by Anya Seton
‘A touch of dyspepsia, my dear Mr. Tower,’ the doctor had said. ‘Mustn’t work too hard. Take a long trip. As we get older, you know, the machine creaks a little. Anno domini, my dear sir.’
‘I’m only forty-seven,’ said Simeon irritably.
‘To be sure,’said the doctor. ‘Prime of life. But cut down on cigars and champagne, and I do recommend a long trip. Travel and change, you know.’ This was the unfailing prescription for rich people with vague, unclassifiable discomforts. When they came back from their long trips, they usually complained of an entirely new set of symptoms, but at least it was a new set.
‘I can’t take a trip now,’ Simeon snapped. ‘I’m a busy man.’
A busy man, yes; that he had always been. But never before this an incessantly worried one. The luck which had supported him all these years seemed to be crumbling bit by bit. He had not, after all, made back the money lost in the panic, and there had been minor setbacks as well. The old woolen mill on the Saugatuck had unaccountably failed, one of his best Transic Line boats had foundered in a Gulf hurricane. Insignificant losses in proportion to his capital, and once he would have written them off and plunged with grim fighting zest into recouping somewhere else.
But he could no longer recapture the zest, and the major fight which took all the shrewdness and energy he could muster was not a triumphant campaign leading to new victory, but a bitter secret struggle against Jay Gould for the retaining of what he already possessed.
Gould never showed his hand. The Mephisto of Wall Street sat like a small black spider silently enmeshing enterprise after enterprise. It was a web of railways that he spun, and his pattern was always the same; as for Erie, from which he had looted millions, so for the reorganized Union Pacific, the Missouri Pacific, and a dozen others.
He worked slowly and methodically; time and again by some dark alchemy he persuaded the public that he was an antimonopolist, desirous only of the common good. And he got what he wanted. Now he wanted the Gulf and San Diego, and his maneuverings were spiraling nearer and nearer to the goal.
But I can fight him, he can’t lick me, thought Simeon, floundering back to wakefulness on the February morning of the ball.
‘You had a bad night again, Simeon?’ asked Fey. She touched his head, gently smoothing the fair hair that was tinging to gray.
‘I’m all right, ’ he grunted. ‘ No, don’t stop. I love your touch, makes me feel better.’
She smiled, and went on stroking. She looked very young and fresh in her ruffled nightgown, her eyes bright from sleep, her cheeks pink, and the two long thick braids of black hair flung over her shoulders.
‘Business worries?’ she asked. ‘I know there is something bothering you.’
At once he closed up. She must be protected, and he must appear always the infallible, the miraculous provider of bounty.
‘Nothing could ever bother me that I couldn’t handle. I should think you’d know that by now.’ He waited, and she quickly complied.
‘Of course I do. You’re the smartest man in the whole United States. Why, yesterday at Mrs. Bull’s, she was saying that her husband thinks you’ve got more vision and foresight than any other financier.’
Simeon made a noncommittal sound, and she saw his frown fade.
Surely he would tell me if anything were really wrong, she thought. We’re spending more money than we ever have. This ball tonight—but why worry! She gave an excited, pleasurable sigh. The ball was their pinnacle, their apotheosis. It had taken all this time, but at last they were really ‘in.’ Everyone was coming, even Mrs. Astor who, after months of suspense, had finally left cards. It was to be a domino ball in costume, the quadrilles organized by Ward McAllister. The papers had talked of it for weeks, and for this ball Simeon had built a huge ballroom, adding it on to the back of his house.
There was a discreet knock on the door and Fey’s maid came in, carrying besides the coffee and rolls, a square beribboned package. ‘Just come by messenger, mum,’ she said, presenting it to Fey, who started at once to untie the red ribbons.
‘Wait,’ said Simeon, gesturing toward the maid. He looked conscious, a little embarrassed. When the maid had gone out, he turned his back on Fey and fumbled for his slippers.
She gave him a puzzled look and opened the package. It was an enormous valentine, a froth of gold-Iace paper, cupids, doves, and a plump red satin heart on which was written, ‘For my dearest wife.’ The heart opened, and inside it on jeweler’s cotton lay another heart made of little rubies.
