by Dorothy Love
Sutton frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“My cousin is talking to that shameless newspaper writer.”
Sutton joined her at the window. “He’s shameless all right. That piece he wrote is full of nothing but fabrication and innuendo.”
“Exactly. But his articles still worry me, not to mention his ridiculous plan to write a book about us. You know how people here detest any hint of scandal. Papa already has enough on his mind without worrying about how Mr. Channing’s writings will be received. I cannot imagine why Ivy is standing there with him in broad daylight.”
She yanked on the tasseled cord to draw the blinds. “Mr. Thompson promised Papa that Leo Channing would stay away from us. It looks as if he forgot to tell Mr. Channing.”
“Say the word, and I’ll go out there and give the fool a good drubbing.”
“Thank you. But he isn’t worth it.”
Arm in arm they quit the library and walked out to the entry hall, where Sutton retrieved his hat. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “And in the meantime, try not to worry about Channing—or my trip to England, for that matter. Who knows? By the new year circumstances might well have changed and a trip won’t be necessary.”
“Sutton Mackay, you know perfectly well you will go. You’re only trying to make me feel better.”
Sutton planted a kiss on her cheek. “Good-bye, darling. Don’t be too hard on Ivy. I’m sure she must have a reason for her behavior.”
He opened the door just as Ivy came through the wrought-iron gate, swinging her book satchel like a schoolgirl. “Good morning, Sutton.”
He tipped his hat. “Miss Lorens. You seem particularly happy today.”
He waved and let himself out through the gate.
“Yes, Cousin.” Celia folded her arms and glared at Ivy as they walked inside. “Tell me, what has put you in such an agreeable mood? Was it the drive from the asylum in this brisk weather? Your reading lesson with Louisa? Or your cozy talk with the heinous Mr. Channing? How you can even speak to him after that piece in the paper this morning is surely beyond my ken.”
Ivy swept into the library, set her satchel onto a chair, and unpinned her hat. “I saw him in the park when Joseph drove me back from the asylum. I thought if I talked to him he might temper his future writings. I don’t care, of course, but it’s important to you.” She turned to face Celia, her eyes bright. “I did it for you.”
“Oh, Ivy. I didn’t mean . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You could start with thank you.” Ivy leaned in to study her own reflection in the gilt mirror near the door.
“I’m sorry I spoke so harshly. It’s just that Papa has so much on his mind these days, he doesn’t need the distraction. And I do want Sutton’s party to be perfect. Now more than ever.”
“Oh? Why is that?” Ivy patted a blond ringlet into place.
“He’s leaving again. After Christmas.”
Ivy spun away from the mirror, her pink dress swirling. “Leaving? Oh, dear. I know how you had counted on marrying him, but perhaps it simply isn’t meant to be.”
Celia was too tired to explain. And perhaps it was best to guard Sutton’s plans, at least for now.
The doorbell rang and Celia went to answer it. Leo Channing stood there in his rumpled, disreputable suit, hat in hand. “Miss Browning. I’ve just spoken with your cousin, and I was wondering whether you’d care to comment on—”
“I would not. And what is more, I intend to report you to the police. Your employer has instructed you to stay away from this house, yet here you are again.”
“True enough. But since Miss Lorens has been so accommodating, I thought perhaps you, too, might have had a change of heart.”
Celia made to close the door, but he wedged one booted foot into the opening. “Did you see this morning’s piece?”
“Half-truths and sensationalism. Exactly what I expected from someone of your caliber.”
Channing narrowed his eyes. “No need to get nasty. You might do well to remember that two can play that game. And I have a public forum for my comments.”
“Please remove your foot from my door.”
“Did you ever meet her—the laundress who met her sad demise here?”
Celia drew herself up and met his gaze. “The mills of God grind slowly, Mr. Channing. But they grind exceedingly small.”
The reporter stepped back. “Don’t threaten me. Get in my way, and you will regret it.”
He turned and hurried through the gate and onto the street. Celia slammed the door with such force that Mrs. Maguire came running from the kitchen, her hands covered in flour, apron strings flying out behind her. “By all the saints, Celia Browning. What the divil is going on?”
