by Jane Toombs
"How about the women?"
"Ah, you won't have to worry about them, either. You'll be so occupied by the attentions of men smitten by your beauty that you'll not have to do more than nod to the women. If worse comes to worst, make a vacuous remark about the heat. That always satisfies women."
"Oh, I do hope you're right."
* * * *
By the following evening, the night of the annual ball, Mary's confidence had ebbed rather than strengthened. Even looking at her transformed self in the pier glass in her hotel room failed to ease her doubts.
"I can't imagine a lovelier gown,” she said aloud, speaking to herself, since she was alone in the room.
Philippe had told her the dress was patterned after a ball gown worn by Elizabeth of Austria on the eve of her wedding to the Hapsburg Emperor. The gown was white organdy, embroidered with green floss and gold thread in a design of flowering honeysuckle. Ten tiers of green-edged ruffles decorated the bottom of a vast skirt held out by crinolines and a whalebone cage. The off-the-shoulder neckline was modest, showing her shoulders, but not revealing more than a hint of the curves of her breasts. Green and gold embroidery decorated the bodice, and she wore a pair of jade earrings dangling from gold posts, but no other jewelry. The white organdy highlighted her dark hair, worn Madonna-like, a gold net holding her chignon in place.
Mary smiled at her reflection, turning this way and that. Her waist had never looked so small, her skin so fair. Even her light brown eyes looked golden tonight.
I'm pretty, she thought with something like surprise. A pretty woman need fear nothing at a ball, so I won't be afraid. Everything will be wonderful. I'll remember all that Philippe taught me. I truly will be the belle of the ball.
A tapping came at the door. “Come in,” she said, momentarily hoping it might be Jeremy and that he'd be her escort instead of Philippe.
Philippe entered the room and stopped abruptly, clasping his hands in front of him. “Ah, I was right. That gown does wonders for you."
Much as she loved the gown, she pouted. “I was hoping you might think it was the other way around."
"Of course. I became temporarily distracted by the important accouterments, rather than seeing the beautiful woman herself. You're a jewel, enhanced by your setting, perhaps, but your luster needs no help. From east to west, there's no jewel to compare to Mary Vere."
"Do I really look all right?” she asked anxiously.
"I assure you that you do. Come, take my arm. Our cab awaits."
"What about Jeremy?” she asked.
"He'll be along later, or so he informed me this afternoon. The ball starts at nine, so he'll probably make his entrance at ten or so. He's closeted with Mr. Bingham of the Alabama Mercantile Bank at the moment."
Mary pulled on her white gloves and arranged her white organdy stole with gold fringe over her shoulders. “What time is it?” she asked.
"Oh, it must be a few minutes after nine,” Philippe said. “I'm not certain."
"You could look at your watch."
He shrugged. “My watch is inoperative at the moment. A speck of dust in the mechanism, I'll wager."
"Let me see,” she said, a sudden suspicion dawning.
He sighed, but pulled out the watch and opened the cover. Both hands pointed straight up. “At least it tells the right time twice a day,” he said.
"It wasn't running the other night either, was it? The night you and Jeremy rescued me from the twins."
"No, though I'm certain it was midnight when I escorted you from your humble room to the coach. The air had the feel of midnight. Why all this concern with time? Time is not important. We have a lifetime before us, so what do a few minutes here and there matter? Besides, we must be going. Here, take my arm, my dear young lady."
Mary put her hand on his arm and accompanied him down the stairs to the waiting cab. As they rattled over the cobbles on the way to the Wheaton Hotel, her uneasiness returned, even increased a hundred-fold. A rush of panic sickened her. They were heading for a catastrophe. Philippe's scheme was doomed from the start. He was a mountebank, just as he'd admitted the day before. She was a servant girl, not a lady. She didn't belong here in Montgomery. Why had she ever imagined that she did?
As the cab drove between two rows of flaming torches, she gasped, tugging at Philippe's arm.
"What is it?” he asked.
"On the sidewalk. I thought I saw one of the twins. We're past him now."
