***
"We'll share this bed. And I've cleared half the armoire for your things."
Clad in cherry silk, Zora Stewart moved as if her feet never touched the floor. She had a high color in her cheeks, her heart-shaped face delicate as a bisque doll's.
Curls escaped the sweep of her dark hair, coppery coils that served only to draw her throat longer and more elegant still. Only the faintest spray of freckles across her nose gave hint that she was anything but perfection.
"It's good of you to have me." I bowed my head, an imitation of her serene air that felt so unfamiliar, it could have been mockery. Lizzy was right. I'd spent too many years rusticating in the Down East, reading about manners but never truly practicing them.
"It wasn't as though I had a choice." Lights danced in Zora's eyes, hinting at the nimble mind wrapped in such a lovely package of grace and femininity. She had not spoken crossly. In fact, amusement touched the edge of her lips. "Can you polish boots?"
I played along. "I can, and darn socks and rebone stays..."
"How are you, I wonder," she said, as she turned to open the window, "at making biscuits?"
I covered my heart with my hand and confessed, "A failure, I admit. I'm told my biscuits suit nicely when there are no rocks to be had for a slingshot."
A soft breath of wind flooded into the room, stirring trapped heat and urging it away. Zora leaned against the windowsill and smiled. "Brilliant. I'm forever running short of ammunition for my slingshot."
"I have never been away from home," I told her.
"I have never had a friend to stay," she replied.
At once, we both took an accounting. Her gown was more fashionable; my hair more intricately dressed. In stillness, she held her hands with grace, and I sprawled, ungainly along the edge of the bed. In that moment, I suppose we could have decided to be rivals.
Instead, Zora took my hand and said, "We're too grand to stay indoors today, I believe."
***
Twining down streets that spread in a chaotic burst from Druid Hill Park, we took in sunshine and our fill of sightseeing—or, rather, sightseeing for me and sight-showing for her.
"Four mornings a week," Zora told me, tugging at a locked door, "we'll come here for classes. You won't care much for Miss Burnside."
Lifting my skirts, I rose to peer in the window. It looked like any private home on the block, though a plate by the door read SWANN DAY SCHOOL.
"I only had a tutor."
Zora nodded. "My friends Sarah and Mattie share a tutor, but Papa is fascinated with progress. Co-educational learning! Gaslight on tap! You should see the way he trembles in excitement when he talks about the new train line going in. Chicago's the future, he claims. We need a direct route to it!"
"August isn't modern at all," I said. "He's quite old-fashioned, in fact. He would have married me off by now if there were anyone in Broken Tooth to marry."
Wrinkling her nose, Zora asked, "What sort of name is Broken Tooth?"
"An accurate one," I said.
It was a hard-working village, small and spare. We had no regular doctor;dentistry was done in the barbershop. I supposed it made August feel like a lord to live on a hill above it all. Down East he could pretend to be a society man. I didn't bother explaining that, though. We Van den Broeks shared that pride, it seemed—I didn't want Zora to think I was more backward than she already must.
With a winning smile, I changed the subject. "So I'm looking forward to going to school with you!"
Zora looped her arm through mine to drag me away. "I already earned the first desk. It drives the boys to distraction. Have You taken Latin or Greek? You'll have to start at the last, but if you unseated them your first week ... oh!"
Bewildered, I asked, "Unseat them how?"
"With lessons. The first of the class earn the desks closest to the front; the last are sadly relegated to the shadows in back. It's farthest from the stove and the lamps and the windows."
"Sounds miserable," I said.
And to my delight, Zora laughed, a soft, naughty sound. "It's is."
"Secretly, you're abeast, aren't you?"
"There will be time enough for sainthood once I'm married," she said.
Then, with a strength I never would have thought possible, she yanked my arm, pulling me down an alley. Our forcible departure from the road startled me, my thoughts unsettled by a strange, sharp scent I couldn't place. There was no gate nor welcome to invite us through this passage, but Zora walked it with sturdy familiarity.
Pausing, Zora pressed a finger to her lips. Then she gathered her skirts so they would do no whispering as we crept into a set of adjoined yards. White wooden fences separated them, fist-size spaces between each plank giving us much room to peek through.