‘Oh, darling!’ she cried. Her eyes filled. For days he would be grumpy, taciturn, or irritable, and then he would do something like this, the sentimental spirit-warming gesture that a woman loved.
She pinned the ruby heart on her nightdress, rushed around the bed, and kissed him.
‘You’re good to me—so good, Simeon.’
‘I’m glad you like your valentine,’ he answered gruffly, but he caught her tight against him, forgetting the throb in his head and the feeling of brooding menace.
He had sent Lucita a valentine, too, Fey later discovered. The little girl’s red plush heart contained a gold bangle, and she was delighted. Even Miss Pringle seemed less disapproving than usual. And I know our ball will be a success, thought Fey happily. For weeks Fey had been concentrating her natural executive ability on this ball; with the assistance of a social secretary and Ward McAllister she had checked and rechecked lists. Nothing was forgotten, the supper menu, the orchestra, the flowers, the roll carpet and canopy for the sidewalk, an army of extra waiters, cotillion favors—all arranged. The only thing she had not been able to arrange was the weather, but Providence smiled. It was clear and not cold, an ideal February day.
At nine o’clock the first guests arrived. The long drawingrooms began to spot with extravagant color as the costumed figures bowed and greeted their hosts before drifting into the ballroom. There were giggles and genteel excitement, the release from propriety furnished by the carnival spirit and the partial anonymity of the dominos. There were a few home makeshifts, monks, clowns, and gypsy girls, but the majority of the costumes had been made to order by Mapleson’s at a minimum cost of a hundred dollars.
Simeon and Fey were magnificent as King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, a resplendent 1877 version of the royal pair, vaguely derived, of course, from the extremely popular Idylls, and in no way handicapped by research into the sixth century.
Mapleson’s taste had run to velvet trimmed in brocade and ermine and plenty of gilt. Simeon had a gold crown encrusted with rhinestones, a gold leather sword belt and scabbard, and a hint of chain mail woven from gilded thread. He also had a wig of shoulder-length brown hair upon which the crown rested shakily. He was uncomfortable and he felt slightly ridiculous until the awed comments of the arriving guests restored him. The Louis the Fifteenths and the Henry the Eighths, the Venetian princesses and the Martha Washingtons, were also resplendent, but Mapleson had seen to it that the Towers outglittered them all.
Fey’s gown was of red velvet edged with ermine, her crown sparkled even more dazzlingly than King Arthur’s, and in her own black hair, loosely braided and reaching to her knees, were twined yards of imitation pearls. Here she had overridden Mapleson who had recommended a string of rhinestones for her hair, and maybe a few red plumes 'just here, to set off the crown. We must be truly regal, Mrs. Tower; the hostess dare take no chance of appearing insignificant at such a ball as this.’
Now, standing beside Simeon, Fey knew that she did not look insignificant. In the rich red velvet, ermine, and pearls she looked exotic, a vivid woman on whom many startled eyes lingered. Little Mrs. Tower was always pretty and stylish, but she didn’t usually impress one as a beauty. The costume suited her, that was it, thought the men. The women were puzzled.
‘She doesn’t look quite—quite American, somehow,’ whispered Mrs. Bull to Mrs. Carson behind her Madame de Pompadour fan, ‘but charming, of course, Mapleson’s has done well,’ she added for Fey had arous
ed no jealousies. She did not flirt with husbands, and toward powerful ladies like the Madams Bull and Carson, she had always maintained an attitude of endearing gratitude and diffidence. She had made an ideal protégée. And now, in spite of her rather disturbingly foreign appearance, her behavior continued to be punctiliously correct. She smiled and bowed and she passed new arrivals on to her husband with just the right shade of dignified cordiality.
Even when there was a stir around the far door and an unmistakable figure, not in the least disguised as Queen Elizabeth, progressed past the line and stopped before the Towers, Fey did not lose her poise. ‘We are honored to receive you. It was good of you to come,’ she said quietly, cutting across Simeon’s overeffusive stammer of greeting.
‘Well——’ said Mrs. Bull to her friend. ‘So Mrs. Astor did come! ’
‘Oh, yes,’ answered Mrs. Carson, who was on more intimate terms with their leader and did not intend that anyone should forget it. ‘Carrie told me she would when I took tea with her last Wednesday. She says that we must be broad-minded about widening our circle from time to time, especially when they give such delightful balls.’