Philippe glanced through the rear window. “I don't see him. Are you sure?"
"No. Perhaps I'm just jumpy. Hold my hand, Philippe."
The cab pulled up outside a white colonnaded mansion on the outskirts of the city. A footman in livery helped Mary from the cab. Philippe climbed down, bowed to her, and they mounted the steps side by side.
Mary's mind went blank. She couldn't recall a single word he'd told her. She doubted if she could conjure up enough nerve to speak to anyone. But even if she remained silent, she was convinced she'd somehow betray her imposture. She looked desperately from side to side, seeking a way to escape. There was none. She was trapped.
Philippe pinched the skin of her arm above her glove. “Have courage.” He gave her an anxious glance. “Don't prove Jeremy right. Show him you can be a lady along with the best of them."
By God, Mary told herself, I will show him.
The door swung open and a servant ushered them inside. “Ladies to the right,” he said as he handed Mary a dance card with a tiny pencil attached. “Gentlemen to the left."
Mary nodded, for Philippe had warned her they'd be separated while they removed outer garments. She walked, as if in a trance, up a curving staircase, only vaguely conscious of music coming from below and of the flickering lights from the scores of candles in the chandelier overhead.
She entered a high-ceilinged room at the top of the stairway. A Negro woman approached, holding out her hands.
Confused, Mary could only blink at her.
"Please, miss, your wrap,” the servant said.
Mary slipped the stole from her shoulders and handed it over. Turning, she saw a tall older woman in a lilac gown staring at her from the doorway, the woman's nose and mouth curling in distaste, as though, Mary thought, she'd just discovered a dead mouse in the pantry. Though wondering what she'd done wrong, Mary managed to nod.
"Stifling, isn't it?” the woman said.
"Stifling,” Mary agreed.
When the woman smiled, her sneering expression didn't entirely vanish, and Mary realized it must be permanent and had nothing to do with her. Relieved, she descended the stairs to find Philippe waiting in the entrance hall, beaming up at her.
"Magnificent,” he murmured. “You're radiant tonight. The reception line's next. Just smile and agree with whatever's said."
"You look lovely, my dear,” a white-haired gentleman told her as he raised her gloved hand to his lips.
Mary smiled.
"Miss Mary Vere of Charleston?” a dowdy woman in a pink gown asked. Mary nodded and smiled. “I'm so glad you could come,” the woman told her.
Mary fared so well as she continued on down the line that her confidence began to return. Finally she reached the last man.
"Miss Mary Vere?” the man, introduced to her as Charles Cartwright, said. She smiled and nodded once more. “From Charleston? Then you must be related to Veres from New Orleans."
Again, without thinking, she nodded.
"I thought so,” Cartwright went on. “I know the family well. Now, as I recall, there was old George Vere—he was in cotton—and his son Timothy, the one who raised a few eyebrows when he married that French woman he met in Nassau—now, what was her name?” He stared at Mary expectantly, waiting for a response.
Her heart sank. “I think—I think...” she stammered.
"Old George Vere.” Philippe was at her side. “The man was slightly mad, I believe. Killed a man after a dispute over a pig, didn't he?"
"Surely you're mistaken, sir.
The George Vere I knew was the most even-tempered gentleman I ever met. Why, I remember the time an inebriated young poltroon was rude to George's wife. George had every reason to call him out, but..."
"I must be mistaken,” Philippe said. “I no doubt was thinking of James Vere of Atlanta. There are so many Veres it would take a brigade of bookkeepers to sort them out.” He glanced behind him, where couples waited impatiently to make their way through the line. “Come along, Mary,” he said. “Good to have seen you again, sir,” he told Cartwright.
"I didn't know what to say,” Mary told Philippe once they were out of earshot.
"There's no harm done. Now, let me peruse your card. I'll reserve the next dance and the one just before supper. That's customary.” He handed the card back, nodded to Mary, and she preceded him into the ballroom.
