Glamorous Illusions

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Your father’s copper mine narrowly avoided a strike.”

  “That is nothing new. The men constantly threaten such an action. But they are poorly organized.”

  “It sounds as if they may have found their footing since you’ve been away,” Will said. “You can read it for yourself.”

  Andrew glanced at him again, this time in tandem with Vivian. “And?”

  “And your fathers settled it before it became an issue.”

  “And that is worthy of a newspaper story?” Vivian said.

  “It is. Because they agreed to pay their workers an additional three dollars a week, over and above the competition, as well as some limited profit sharing if goals are met. They also agreed to hire a company doctor who will see to the men as well as their families.”

  Andrew straightened in his saddle as Hugh laughed under his breath. Vivian looked ahead to Cora, who was chatting with Felix, who in turn was making the younger girls giggle.

  Will grinned. Yes, Cora was making headway in the family. Whether the rest of them wanted her to or not.

  CHAPTER 27

  Cora

  When we returned to the Richelieu estate, we found it surrounded by trucks and horse-drawn wagons. Men moved in streams, all carrying crates of food and bottles, presumably of champagne and wine.

  “How many do you suppose he invited?” I asked, staring at the hundreds of workers, some of whom came to unload our cars and see us to our quarters.

  “By the looks of this, I’d say a good thousand,” Will said, his tone holding no delight.

  “Lucky us,” Lillian said, brushing past. “We’ve stumbled into the grandest party in all of Paris!” She reached out to squeeze Nell’s shoulder, and the two rushed up the stairs, all the more excited to don their costumes.

  “At last we’ll meet some eligible socialites,” Hugh said, stepping next to Felix and climbing the steps right ahead of me. “Have you mastered your tango steps yet?”

  “I’m ready to show a Parisian girl or two the romance of the dance,” Felix tossed back.

  “Good man,” Hugh said. “We Americans have to hold our own.”

  With our host nowhere to be seen, and five glorious hours stretching out before us until we were expected to assemble again, I eagerly followed a servant up the curving staircase to the east wing, spotting the girls as they entered their adjoining rooms and slipping gratefully into my own. I went to the window, which overlooked the gardens, and paused to one side. Will was standing in the center of the garden, fingering a rose, seemingly deep in thought.

  What occupied his mind so?

  I grabbed hold of the blue curtains and slid them closed, encasing the room in semidarkness. My mind and heart were tired of thinking about so many others—their hopes, dreams, and frustrations. I desperately needed an afternoon with nothing to do but be idle. To sit and stare and let my mind catch up with all it had taken in. To put my thoughts in order like cans upon a shelf.

  I lay down on the enormous bed and stared up at the shadows of the gilt four-poster and the inlaid ceiling high above me. I sank into luscious linens, goose down hugging every aching inch of my body. In seconds, I was asleep.

  “Mademoiselle,” said a feminine voice, a hand shaking my shoulder. “Mademoiselle,” she said, more insistently. When I finally recognized that a French girl had no place in my dream of the Montana prairie, my eyes fluttered open. “Il est l’heure, mademoiselle,” she said, pointing to her tiny watch. It is time. She moved over to the window and threw open the curtains, gesturing toward the waning light as if to say, Hurry, the party’s almost started!

  I heard the bath running, and I glimpsed Anna in my small bathroom. I smelled the lavender bath salts. The French maid handed me a huge towel, pointing to her watch again, then left.

  The water stopped, and Anna emerged, smiling at me. “Nice nap then, miss?”

  “Indeed.” I stretched. “I think I could’ve slept through the night.”

  “Ach, that would’ve been a pity. You would’ve missed out on wearing your lovely costume.” She gestured toward the bed, where a gown had appeared.

  I stared with some surprise at the dress. The costumer had done nothing but take our measurements and notations as to the coloring of our eyes and hair.

  But my French-blue gown covered over half the bed, its color perfectly matching my room. It had a daringly low neckline lined with lace, and the bodice drew in at the waist. Can I breathe in that? I wondered. The huge skirt flared out in successive waves. I laughed under my breath at its decadence and fingered the silk fabric.