Beyond the river, a storm was brewing.
7
THE NOTES BEGAN ARRIVING EARLY ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, delivered by messenger or by household servants, all of them pleading an excuse—the arrival of an unexpected guest, a sick child, a prior engagement suddenly remembered, the onset of a ragged cough. By early evening, thirty-seven guests had canceled.
“What are we going to do, Papa?” Celia’s voice trembled as she dropped the latest one, a note from Mrs. Fanning, onto the silver tray in the entry hall. “This party is ruined.”
“Carry on as best we can.” He drew her into an embrace and planted a kiss on the top of her head, just as he had when she was a child and scared of the dark or complaining of a skinned knee. “We mustn’t spoil the evening for those guests who do attend. Besides, a smaller party might actually be more enjoyable because we’ll have more time to chat with everyone. And the size of the crowd makes no difference to Sutton. He’d be just as happy to be spending this day swimming and fishing or attending the boat races with you over on Isle of Hope.”
“I wish now I’d thought of that.” She stepped back and searched her father’s face. “It’s because of those ridiculous newspaper articles that so many have canceled.”
“I’m afraid so. But the best way to combat Channing is to pretend indifference. He isn’t invited, so he won’t know how many guests have decided not to come. As far as he’s concerned, your masquerade ball is a smashing success.”
“I suppose. But Mrs. Maguire and her friends have been cooking for days. There will be so much food left over. I hate to see it all go to waste.”
“We’ll send some home with the servers, and the rest we’ll deliver to the indigents at the Poor House and Hospital. They’ll be glad of it.” Papa managed a tired smile. “Why don’t you lie down for a while before you get dressed? Ivy can answer the door.”
“Ivy is locked in her room, working feverishly on her costume.”
“She’s decided to come down for the party?”
“Yes. She decided it just this morning. I’m glad. I feel guilty when I’m down here having a good time and she is all alone with her nose in a book.”
“I’m glad of it too. I’d like to see her socializing more.” Papa tapped the ash from his favorite pipe and returned the pipe to its wooden chest on his desk. “I do wish she hadn’t encouraged Mr. Channing, though. The less said to that reprobate, the better.”
“Ivy says she and Mr. Channing have a great deal in common. That he lost his parents at an early age, too, though not under such dramatic circumstances. But I can’t help thinking he’s lying to gain her sympathy and ensure her cooperation.”
“Well, Ivy is a grown woman,” Papa said as the doorbell rang again. “She must make her own judgments about him.”
Celia pressed her fingers to her temples to quell the headache that had been building all afternoon. “Perhaps I will lie down for a little while.”
“I’ll have Mrs. Maguire bring you some chamomile tea. And please don’t fret about this evening. The important thing is that Sutton will be here.”
“Thank you, Papa. You always know what to say to make me feel better.” She started up the stairs.
“Celia?”
She turned, one
hand resting on the polished mahogany banister.
“I’m sorry I forgot to get your mother’s necklace from the bank. With everything else going on these days, it slipped my mind.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She went upstairs, unpinned her hair, removed her pink dressing gown, and slid beneath the lavender-scented covers. Soon Mrs. Maguire arrived with the tea, her faded eyes full of sympathy. The housekeeper drew the curtains, poured a cup of tea, and stood beside the bed, hands clasped at her waist, while Celia sipped the warm infusion. “There now, and you’ll be feelin’ better after a good nap.”
“Can you stay with me a moment?”
“Sure. Nothin’ more to do downstairs until it’s time to set up the table.” Mrs. Maguire moved a chair closer to the edge of the bed. “Now there is no use in worryin’ any longer about that Channing fellow. He’s a thorn in the side of this household all right, but—”
“It’s so unfair.” Celia raked her hair away from her face. “Tormenting us, turning our friends against us, all because he wants to write about a crime that didn’t even happen.”
Mrs. Maguire patted Celia’s hand. “My mam used to say if everything in the world was fair, there would be no need for courage. I’m thinkin’ she was right about that. But you mustn’t let this man upset you. ’Tis only a lot of blather that will be forgot soon enough.”