The high note of a struck axe rose up. I noted first the blade, dull at the handle and bright at the edge, catching sunlight and tossing it with a flash. His hair caught some of that spark, a little long and falling loose, brushing past eyes certainly light in shade. I was too far to make out the color exactly.
I ascertained that should I truly wish to know, I'd only have to ask Zora, whose grip tightened uncomfortably on my elbow.
"Thomas Rea," she said. She kept her voice low as she pulled me along the fences, for it seemed we needed to look on Thomas at many angles. "His father's a bachelor or a widower. It's our little mystery trying to guess which."
Oblivious to us, Thomas split through his lot of wood, oddly graceful at it. Such a brute chore should have been ugly to watch. Instead, it was a wonder, the way he turned a pile of maple into an orderly cord for burning.
"He's almost in our circle." Zora put her hands on my shoulders, ducking around me to get a better view. "Since his father's a doctor, that's respectable enough. But no one knows them, really. Sarah's mother is beside herself, trying to decide if any of us can marry Thomas."
I covered my mouth to hide my smile. "Is that so?"
"Mrs. Holbrook plots. It's her opium." Suddenly, Zora crumpled against the fence.
Hurrying to attend her, I asked, "Are you faint?"
"Simply mad, Amelia."
Zora exhaled a sigh, looking through the slats again. Her lashes fluttered as she battled her stays for a deep breath. Her hands had turned to hard knots, held tight at her waist. Deliberately, she brushed herself off and headed for the alley.
Though I mainly played at my charcoals, I had a moment of inspiration. Zora would make such an ideal Thisbe! How entirely like her in that moment, longing for a Pyramus at work with his axe. I imagined sketching holly in her hair and wispy gowns flowing from her shoulders...
"You're dawdling. Don't you want to get to the printer's today?"
Protesting, I swore, "I don't think August intended my allowance to be spent on calling cards!"
"Dash August, then," Zora said. "We'll spend it anyway!"
Newly dizzy with daring, I held up one finger. "A moment, wait!" And in my madness, fed by hers, I stepped up on the fence and called out, "Fancy You, Thomas, good afternoon!"
"Amelia!" Zora cried, her delight both complete and horrified.
I never knew if Thomas raised his head to see us, for Zora ran away laughing. What could I do but run after her?
Three
THAT'S A MAN'S CARD," Zora said, tugging a catalog from my hands. "What's the matter with you?"
"I like them!"
Reaching for the printer's book, I longed to look at the handsome calling card again, the one with a silhouette of a hawk. It seemed all the cards I preferred were meant for men—the ones with bold strokes and dark letters.
Nostrils flaring, Zora presented me with one of her cards. "See, there. That's a proper lady's card. Ivory and silver and script. Don't you think it introduces me well?"
"It's very like you," I agreed, rubbing the ivory edges of it. "But I..."
"That's the living end, Charles," Mrs. Stewart shouted from downstairs.
Zora's eyes went wide, and I felt my pul
se tick up. That could only be Mr. Stewart, and what could be so devastating as to make my most proper cousin shout like a fishwife? Zora dumped cards and catalog alike on the bed and motioned for me to follow her to the stairs.
We tried not to clatter, keeping our shoes firmly on the blue carpeting. When the wall gave way to open banister, we crouched to listen.
"Ohhhhh," Zora said, resting her hand on my neck. "James Keller canceled on us again. Listen to Mama rant."
"Honestly, are we made of money? That boy's naught but a useless rag!"
Mr. Stewart laughed, then shut up immediately. "I'm sorry, dear heart."
When all went silent, Zora and I exchanged a look. Like fire jumping from the hearth, we both leaped up. A fine, tall man ruined our escape when he appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Zora resembled him most remarkably.
"You must be our boarder," he said, with the same smile that Zora'd used when she asked if I could polish boots. He turned an expectant look on his daughter as he put on his hat.
Zora skimmed down the stairs—the same vision of unearthly beauty I had met that morning. She leaned toward her father and reached back for me at once. "Papa, may I present Amelia van den Broek? Amelia, this is my father, Mr. Stewart."
