowd pressed in on all sides.
With a startled exclamation, Caroline hurried forward and crouched at the girl's side and began, very gently, to slap Alice's face to try to revive her.
And now it was Isabel Dane who seemed frozen. She stared down at her daughter; several people noted at the time, and commented later, that her expression was not one of concern, but of—yes—fury.
“Alice!” said Caroline. She was nearly breathless, kneeling in her awkward encasement of corset and layers of fabric, but she ignored her own discomfort in the face of this crisis. “Alice! Can you hear me?”
At once, MacKenzie was at her side; he kneeled also, despite the danger to his knee. He stripped off one of Alice's gloves and felt the pulse at her wrist and then at her throat; he opened an eyelid. People were beginning to notice now, and someone offered smelling salts. MacKenzie lifted Alice to a sitting position and held the bottle under her nose. After a moment her eyelids fluttered; after a moment more she opened them.
Instantly, she realized what had happened. With a startled little cry she tried to stand, but MacKenzie put a restraining hand on her arm.
“Wait a moment, child,” he said (for she did look like a child—so thin, so peaked). “Let yourself come fully around before you try to stand.”
Alice began to cry. By that time, Ames had seen and had made his way to them; he helped Caroline to her feet, and then MacKenzie. “What's wrong?” he muttered to Caroline.
“I don't know,” she whispered back. “She fainted. Isabel was scolding her. Perhaps Isabel's butler told the truth this morning when he said Alice wasn't well.”
“In which case,” Ames murmured, “her mother should have treated her more gently.”
Isabel Dane, at last, bent to her daughter, and with what seemed unnecessary force pulled her to her feet. If she was aware that Alice's brilliant prospect was among those who observed this little drama, she gave no sign. Without a word, without meeting anyone's glance, she gripped Alice's arm tightly—too tightly—and marched her off the floor.
The music, all this time, had continued, but the dance floor was only half full. Now, abashed at having been so unmannerly as to stare, people drifted back to dancing.
Caroline felt a touch on her arm. “What happened?” Val asked.
“Alice fainted.”
“Perhaps she really is ill,” Val said. “And I thought—”
Ames and MacKenzie watched the two women go. Mac—Kenzie was aware that he felt what he always felt, now, when Caroline went away from him or he from her: a small sense of desolation.
Ames was thinking of something very different: that time was rapidly going by, and he was no further along in his search for Valentine's letters.
IN THE SMALL HOURS, DR. MACKENZIE, UNABLE TO SLEEP after the excitement of the evening, lifted his head from his pillow. He was sure he had heard—yes. There. The creak of a floorboard in the hall; the sound of someone treading carefully, stealthily, past his door.
He listened, straining to hear. He heard the clock in the nearby Church of the Advent strike three. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs that went up to the top of the house, the fourth floor.
Alarmed, he sat up. His pistol lay in the drawer of the night table beside him. He swung his feet onto the freezing floor and shrugged on his bathrobe, slipped his feet into his felt slippers, and silently slid open the drawer to take out his weapon. He dropped in three bullets; then he went to the door, opened it, and peered out.
Nothing: no sound, no light.
He stepped into the hall, and now he felt a draft of cold air. A thief in the night, he thought, escaping over the rooftops. This neighborhood had always seemed safe enough, but if a burglar had made his way into the house and was now trying to flee, he, John MacKenzie, could do no less than try to apprehend him.
As he made his way up to the fourth floor, he felt the cold air pouring in. At the end of the hall was a half-flight of steps; as he began to climb them, he saw that the door at the top was ajar.
In another moment, he had stepped out onto the roof. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, the wind bitter cold.
He saw a movement—a figure emerging from a little shedlike structure on one side.
The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN Page 9