She'd never beheld anything so grand. Dancing couples whirled around the immense room on a newly waxed parquet floor that gleamed in the gaslight. Palms and potted plants had been placed along the sides of the room to form shaded nooks. Cut flowers graced both the mantels and the sides of the stairs leading to a balcony where the orchestra was partially concealed by greenery. Through a glass door at the far end of the ballroom she glimpsed still more plants, many in bloom.
Apparently following her gaze, Philippe said, “The conservatory."
He took her in his arms, and they joined the dancing couples, the men resplendent in black velvet frock coats, white ruffled shirts and matching white gloves, the women in colorful hoopskirts, pastels for the most part, pale blues, yellows and green. Corsages flowered on their breasts, jewels glittered above the décolletage of their bodices and in their hair, flashing diamonds and sapphires, glowing rubies and emeralds.
Mary loved to dance, yet it occurred to her that she'd enjoyed dancing with Philippe more on the verandah of the Randolph house, perhaps because she'd been only herself then, not playing a part. Still, she'd longed to be welcome at a ball like this, hadn't she?
The music stopped, and Philippe released her, bowing. Only when she saw the other women curtseying to their partners did Mary remember to do the same.
As they walked from the floor, she glanced at the archway leading into the ballroom and drew in her breath. Jeremy, tall and scowling, gazed from one couple to the next, his face bronzed even in the pale glow from the gas lamps on either side of him. No, he wasn't handsome, she decided, her heart racing. Why was it then that the mere glimpse of him made her forget all else?
Jeremy caught sight of them and his face broke into a sudden smile. He was smiling at her, Mary was sure. She smiled back. As suddenly as it had come, his smile disappeared and, as though a dark curtain had been drawn across his face, he frowned.
"You haven't heard a word I've said,” Philippe complained.
"Jeremy's coming this way,” she told him.
Jeremy after bowing and sidestepping his way across the floor, stopped in front of them, nodded at Mary and then took Philippe's arm, leading him away. Annoyed, she followed the two men to one of the darker corners of the room.
"There's trouble afoot.” Jeremy nodded toward a group of men and women on the far side of the ballroom. “Colonel Chestnut's here. He's the short gentleman with the sandy mustache and curly hair."
Mary peered carefully at the group, but couldn't identify which man might be the colonel.
"I'm not acquainted with the gentleman,” Philippe said.
"Nor am I,” Jeremy said. “But in the reception line just now I learned that he arrived in Montgomery this afternoon from Charleston, where he's a member of one of the old tidewater families. He knows everyone there and, it seems, in all the rest of South Carolina as well."
"Mary and I will avoid him like the plague,” Philippe promised.
"I hope you can. I'd rather lose my bet now that you've taken the affair this far.” Jeremy bowed to Mary. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?"
She nodded eagerly, and he took her in his arms, dancing her onto the floor as the orchestra played a waltz.
"You dance well.” He sounded surprised.
He means, she told herself, I dance well for a servant girl. She'd never dream of telling him how her mother had taught her to dance, hoping Mary would someday be with her father.
"Thank you,” she said, resisting the impulse to make a biting reply.
"How all the men stare at you. When I was looking for you, I heard them asking one another who Mary Vere of Charleston was and how they might meet you. I'll have to admit you've quite captivated them."
He hadn't thought she could, she realized, but she said nothing, merely smiled, whirling around the floor as she followed his strong lead, relishing being in his arms. Why is it, she wondered, that I want to snap at him, yet I'd be willing to go on dancing with him forever? Why must I be so perverse?
As they danced, she became more and more aware of the glances of other women, looking enviously at her, admiringly at Jeremy. He's mine, she wanted to tell them. Can't you see he's mine? The hollowness of her fantasy made her let out her breath in a sigh. Someday he will be mine, she vowed.
Then the dance was over—too soon, too soon—and Jeremy was leading her from the floor. A stocky man with a black beard nodded to him.
"I'm late for a meeting with that gentleman,” he said. Before she could reply, he turned her toward a tall, red-haired man, and introduced her to Paul Rowe.