I tried to drift down the stairs in Zora's fashion, but I bumped and thumped, frighteningly raw and broad beside her. "An honor, sir."
"Entirely mine," he said, and took my hand. "Lizzy spoke highly of you."
"She's too kind," I said.
"Do pardon me, ladies," Mr. Stewart said, with a step toward the door. Fairy lights played in his eyes as he told Zora, "I'm off to rescue your dinner party."
"Not Sebastian," Zora said plaintively.
"I have my intentions. Beware! Oh, my apologies, I meant—" He gave a little bow with a flourish. "Be well." And with a laugh, Mr. Stewart was off.
Cross, Zora hitched her skirts and stalked toward the stairs. "I know he's only teasing, but it's a given truth! Sebastian ruins everything."
Following her back up, I could do naught but inquire at the intrigue. "Does he?"
"Yes!" In the middle of her room, Zora spun and tossed herself on the bed so completely that she'd need help back up. Though her corsets were looser laced for the day, she'd still be left to roll back and forth on the duvet like an upturned turtle. "First, he's a cousin, so he's no good for flirting with. Second, he's mad about an Araber's daughter and talks about her incessantly."
My trunk had arrived during our walk, and I opened it in search of something fresh to wear for dinner. "Is there a third?"
With a hand clapped over her eyes, Zora groaned. "Third, he fancies himself working class, which I suppose is closer to true than the lot of us imagining we're Astors, but he revels! He revels in rough suits and unkempt hair and dirty fingernails!"
"You sound entirely precious," I teased, shaking out my best overdress.
Sighing, Zora rolled, then rolled again, before giving up to sprawl on her back. "Mama says these are my dinner parties, but you see who arranges everything, don't you?"
"Let's then ask to manage the games afterward," I suggested, as if I had ever had a dinner party in my life.
Spreading her gown with her fingers, Zora sighed. "Mama would never."
"Beg it as a favor," I said. Then brightening, I unfolded my dinner skirt and turned to her. "Claim it's to educate me."
"You are dreadfully underschooled."
"Hardly fit for anything." Laying out my entire dinner dress, I stood back to consider it. "It would be a kindness, really. I'm nearly feral; what man would have me?"
"I read there's an orangutan on display in New York that wears a hat and smokes a pipe. Perhaps he would."
"For that, I should tip you onto the floor."
"Have I overstepped myself?" Zora asked.
And since I was a feral girl from the wilds of Maine, I offered my hand—and then tipped her onto the floor.
***
The steady Mrs. Stewart from the docks had turned into a humming, buzzing whirl as we waited for the guests. Her skirts snapped as she moved from certifying the place settings to arranging Zora's curls against her cheeks. Then she turned to me with a distinct cloud of dismay.
"It's my best suit," I explained, trying to follow her with my eyes as she circled.
"And a well-done suit it is."
"She means it's unfashionable," Zora said.
"I mean it's a well-done suit." Mrs. Stewart reproved Zora with a sharp look. "Simply, the farther from London and Paris, the longer it takes to get the latest styles."
I stung with a fresh blush. I should have something gauzine and feminine like Zora had. She'd worn her tea gown all day, adding a shawl, a layer, a shell, until her morning breakfast dress had turned to formal dinner attire. It fit her softly, a vision in silk and lace.
Beside her, I was a great green beast. My suit only fit if my corsets were strung as tight as possible, so I stood breathless in heavy, peacock satin. From shoulder to thigh, my bodice armored me—a quilted shell in more of the same dour shade. I felt like our carriage at home, suitable for funerals and drudgery.
Finally, Mrs. Stewart clasped her hands together. She had no choice but to give up on me. "Pay it no mind, Amelia. You're our country guest;everyone knows that."
"What a terrible thing to say." Zora raised her hand to her lips, pretending shame.
"Did You offer her one of yours?" Mrs. Stewart replied, crisp again.
"She did, but they all came up too short."
Finally, Mrs. Stewart repeated, "It's a fine suit."
"You'll have new dresses soon," Zora added, slipping her arm into mine. "It's mostly family tonight, anyway. There's no one to impress."