  To one side lay a white wig with curl upon curl in a style that reminded me of a beehive hanging low from the branches of a tree, and a grand silver mask, meant to be held by its stick. The bear had schooled us that afternoon—we were only to remove our masks in private, to those whom we wished to know our identity. No others.

  I smiled. No one would know who I was. I could slip through the crowd without any of the Morgans or Kensingtons watching me. I could just be me. Anonymous again. For one night.

  “My, my, miss, don’t you look beautiful,” Anna said, turning me toward the full-length mirror.

  I studied my reflection and gasped.

  She’d done my makeup to complement my Louis XIV gown—white powder, dramatic eyes, red lips, and a brown beauty mark that left me looking more like a porcelain doll than myself. But I laughed at the sight, utterly delighted. “Anna, you’re a magician! Even without the mask, they’ll wonder if it’s me!”

  She giggled with me and bent to straighten my skirts over the crinolines beneath. I frowned a little over the low-cut bodice and tried to shimmy it up, tugging at the white lace.

  “Leave it, leave it be,” Anna said, shooing my hands away. “You’ll rip it!” She peered over my shoulder at my reflection. “It doesn’t show off too much of what the good Lord gave you.”

  “Are you certain of that?” I said, still frowning at my cleavage.

  “Trust me, miss. Compared to some of the gowns I’ve already seen in the halls this night, you’ll look like a nun among the cloisters.”

  “If you say so…” I turned halfway to see as much of my back as I could in the mirror. The bodice came down in a V at my rear, accentuating the shape of my waist and hips. The sleeves were three-quarter length, tight along the shoulder and down my arm, then past the elbow, bursting out in another lovely layer of white lace, soft to the touch, that reached my wrist.

  Anna handed me the mask.

  “I’m living a fairy tale,” I said numbly.

  “That you are, miss. Not many get swept into a world such as this.”

  “No. You’re right.” Her words rang in my ears. A world such as this. I couldn’t deny I was excited, thrilled to be going to a real ball. From the Grange Hall dances at home, to the more sophisticated dances aboard the Olympic, to the ball tonight…it seemed impossible that I was experiencing it all in such a short period of time.

  I like it. I hated admitting that to myself, feeling as if I was betraying my past—all that was good and right and true of my growing-up years. I knew in part that I was giving up on the anger I’d felt toward Mr. Kensington for dragging me into this. I took a deep breath. But it was impossible to deny that this was a kind of fun I hadn’t experienced since childhood.

  I sent Anna off with word for Will that I’d join the ball on my own accord, so he needn’t come for me. As she shut the door behind her, I clasped my hands together and twirled, again looking in the mirror. For the first time in a very long while, I felt free. On the precipice of an adventure of my own design. In a foreign land at the home of a rather charming man. I felt as if I were Marie Antoinette herself in such a gown and slippers. A fairy princess on her way to a magical ball. Never in a hundred years would I have imagined myself truly here, in a place so far from the land of my birth.

  My parents would think it ridiculous, of course. The whole extravaganza would have made them shake their heads in disbelief.


  I frowned at my reflection, as if I could stare down the negative voices in my head. But my parents aren’t here with me. They shall never be a part of this world.

  I straightened and let my frown fade. This was my life to live. I only needed to figure out who I wanted to be. Who Cora Kensington was—and wasn’t.

  And to do that, I needed a bit of time to myself. Unencumbered. Undisturbed. Indistinguishable from the rest. Tonight was my perfect opportunity.

  I pocketed a handkerchief and my room key in the delicate bag that matched my gown, then went down the stairs, past a group of servants, who bobbed at the sight of me, and then down the central hall, joining others in a long queue that led to the ballroom.

  I fell into step beside two other women, wanting to appear as if I were with them, but not too close. One glanced over at me, but then her companion drew her into conversation. We walked down the hall, slowing as people gathered, waiting for Pierre to greet them. People hemmed me in from all sides. Casually, I looked around. None of my traveling companions were in sight. That I could make out, anyway. I was free. For an hour? Two? The whole evening?

