“You perfectly fit the fashion of the day, my love, how could it be otherwise? You shall not long be unwed,” Lady Elaina said. “To the current way of thinking, a lady is refined and discreet in her manners. She is natural and unpretentious in her language, speaking little of herself and focusing on others.”
“She gets that from me,” the dowager duchess interjected, raising her chin proudly.
“I merely prefer to listen,” Alita explained. “I am sure if I have something to say, I speak.”
“Some do so regardless,” remarked Lady Elaina, staring pointedly at her mother. “In addition, a lady is kindhearted and would be mortified at the thought of wounding anyone’s feelings. She would never ridicule or criticize anyone openly, nor would she have any wish to do so.”
“Of course not. How could anyone wish to deliberately hurt someone else or to speak ill of them?” asked Alita, descending the final steps of the staircase carefully.
“Some find the wherewithal, it appears.” Lady Elaina said. “And yet, a lady, in her heart, feels compassion for the ill-fated and the ignorant.”
“It depends on how ignorant,” mused the duchess.
“I do not comprehend how anyone cannot feel compassion for those who are not as fortunate as oneself,” Alita said.
“Nor do I, but look at the state of the world.” Lady Elaina nodded. “And yet, a lady’s manner is one of charity and goodness of character. A perfect description of you, Alita dear.”
“Oh, Ma-ma, how sweet you are.”
“Indeed I am, for I, too, am a lady for my time, whatever the opponents of women’s rights shall say,” Elaina said. “Some would add innocence and submissiveness to their requirements, but I find it ridiculous that naivety and servitude should be a stipulation of femininity.”
“Do you think I am naive, Ma-ma?”
“Oh no, darling. Merely wanting in experience . . which may come sooner than we wish.”
“Oh my. It is…very…bold is it not?” uttered Alita as they entered the State Ballroom, the largest and tallest room in Buckingham Palace at forty-five feet high, strikingly ornate with dark Corinthian turquoise marble columns, orange-red velvet and silk, a gold domed ceiling, and crystal lighting. “I didn’t quite imagine it to be like this.”
“It is impressive, Alita,” corrected Marvella. “Not bold.”
“It is bold. It would seem to swallow one whole,” Lady Elaina countered. Her nerves suddenly on edge, she wondered at herself as she realized how easily she had forgotten her current status, flying back in time to her disastrous dissent upon London society twenty-five years ago.
It seems like yesterday when one reenters the witches’ den.
Suddenly Elaina spotted a tall, dashing young man in a tuxedo with blond-streaked hair and a boyish grin, and her breath caught in her chest at the striking resemblance, completing her transport in time.
Could it be? She closed her eyes and shook her head involuntarily, almost tripping on her own feet.
What is happening to me? It feels as if I am engaged in time travel from one second to the next.
“Elaina!” Marvella quipped. “Watch your step! We aren’t in a race here!”
“Yes, of course, Mother, though I don’t know how much more slowly I can walk and still be moving.” Though it seemed an absolute waste of time to take forever to traverse across the room, Lady Elaina strove to contain her stride and to take dainty, disinterested steps.
“Move?” Her Grace reiterated with disdain under her breath, her smile unwavering. She might have been a ventriloquist. “Ladies do not move. They float.”
Alita said nothing but smiled at her grandmother, retaining her arm.
“Yes, Mother. Quite right. We are not human beings with brains and appendages—particularly not brains—we are clouds.”
“It is fortuitous that you comprehend, Elaina. And a welcome change.” The dowager duchess’ stately arrogance was plastered to her expression, no doubt reliving her own frightening introduction into society, succeeding without social standing, money, or position.
Look who’s in charge now. Elaina smiled at her mother with appreciation, fully aware that Marvella Lawrence was the reason they were all three standing here today.
And now she had taken an interest in this granddaughter, so much like her and yet so fundamentally different. Surprisingly, the unconventional side to Alita’s personality was unknown to the dowager duchess, while their shared characteristics had forged a common bond almost from the moment of Alita’s birth.