The tea and Mrs. Maguire’s company had the desired effect. Celia grew sleepy as the housekeeper chattered on about the new store that had just opened downtown, plans for an autumn festival at her church, a letter recently received from a niece in Ireland.
When Celia woke, darkness was descending, and the gaslights along Bull Street were just coming on. She lit her lamp and splashed cold water on her face, drew on her dressing gown, and went across the hall to knock on Ivy’s door.
“Come in.”
Celia peeked in. “Is your costume ready?”
“Yes, but I want it to be a surprise.” Ivy’s eyes glittered with a feverish excitement Celia had seldom seen. “Shall I help you into your Cleopatra gown?”
“Would you?”
Together they returned to Celia’s room. Celia took the dress from the wardrobe where it had hung since she’d retrieved it from the room that had once been her mother’s. She removed her dressing gown and stood before the mirror as Ivy slid the heavy column of gold silk over her head. The dress shimmered with every movement, catching and reflecting the light.
“Hold still while I do up the buttons.” Ivy’s eyes sought Celia’s in the mirror. “Uncle David was right. In this gown you do look exactly like Aunt Francesca. As much as I can recall of her anyway.”
“I wish I remembered more about her.” The buttons finished, Celia picked up her hairbrush and began fashioning her long hair into a cascade of ringlets held in place by two small diamond-studded combs. Her memories were few and fleeting. But judging from her mother’s portrait, Francesca, with her dark hair and violet eyes, had looked nothing like her auburn-haired, light-eyed sister. “Sometimes it feels as if our family is a string of broken pearls, with people going in all directions, getting lost and never found.”
“I remember my mother talking about how she and Aunt Francesca were such good friends growing up. She said they played endless games of old maid and smoot and never fought at all.” Ivy sighed. “I wish the two of us got along as well. But we are too different.”
That much was true. There had been a time when Celia looked up to her older cousin. She’d admired Ivy’s practicality and fearlessness, her sheer inventiveness when it came to devising games and adventures Celia wouldn’t have dared undertake on her own. But admiration had turned to wariness the day Ivy lured Celia into the garden shed and locked her inside. To this day, the prospect of confinement in a small space made Celia’s heart pound, though Ivy had long since apologized, and Celia had long since forgiven her for the prank.
“I suppose we are different.” Celia smiled at her cousin as she applied a bit of pomade to her lips and dabbed rosewater behind each ear. “But we are still family.” With a final glance at her reflection, she rose. “I must check with Mrs. Maguire and see whether the musicians have arrived yet.”
“I’ll be down in a while.” Ivy picked up Celia’s gold-trimmed half-mask from the dressing table. “Don’t forget this.”
Celia went downstairs, through the ballroom, and onto the rear terrace, where the serving table had been set up. Candles in clear glass globes and pots of ivy and copper roses lined the perimeter of the terrace, which opened to the lawn and the ivy-covered outbuildings beyond. A white linen tablecloth had been laid on the long table, each end anchored with pyramids of oranges encased in spun sugar.
The centerpiece was a miniature tree three feet high and made entirely of ground-pea candy. Each of the tiny branches was loaded with crystallized fruit. A bird’s nest fashioned from chocolate held three blue eggs.
It had taken Mrs. Maguire and Mrs. Hemphill from the bakery downtown three days to complete. And now there would be so few to appreciate the whimsy and artistry of it.
The terrace doors opened, and Mrs. Maguire and her helpers began laying out the buffet—plates of ham and beaten biscuits, trays of roast beef and parsnips, iced cakes and bowls of pudding for dessert.
The musicians arrived and began tuning up. Soon carriages and buggies would be making their way to the door. It was time to begin. Celia took a deep breath and headed inside to greet her guests.
“Celia, there you are.” Papa, dressed as a sultan with gold turban and matching slippers, caught her by the hand and twirled her around. “You are just as beautiful as I imagined. I’m glad now that I forgot the necklace. No need to paint the lily, as they say.”
“Thank you, Papa. And may I say you make a dashing sultan?”