Everyone agreed that it was a delightful ball, even before the opening grand march had ended. There was a Greek gods and goddess quadrille and a royal personages quadrille expertly directed by Ward McAllister, who was daringly costumed as the Huguenot lover of Marguerite de Valois. The cotillion favors were gorgeous—solid gold handkerchief holders or bonbonnières for the ladies, cuff links for the men.
By eleven-thirty the ball was in full swing. Fey excused herself from the general dancing for a moment and slipped into a rose-bowered cozy comer—one of several provided for couples who wished to sit out.
They were all waltzing—her guests, beguiled by Strauss’s increasingly popular ‘Wine, Woman, and Song.’ The mosaic of glittering color whirled past her. Beneath the tiny half-masks mouths laughed, jeweled and bewigged heads tilted coquettishly. The air was voluptuous with the scent of powder, of the garlands of La France roses which festooned the shaded gasoliers, of resinous floor wax.
Fey saw Simeon nervously maneuvering Mrs. Astor through the reverse. Her Elizabethan farthingale and famous diamond stomacher made these maneuvers risky. Simeon, being the host, was unmasked and his face glistened with heat. But he looked happy.
We’ve done it! thought Fey. Security at last and triumph. She sighed a little, drawing back into the shelter of the corner. She must go out and dance; she saw that Ward McAllister had discovered her and was edging around the room in her direction. I need some champagne, she thought; this has been a strain. But we’ve done it!
‘Fair Guinevere, wilt thou trip a measure with me?’ said McAllister in the high, whinnying voice he considered suitable for disguise.
‘Most certainly, brave Huguenot lord,’ answered Fey. This sort of thing was part of a domino ball.
‘Never did I see so goodly a company,’ he said, clasping her red velvet waist in his plump arm and leading her toward the floor. And he added, in his ordinary voice: ‘A howling success, my dear. I’m so pleased for you. Mrs. Astor just told me she thought everything was very well done.’
‘I’m so glad,’ whispered Fey.
‘I took the liberty of seeing that your servants were frappéing the champagne properly,’ he said. ‘It means so much.’ He waited for her thanks, and was surprised to get no answer, for Mrs. Tower was always extremely appreciative of his help. He glanced down at her face and saw on it a peculiar expression. She had grown very white and she looked dazed. Her eyes were fixed toward the end of the room near the orchestra, and, as she mechanically whirled with him, she kept her head turned in that direction.
‘You’re looking for somebody?’ he asked.
Fey’s eyes flickered and came back to her partner. ‘I’m sorry. No. That is, one of the costumes startled me. I hadn’t seen it before.’
‘Oh, no doubt you mean that rather ghastly Mephistopheles,’ said McAllister, always delighted by feminine sensibility. ‘He is quite terrifying. I think it’s young Tremont.’
Fey smiled faintly, and let it go at that. It was not Mephistopheles which had set her heart to a thick, frightened pounding, but the glimpse of an inconspicuous black suit, tight trousers, short jacket, and flat broad-brimmed hat, the ordinary dress of a Mexican caballero. To everyone else it would seem a costume, a somber and uninteresting one amongst all the elaborate creations, but still a costume. To Fey it was a familiar memory, and her first reaction was one of amazement. Who had known enough to reproduce a suit so authentic? It was on the second glimpse that she examined the wearer. His face was distorted by the half-mask and it was too far away to see details. But there was something in the height, the length of back, and a flowing sort of grace—— He was waltzing with a stately Martha Washington.
I’m loco, said Fey to herself, and the use of the blunt little Spanish word reassured her. It’s impossible that what I for a moment imagined should be true. ‘Feyita la Loca.’ For here is our great ball, there is Simeon still dancing with Mrs. Astor. If I got near that man, I would see that there is no resemblance.
‘I think, if you don’t mind, a glass of champagne——’ she murmured to McAllister. ‘It’s so silly, but I seem to be a little tired. No, I’ll come with you.’