  The crowd buzzed in fifty different conversations, all in French. Here and there, I could pick out a few words, but despite the bear’s efforts to teach us aboard ship, I knew nothing but the basics. A polite smile and nod seemed to get me as far as I needed to go. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone this night. I wanted to meld with the crowd and observe, feel the flow of the celebration, but from a step away. With no pressure to perform or speak. I didn’t even care if I danced. I simply wanted to be in the midst of the fantastical scene.

  It felt like theater to me, and the stage was stunning. Women in the grandest gowns possible; men in ruffled vests and long coats, equally as gaudy and ornate. Everyone wore tall white wigs and masks. Would Pierre know any of them? All of them? As we flowed past our host, I could see him point and name a few, delighted with the success of his party. It was part of the mystique of the evening—to wonder about each person’s identity and solve each mystery. Would he know me?

  If he did, the illusion of my freedom would be over far too soon. And I wasn’t ready for that.

  A large family was speaking to Pierre, and I saw my opportunity. I moved to the left, repeating “excusez-moi” over and over in a whisper, lest he hear me and recognize my voice. I waited until the guard at his side bent down to speak to a woman, her face blocking Pierre’s view of me, and scurried past.

  But a hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist. I gasped as I glanced over my shoulder to see who had nabbed me.

  “Nous sommes-nous déjà rencontrés, mademoiselle?” Pierre asked. I gathered he was asking if we’d met.

  “Non, monsieur,” I said, making a deep curtsy. I prayed my accent did not give me away. And that he’d let me go without telling my name, as part of the evening’s mystique.

  “I see,” he said, dropping my wrist and switching to English. “But you have an invitation to my ball?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  He studied me a moment, and then a man to his left called out to him in a chiding manner, perhaps for lingering over me for so long when so many were waiting.

  I hurried across the marble floor and into the grand ballroom, which was already two-thirds full, and made my way into the most crowded section, keeping my head down and listening for my American compatriots. All I heard was some German and quite a bit of English with a refined British accent, but everyone else spoke French. I raised my head and dared to look about.

  A footman passed by with a tray, and I took the proffered glass of champagne, mostly because it helped me blend in. Sipping some of the liquid, I felt the bubbles explode in my mouth. I stood near a tiny table on tall legs, so that I might set the champagne down and still manage my mask. Another footman then passed with tiny, delicate croissants filled with some sort of cheese. I took a tiny hors d’oeuvre plate from his tray and then slipped two croissants onto it. They practically melted in my mouth. After him came another servant, serving more fruit, cheese, and a mountain of what I assumed was caviar.

  I’d only read of caviar and was eager to try it. I put a spoonful of the black shiny eggs atop a slice of cheese and bit in. And almost immediately wished I could spit it out. I looked around, but knew there was no way for me to tactfully do so. Steeling myself, I took a swig of champagne to wash it down and then another to wash away the taste. With my tongue still shriveling in my mouth from the residue of brine, I finished off my champagne and handed the empty glass to a servant.

  Despite my disappointment over the caviar, I was feeling freer and lighter by the minute, most likely the effects of my swiftly consumed champagne. The music had begun and people were assembling at the center of the ballroom’s parquet floor, but it did not appear as if they were ready to dance. Others joined behind them, and still more, so I did the same, still eager to blend in. Trumpets sounded then, and a loud voice announced Lord de Richelieu, with a most impressive list of his titles. So he’s not only handsome and rich, he’s from nobility, too. I didn’t know why that surprised me. Perhaps it was because he was a man who chose to travel the English Channel with others when he could obviously afford his own vessel.

  Two women were announced, and Pierre walked the human aisle, his hands raised as he held the women’s hands on either side of him. I felt an arrow of jealousy. Were they sisters? Cousins? Or romantic interests? I chided myself for the sting that ran through my body, as well as for thinking that I might have truly held his attention. If I were a grateful sort of girl, I’d be thankful for the invitation to his lovely estate, if nothing else. That he housed us and clothed us for his ball, rather than tossing us aside when I told him who—and what—I was. Help me to be grateful, Lord, I prayed. But as they passed me, another stinging shiver ran through me.