Marvella Lawrence had never been one to approve of extraordinary abilities in the female sex. It would only distress her were she to learn of it.
Elaina had never felt the slightest need to enlighten the duchess on the exceptional talents of her favorite granddaughter. Better to allow Alita to bask in her grandmother’s love; a child always benefited from being enveloped in love.
Alita spotted her group of girlfriends huddled in one corner, the children of six of London’s most privileged families.
“Good Heavens. Much too old for a young girl just out,” the duchess murmured disapprovingly but with a decided hint of admiration as she glanced in that direction.
“Do you suppose Miss Tutt is unaware of that fact, Mother?” asked Lady Elaina.
Whereas Alita’s dress was elegant and refined, the gown which had captured Her Grace’s attention was not a dress meant for ease of dancing but for show stopping—and that, without question, the brunette had accomplished.
Kristine Tutt’s wine-and-maroon-red satin was form-fitting, daringly low cut, and with a three-foot-long ruffled satin taffeta train. She carried a Louis XV fan behind which she appeared to be whispering. She wore blood red roses in her coiffure and rubies and diamonds on her voluptuous, bare chest.
“Tsk! Tsk! Rubies. Shameful.” The dowager duchess’ lips curled into a smile.
Alita waved at her friends in an understated, ladylike manner. As usual, the girls were whispering and casting glances in their direction, but it struck Lady Elaina that the glances were not those of welcome and approval.
I must be touched in the head to think so. My memories have cast shadows upon my judgment. Lady Elaina and Her Grace walked reservedly to the punch table for refreshments while Alita hurried to her friends.
Alita stopped frozen in her tracks as several of the girls abruptly ceased conversation, glancing away with her approach. She released a shaky smile, which was not returned.
“Randall, would you please procure a glass of punch for me? And one of those little star cookies. I adore those,” Kristine charged. “Armand, I would very much like to know the name of that last piece which the orchestra played, if it wouldn’t trouble you. You see, I have a bet with Mr. Fairbanks, and I shall surely disgrace him with your assistance.” Gaping young men hovered about the beauty, gaga with admiration, whom she summarily dismissed.
Kristine turned to Beatrice. “Can you let me know the minute Mr. Fairbanks arrives?”
“Isabelle, what is wrong?” Alita asked hesitantly as she approached them, a cold breeze hitting her full in the face. “Why are you looking at me so?”
“Whatever do you mean, Alita? Don’t be silly.” Isabelle laughed nervously. Her expression seemed to waver between confusion and disgust as she looked to Kristine. “Your imagination runs wild, Alita. I can’t fathom what you will say next. Sometimes I don’t know what to make of your odd stories.”
“Odd stories?” Alita caught her breath. Kristine had told them. Clearly Isabelle didn’t know what to make of her vision at the same time she was inclined to believe Kristine’s interpretation.
Of course. Kristine was their leader, the society star. Whatever Kristine did, everyone did. She herself had always followed Kristine’s lead.
And why would Kristine say something that wasn’t true? Especially about her best friend. A sob formed in Alita’s throat. She knew this would be the question in everyone’s mind. If Kristine said it, it must be true.
/> “Kristine said you have been dreaming quite a bit lately, Alita,” Beatrice hissed.
“We all have been. This ball is the moment we have been waiting for.” Alita turned to regard Beatrice, whose scrutiny clearly betrayed her jealousy and who somehow appeared dowdy even in all her finery—a bright green dress worn with yellow roses rather than the white flowers Alita had urged her to wear. Beatrice would be quite lovely if only she could resist attempting to draw so much attention to herself.
Alita was well aware Beatrice had never especially liked her. Matrimony was the only game in town, and Beatrice had been of the mindset Alita would always outshine her.
“You say things which are decidedly un-Christian, Alita. It is dangerous.” Appearing to gain confidence, Isabelle voiced her thoughts, her intent sincere if mislead.
“Whatever can you mean, Isabelle?” Alita managed to ask as she struggled for air.
“You want to go to heaven, don’t you?” Isabelle whispered under her breath.