He laughed and offered her his arm. “Let’s go.”
They took up their places as the guests entered. Behind the traditional half-masks her friends were recognizable. Several of the men, including Mr. Mackay, wore sailor costumes. Others came dressed as shepherds, oracles, and French noblemen in tight white breeches and powdered wigs. Mr. and Mrs. Stiles arrived costumed as King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. Mrs. Stiles’s bright laughter rose above the hum of conversations and the music coming from the terrace.
Mrs. Harding arrived costumed as a Scottish lass, Mrs. Green as a Swiss maid. Sutton’s mother, Cornelia Mackay, arrived in an alpaca riding skirt with a black velvet basque, linen collar, and a smart feathered hat. Celia grinned. “Diana Vernon, if I’m not mistaken.”
Mrs. Mackay laughed. “And I thought I was being so clever, choosing one of Mr. Scott’s characters.” She kissed Celia’s cheek. “I so enjoyed reading Rob Roy.”
“Me too. And you are Diana in the flesh.”
“Thank you, my dear. And you—you look simply magnificent.”
Celia smiled. “The dress was my mother’s.”
“I well remember. And I must say you do it justice. Sutton will be stunned.”
Celia looked around at the guests clustered in twos and threes, their small number lost in a space meant for a much larger crowd—and tamped down another rush of anger at Leo Channing. “Where is Sutton?”
“He was getting dressed when we left. He’ll be along momentarily, I’m sure.”
“Miss Browning?” Celia turned to see her father’s clerk, Elliott Shaw, bearing down upon her, a plain domino mask his only concession to the party.
She felt a momentary stab of panic, fearing more bad news from Commerce Row. “Mr. Shaw?”
“I . . . hello.” Behind his mask, his eyes were unusually bright. “I’m sorry for barging in when I wasn’t invited, but I must speak to you for a moment.”
She discreetly fanned away the faint smell of spirits coming off him. “About what?”
“In private?” He waved a hand toward the terrace.
Mrs. Mackay touched Celia’s arm. “Go ahead, darling. I’ll keep an eye out for Sutton.”
&nbs
p; Frowning, Celia led the way to a shadowed corner of the terrace. “What’s this all about, Mr. Shaw? What can I do for you?”
“I don’t want a favor, Miss Browning.” He removed his mask and heaved a sigh. “Unless accepting a gift from an admirer constitutes a favor.”
He produced a small box from his pocket and pressed it into her hands. “I’d be honored if you’d accept this.”
“But why?”
“Why?” He wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers. “Surely my admiration for you hasn’t escaped your notice.”
She tried to remember whether she had ever said anything he might have construed as encouragement, but nothing came to mind. “We barely know each other.”
“I know a lot about you. I admire you for all the work you do for the orphan girls and for the interest you take in your father’s business. I can’t afford a real fancy present, but this is a heartfelt one, and I only wish—”
“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Shaw, but I cannot possibly accept this.” She returned the box.
“How do you know? You haven’t even opened it.”
“I don’t wish to offend, but it simply isn’t proper. We’re practically strangers, and besides, you are Papa’s employee. And, well, I simply cannot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must return to my guests. Shall I ask my father to show you out?”
“No need, Miss High and Mighty. I know the way out.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.
Moments later Sutton came through the door dressed as a pirate, a black eye patch substituting for the customary half-mask. He hurried over to Celia and stopped short, one hand clapped to his heart. “Cleopatra!”
She laughed, the unsettling episode with the clerk instantly forgotten. “Jean Lafitte? Or Blackbeard? Whichever, I like the eye patch.” She took his arm, nodding at the heavy coin necklace draped over his blue jacket. “The pieces of eight are a nice touch too.”
In the ballroom, the musicians had begun a lively waltz, and the guests paired off for the first dance. Celia danced first with Sutton, then with his father, then with Papa. As they twirled around the floor, she kept one eye on the hallway, looking for Ivy. What was taking her so long? Celia hoped her cousin hadn’t lost her nerve and decided not to come downstairs after all. It wasn’t natural for a woman of Ivy’s age to spend so much time alone.