She did not look back at the ballroom, but walked beside McAllister down the corridor that separated it from the rest of the house and the supper rooms. She sank on a gilt chair, accepting a glass from her escort.
‘I shouldn’t leave my guests, should I! ’ she said, giving a vague little smile.
McAllister was perturbed. Mrs. Tower seemed suddenly to have lost the poise and assurance which he had always admired. She gulped her champagne, and sent him for another glass. Her hands moved restlessly, her fingers twisted and untwisted one of the strands of pearls in her braid.
‘The guests will expect to unmask at midnight. You really should be there, unless you are unwell,’ he said.
‘Yes—yes, of course,’ answered Fey. But she did not move. I’m afraid, she thought, afraid. I don’t want to go back to that ballroom.
Suddenly, to McAllister’s relief, she got up, and looked at the gold and ormolu clock on the mantel. ‘It’s time,’she said. ‘We’ll go right back, and will you give the order, please?’
At once propitiated, for he adored being master of ceremonies, McAllister bowed and offered his arm. They returned to the ballroom. He went to silence the orchestra, and Fey walked over to Simeon, who was now seated beside Mrs. Astor and fanning her. The great lady nodded graciously and made room for Fey beside her.
The music stopped, and McAllister waved his arms for silence, crying, ‘Our amiable host and hostess, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, decree that everyone shall unmask!’
There was a flurry, a little gale of high-pitched squeals and protestations. The dominos were removed and flung into a comer, where two footmen gathered them up.
He isn’t here, thought Fey, after a quick survey. I was dreaming. The shaking in her chest subsided. She turned full attention to Mrs. Astor, who was examining the company critically and commenting. ‘So that was Minnie Atkins all the time. Green is so trying for her.—Oh, yes, and there are the Lorillards.’ She paused. ‘A few faces new to me. So refreshing. One gets sick of the same ones, of course.’
Fey smiled and nodded. Across Mrs. Astor her eyes met Simeon’s and they exchanged a quick, exultant look.
‘Oh, I see Mr. Clareforth, just going through the door. I’m most anxious to speak to him.’ Mrs. Astor smiled at Simeon. ‘Would you mind—?’
Simeon rose eagerly and made off through the crowd after Clareforth. McAllister, who had been hovering, slipped into his place. Mrs. Astor’s eyes roved again. ‘There’s a tall young man in black, over by the last window. Really very handsome. Is he one of the Randolphs, I wonder?’
Ice flowed over Fey. The ballroom darkened and swung around her in wavering circles. She followed Mrs. Astor’s gaze. Acros
s a hundred waltzing heads she saw Terry, staring in her direction. As he saw her look toward him, he sketched a slight mocking bow.
‘I don’t seem to know him,’ remarked McAllister, puzzled. ‘But a few people asked permission to bring house guests, did they not, Mrs. Tower? He must be——’
‘Of course,’ interrupted Fey sharply. ‘I believe he came with the Goodhues. Oh, the new cotillion is forming! And here are Simeon and Mr. Clareforth. Will you excuse me for a moment, please? ’
She stepped down from the dais and she walked rigidly, deliberately around the fringes of the crowd. Anger such as she had never known beat through her like a gong, but her mind had cleared, withdrawn itself to a pinnacle from which it issued directions.
She knew that Terry would follow her, and she walked to the corridor which led to the main house, waited in the deserted supper room until he came sauntering along. She threw a swift glance around. Nobody. They were all gathered for the cotillion. She walked down the hall and opened the door of a small anteroom, Terry followed her inside, and she shut the door.
‘This is charming,’ he said, smiling, and extending his hand. ‘I’m used to conquest, of course, but I must admit I usually have to plot a bit longer than this before I can persuade a beautiful lady to——’
‘Callate!’ cried Fey, stamping her foot, and she hissed three other words.
Terry blinked and dropped his hand. Then he recovered. ‘Well! I’d never have dreamed the elegant Mrs. Tower still knew how to be rude in Spanish!...And you used to be such a cool little party. I used to kind of hope you’d get stamping mad. It’s becoming.’
Fey unclenched her hands. She turned her eyes from him. You’re a fool, she said to herself. You’re twenty-seven years old and you’re acting like a child. This man has no power over you.