"If I might have this dance,” Mr. Rowe told her as Jeremy walked off with the stocky man, “I would be eternally grateful. You've won the hearts of every man here, mine included."
Trying to ignore the feeling Jeremy had fobbed her off on Paul Rowe, she smiled up at the tall redhead. “Why, certainly you may have this dance, Mr. Rowe."
As they danced, he praised her every feature so eloquently she was restored to good humor by the time the music stopped. Escorting her from the floor, Mr. Rowe said, “Much as I hate to relinquish your company, there's someone who's been asking to meet you.” He led her toward a smiling older man.
"May I present Miss Mary Vere?” he said to the man. “Miss Vere, this is Colonel Chestnut of Charleston. I'm sure the two of you will find a great deal to talk about."
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CHAPTER 4
"So you're Mary Vere,” Colonel Chestnut said. “I've looked forward to meeting you."
Not completely recovered from her shock, she blurted the first thing that came into her head. “You're not in uniform, sir."
"I'm retired. Earned my rank in the Mexican War, but if the Yankees persist in trampling on our southern freedoms, I may have to don my old uniform again."
Though relieved he didn't seem upset by the too personal remark she'd made, Mary had no idea what to say to this pleasant man with the twinkling eyes. This dangerous man. If only Philippe were here to rescue her from such a predicament. She glanced at Paul Rowe, only to see him turning away to greet a friend and then moving away with the man. She was alone with the colonel.
"I understand you're from Charleston,” he said.
Mary clasped her hands in front of her to stop their trembling. Where was Philippe? She managed to nod, forcing a smile.
"I know the Charles Veres who live near the Battery,” the colonel said. “A fine old family dating from before the Revolution. Huguenots, if I'm not mistaken. They have three sons, but no daughters. None at all."
"We don't live in the city,” she said desperately, hoping her voice didn't sound as frightened to him as it did to her. “Our house is along the Ashley River."
"Then you must know the Hunters. Hunter Hill is one of the plantation houses out that way."
Afraid to agree lest it lead to questions she couldn't answer, Mary shook her head.
"The Vaughns? The Hamptons? Surely you're acquainted with the Hamptons if your place is on the Ashley."
Quelling a strong impulse to turn and run, Mary forced another smile and shook her head again. She noticed the colonel's gaze had narrowed.
"I
expect you attended last year's Cecelia Ball,” he said. “The one held at Fort Sumter. It's so convenient having the fort practically in the center of the city."
Though Philippe had mentioned the annual Cecelia Ball, she didn't recall him saying a word about Fort Sumter.
Aware she must give him some answer, Mary drew on courage she didn't know she possessed. “Yes, I was there,” she told him. “Though I don't recall seeing you, sir."
"You couldn't have seen me, Miss Vere, if you were at Sumter. The fort's on an island well out in the harbor and has been closed for renovation for some time. Hardly the place to hold the Cecelia Ball. Now tell me the truth. Who are you?"
She lowered her head, spreading her fan in front of her face to hide her tears. What choice had she but to turn and flee from the ballroom, from the Addison House, from Montgomery and return to the Jarvis'?
She'd been foolish to think she could become what she was not. She wasn't a lady. But, then, she wasn't really a servant girl either. What was she? Who was she?
Anger dried her tears. Damn Colonel Chestnut. Damn Philippe for bringing me here. Damn Jeremy and all other men.
She closed her fan with a snap and hurled it to the floor. Colonel Chestnut blinked. Couples stopped to stare.
"I am Mary Vere,” she told the colonel, “but you're right. I've never been to Charleston in my life. I'm a nobody. I live forty miles from here. I always have and I suspect I always will. Are you satisfied, Colonel Chestnut, now that you've found me out?"
A man cleared his throat to attract her attention. Glancing to the right, she saw Paul Rowe holding her fan, offering it to her. She glared at him, then snatched the fan away.
"I didn't mean to interrupt,” he said, retreating hastily.
"What's your game?” the colonel demanded as soon as Paul was gone. “What are you after, you and the gentleman who calls himself Philippe Manigault?"