Gray eyes rolling, Mrs. Stewart brushed past me to go check on the kitchen. She muttered under her breath as she went, which made Zora laugh.
"That wasn't awkward or uncomfortable at all," she said, petting me.
"It's almost like I belong here."
Eyes lighting again, Zora tugged my arm, and I turned with her. We spun slowly, a country mouse and a city mouse, and she waited until she'd ducked under my arm to say, "Don't you?"
***
As Zora claimed, the dinner party was hers, even if her mother had decided everything from the menu to the china. Not a single guest could have been older than seventeen.
I'd never seen so many new faces at once, never shaken so many hands. Each one passed me to the next, their little novelty to entertain until they could return to familiar gossip on matters about which I knew nothing.
How would I ever remember so many names? I could scarcely breathe for the heat of so many people in such a small space. I found myself standing close to a window—shut, but the glass was cool where I dared to touch it at the sill.
All their voices mingled, spinning around in my head until the noise became a wall. I couldn't think because of it. I felt like I'd been dropped into a deafening silence, one that filled and emptied me at once.
As church bells tolled vespers, calling good Catholics to their evening prayers, I watched smoke rise in the goldening air. Sunset turned everything gilt. It made crimson edges of roofs and gables. All the pure white marble steps I'd admired on my walk with Zora now reflected amber.
Startled, I squinted through the light again. I swore, in all the gold, I saw dancers.
They rose like ghosts. At first, they skimmed through the air, stepping down the line in a reel. I curled a hand around my own throat, holding my breath now. I watched these unfathomable dancers sharpen, until I could make out faces! Familiar faces!
I saw Zora lower her eyes as she took a gloved hand. A spectral Thomas took wild liberties—his touch on her waist! Pulling her against his chest!
At once, phantasmal music filled my ears. Strings sang sweetly, high and crying, calling these young sweethearts to sway closer. Zora and Thomas turned through shimmering light, and I cried out when a real hand fell on my shoulder. It rent the vision like gauze, and I spun aroun
d.
"Our Fourteenth is here," Zora said, then added with concern, "I didn't mean to frighten you."
But she had. It was like I wasn't prepared to see her in the flesh, after so recently seeing her in a sunset reverie. She was no more golden than a bowl of apples, her gown nothing like the ornate confection I had just seen. Dreamed?
All the colors of the world had come back, but only because they had drained from me completely. Trying to gather my wits, I asked, "Is it Thomas?"
"No. He's a Fourteenth." Making the queerest face, Zora frowned, then recovered. "Papa hired him. I understand he paints."
We threaded through her guests to get a look at this hired guest, and I asked, "Houses?"
"Portraits. They all live in Mount Vernon Place. Bachelor painters and actors and such. Have them for dinner Friday, see them in the matinee on Saturday."
My smile grew curious. "All because it's bad luck to have thirteen?"
Zora shrugged. "We're civilized people."
"It makes me suspicious of your mother's culinary skills," I said, huddling on one side of the doorway to get a look. Already I could make out dark, waved hair and a suit that fit neatly. "That You should have to pay someone to round out the numbers."
With a pinch, Zora teased, "We're paying him to endure you, not the soup."
Thus far, I'd felt very clever in Zora's company, so I'm quite sure I would've said something witty if the Fourteenth hadn't turned from Mr. Stewart to look right at me.
Right into me.
Four
MISS STEWART," HE SAID, gliding past me to meet Zora.
I found myself plunged into darkness. Jealousy clasped me in its claw, an envy so raw and profound I wanted to weep with it. I decided I shouldn't ever let my imagination run away again, because it made me a terrible person. How could I burn with such covetousness, just because he introduced himself to my new friend?
"Nathaniel Witherspoon," he said, and bowed his head.
When he turned from Zora to me, the light went on again. His black eyes somehow cast me in the glow of a perpetual flame. He slipped his hand into mine, and I forgot how shocking and badly mannered that made him. I forgot everything but the mystery of his touch. He wore no gloves, and mine were only lace, so I felt his hand skin to skin.
The Vespertine Page 2