“Of course.” Alita nodded, startled by the question.
“Then why,” Isabelle asked, “are you always talking about other religions? And you aren’t saying those people are heathens, either!”
“You want me to call other people heathens, Isabelle? It seems rather vulgar.”
Alita was drawn to Dottie’s giggling, an apparent attempt to gain Kristine’s approval. Dottie adored Kristine and had long been envious of Alita’s closeness with her. As Alita’s eyes pleaded with no one in particular, she saw Dottie move closer to Kristine.
“Who cares about dreams and other religions?” demanded Veronica. “I certainly don’t. And I doubt you do either. Why don’t we procure some lemonade and find some comfortable chairs instead of standing about like gaping toads?” Alita turned toward Veronica, who appeared bored by the proceedings. Brunette like Kristine, Veronica was just as pretty, though lacking Kristine’s vivacity.
Kristine glared at Veronica, who moved as if her corset were too tight.
“What is wrong with you?” Veronica challenged, having none of it. “Who died and made you queen, Kristine?”
Alita’s heart sank as she realized that, although Veronica had no wish to hurt her, she would not raise a finger to help her either.
Only Charlise’s expression remained neutral as she observed the scene unfolding before her. Charlise was not well-to-do like the other girls in the group, being the favorite of a wealthy aunt who had given her a season, as well as many invitations to visits over the years.
Charlise was a vicar’s daughter, so Alita presumed Charlise would side with Isabelle since the two generally saw eye-to-eye on matters of religion. And because siding with Isabelle was a way to firmly repudiate Charlise’s outsider status.
“Krissy, I am sorry if I was not attentive to you this afternoon. I tried to be.” But even as she spoke Alita knew Kristine Tutt was not the same young woman she had been. Colin’s death had filled her heart with terror and bitterness, so immersed was she in grief.
How can I be cruel to someone who has already suffered so much?
Stop it! In her inability to disconnect from the pain of others, Alita was immobilized. Kristine was desperate to unload her unbearable pain somewhere, anywhere.
And I am helping her do it.
“I shall try to remember your method if ever you have lost someone dear to you, Alita,” Kristine retorted.
The only response her companions would understand was more snubs and artificially polite conversation. To state the truth, that they were breaking her heart, would only give them ammunition. Her very survival in society, everything she held dear, depended on the cold and calculating act she knew to be necessary, no, critical to her success.
Every value, every feeling rebels against it.
“We may have some differences, but you are still my friends, and I still love you.” Alita knew she was pleading, but she could not help herself. Tears welled up in her eyes. “This day is everything to me—just as it is to you.”
Kristine and her entourage stared at Alita as she stared back, all in a standstill.
Without a word, Charlise Noel crossed the invisible line and put her arm around Alita.
“This is a dance, for goodness sake!” Charlise pronounced as she turned toward the other girls. She pulled out her handkerchief and dotted Alita’s eyes. “Unquestionably not the time to discuss Alita’s dreams. Most inappropriate for well brought-up young ladies.”
Kristine jabbed Charlise, who ignored her, not even turning to look at her.
“But dreams of black panthers. And visions,” Isabelle admonished.
“It seems almost blasphemous, does it not?” Beatrice sniffed, knowing what would matter to Charlise.
“Certainly I don’t put any store by odd dreams unless they are inspired by the Holy Spirit or in the Bible.” Charlise turned to face Beatrice and Isabelle square on. “But neither will I be party to cruelty. Jesus said that even the tax collectors are kind to their friends. We must be kind to our enemies. And you—you, cannot even be kind to your friends! I am ashamed of you.” Alita was startled to see this gentle vicar’s daughter’s feathers so ruffled.
“But my vision was real, Charlise,” Alita said. Now that it was out in the open, she found that she wanted desperately to be believed.
“We’ll speak of that later, Alita dear,” replied Charlise under her breath, her clear blue eyes pleading with her.
Must I always be invisible to everyone? Struggling to fight her disappointment, Alita reminded herself that Charlise was doing the best she knew to support her, and at great detriment to her own social standing. Charlise was one of those rare Christians for whom love had created an opening for the living God to enter her soul. Love always transformed a willing heart irrespective of beliefs, logic, or religion.