  “Found you,” said a voice in my ear.

  Startled, I took a staggering step to the side. He caught my arm, and I knew him then. “Will?”

  He gave me a curious smile and bowed, dropping his mask and my arm. “Indeed, mademoiselle. Why did you not join the others?”

  “I’m sorry. I only…I was hoping for a night of…anonymity.”

  He studied me for a moment. “Your secret is safe with me. I shall watch over you, but from afar.”

  “Thank you,” I managed to say. But it was the last thing I wanted—anyone watching me at all.

  “Take care,” he whispered, and then he left my side. I didn’t watch him go, hoping none of my other companions had seen him speaking to me. Was I so easy to pick out in the crowd? Perhaps my identity was not nearly as secure as I had envisioned. Or perhaps Will was especially good at detecting what he sought out.

  I took another glass of champagne. At the front, upon a dais, Pierre lifted his glass in a toast and ended it with “vive la France.” To France.

  “To France,” the crowd shouted back to him, glasses high. Then they drank them all down. Eyes wide, I took a big sip but could not manage more. I handed my mostly full glass to a waiter, who looked back at me with disdain for wasting the precious liquid, but I knew if I wasn’t careful, I’d soon end up tipsier than I cared to be.

  “Puis-je avoir de l’eau?” I hoped I remembered that right—I was in need of water.

  The waiter’s nose wrinkled up further, but he nodded once. “Oui, mademoiselle.” He left me then, collecting more glasses before disappearing among the crowd. I stayed where I was so he could find me again and then heard the orchestra tuning up for their first song.

  The ballroom floor cleared, and Pierre and his two ladies paraded to the center. After the introduction of the song, they began the most fascinating dance I’d ever seen, with Pierre focused on one woman and then the other, as if flirting with both in turns. The crowd laughed and clapped as Pierre tried to kiss one, and she slipped away, and then the other, and she escaped him too. Two men approached, one from either end, walking in a sort of skip-hop in time with the music, until they reached the trio
. Then, as the music reached a crescendo, each woman left Pierre.

  He pantomimed his sorrow, and the crowd moaned in mock grief with him as the music came to an end.

  Then a lone violinist rose and walked toward Pierre, playing a haunting, hopeful tune. Our host, obviously relishing his role, perked up, turning and following the violinist to the crowd, as if the musician were his pied piper, pulling him along by a string. The violinist, still playing, nodded toward a girl in blue, and Pierre nodded in turn. He took her hand, and the orchestra played perhaps twelve measures of the song as he led her about the dance floor and then returned her to her place with a regal bow of thanks. The girl curtsied deeply. The violinist continued along our side of the crowd, and the process was repeated, again, with a girl in blue. I understood then; Pierre was seeking me. As the second girl was returned to her companions, I looked behind me, hoping to edge toward the back again. But the crowd was thick, and they pressed forward, waiting to see whom he would pick next.

  The music was coming closer, and my heart pounded. I turned and had to press my arm between two ladies to get them to part and make way for me. They muttered and gasped in dismay, but then our host drew their attention again. The hair on the back of my neck rose as I continued to make my way back in the crowd, knowing the violinist and Pierre were directly behind me. I had to be fairly invisible by now, hidden by the sea of people. I dared to turn and glance behind me—and saw Pierre staring right at me, a grin on his face. “Elle essaie de s’échapper de la danse!”

  I decided he’d shouted something about me trying to escape, judging by the laughter and gasps he elicited from the crowd.

  People surged around me, and helpful hands urged me forward. There was no way out. Reluctantly, I stepped forward, head down. He took my hand and kissed it, then drew me out onto the dance floor.

  As we danced a delicate waltz, his smile grew, and he raised his arm. The crowd cheered at his signal. I wondered what it meant until the music continued and others joined us on the dance floor for the rest of the song. Apparently, the lord had found his preferred dance companion.