“Let us take a turn about the room, Alita.” Charlise’s smile could have coaxed a leprechaun away from his pot of gold.
But there was far more at stake here than gold. As Alita longingly beheld her childhood friends gathered together, she wondered that these girls still felt like her treasure though they would have sacrificed her for a wink.
In an instant, Alita saw all too clearly the flaw in having only friends who cared as much about societal approval and status as she did.
“I don’t know, Charlise. I’m not sure what to do.”
“The walk will revive you, Alita,” Charlise said, taking her hand as the orchestra began to play.
“You had best not side with me,” Alita whispered. “I will only ensure your demise as well.”
What is wrong with me? I have someone standing by me, and I am endeavoring to push her away as well. It was as if everything flowed together and she had no sense of herself.
“I don’t care a fig for society if I must sacrifice my character to that end. That would be an empty prize for me.” Charlise’s eyes were penetrating in their gaze, her resolve unwavering. “And besides, Alita, I love you.”
Alita hugged her friend. “But what about Krissy’s suffering? She is suffering, too.”
“Yes she is. Terribly.” Charlise’s pink lips parted, richly warm against her pale skin. “Love her—as you should—but realize what she is. Kristine is trying to hurt you and will very likely succeed. How does this cruel act help Kristine? Not at all. It provides her with momentary relief.”
“I cannot comprehend how they can do this, Charlise.” Alita caught her breath.
“People have different reasons for what they do.” Charlise shrugged. “And the devil works in devious ways, often appearing in desirable forms.”
Though Alita did not share Charlise’s view of the spirit world, the symbolism of her friend’s words strangely helped her to regain her footing. To her relief, the room stopped spinning. “Everyone wouldn’t turn against me unless I caused it somehow.”
“I assure you, dear Alita, you are a wonderful friend.” Charlise shook her head, her platinum-blonde curls swinging. “This is happening because
they are not good friends.”
“No.” Alita shook her head. “The cruelty did not originate with me, and I did not cause it, but something in my character permitted it.” She was so willing to enter into everyone’s world, into everyone’s feelings, into everyone’s life.
In point of fact, the only person she did not wish to enter into was Miss Alita Stanton.
“Hello.” Obviously desiring an introduction, an exquisitely dashing gentleman approached them, accompanied by Oliver, a mutual friend.
The stranger was the same young man whom her mother had been staring at. He was tall and slim with deep blue eyes and blonde-streaked hair. His boyish grin and natural, confident manner added to his elegance.
Oh, no. He has come to claim a dance with Charlise.
Alita wished they would both go away. Though she knew it was selfish, Charlise was the only friend she had in the world right now.
I am doomed! Alita glanced in the floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror opposite where they stood. Charlise was quite the prettiest girl in the room, made more so by Alita’s red eyes, haggard expression, and understated dress which she had once thought refined but looked decidedly plain now.
In the mirror Alita could see the contrasts too vividly: Charlise’s platinum blonde hair against her own wheat-colored hair, vivid blue eyes next to her green. Or rather, red.
They were each about the same height, petite, and delicate in appearance. But while Alita had worn antique ivory, Charlise was much more elaborately dressed in a Pannier skirt reminiscent of Marie Antoinette. Three flounces flowed from beneath the pannier, forming bows at thigh level. Charlise’s romantic satin dress in rose and light pink was long-sleeved and V-necked with a satin rose at the bosom and exquisite Belgian lace along the collar. A sprinkle of dark pink rosebuds in Charlise’s platinum-blonde hair created a dazzling effect, even with the simple gold cross around her neck. When she smiled, her sweetness was completely transparent. Charlise had accomplished the ultimate: she was both striking and angelic.
Ordinarily Alita would not have made these comparisons, but under other circumstances the two standing together with their arms around each other might have presented a pretty picture. Today, however, Alita’s dismal expression and watering eyes created a peculiar sight, she could plainly see.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 7
