Or so he declared.
Rose pressed down the folds of her own gown of royal blue silk trimmed in white satin netting—a gown drawn from the collection her aunt had kept from her youth and altered to fit Rose’s smaller frame. She tugged at the white sash around her waist. A matching ribbon adorned her hair, which had been pinned up in a cascade of curls and decorated further with jeweled pins and a spray of tiny wildflowers. A gold necklace, embedded with rubies and pearls—also her aunt’s—hung over a neckline that was a bit low for Rose’s taste. Nevertheless, the elegant attire made her feel like a princess. At least until Mr. Snyder had appeared at the house, with black top hat in one hand and his ever-present cane in the other, wearing a grin that reminded Rose of Prinney’s pink snout after a fine meal of kitchen slops. And suddenly, instead of a princess, Rose felt like the icing on a cake about to be eaten by the devil himself.
Wind gusted through the coach’s window, and she closed her eyes, imagining she was on board a ship with Alex, sailing to an exotic port where it didn’t matter from whence they hailed: America or Britain, France, or even the moon. She wondered where he was at that moment. What he was doing. Was he safe? Had his captain accepted him back on board without repercussions?
Was he thinking of her?
Rose shook her head, trying to scatter the thoughts away. They served no purpose other than to feed an ever-growing depression that hovered over her like a dark, icy fog.
Amelia slipped her hand into Rose’s, and she felt the woman’s tremble of excitement even through her gloves. Rose smiled her way and then dared a glance at Mr. Braxton, whose gaze had not left Amelia since he had entered the carriage. Perhaps her maid would find true love again after all.
As Rose had found. If only for a few days.
But now that she had experienced it, nothing else would do—especially not the man sitting across from her. She felt his eyes upon her, but she refused to honor his sordid stare with a glance of her own.
Instead, she studied her uncle sitting across from his wife. She’d never seen him looking so dapper in his black overcoat, embroidered satin silver waistcoat, and breeches. He tipped his hat toward her, drawing a smile from Rose, yet something in the curve of his lips, the depth of his gaze, gave her pause. It was as if he knew some grand secret. Returning her gaze to the window, she released a sigh. Fairy tales and dreams were for little girls. Not for women like Rose, who had seen too much of the cruel world to no longer believe in happy endings.
Mr. Snyder tapped his cane on the floor. “I daresay, it promises to be a glorious evening. I am quite looking forward to it.”
Uncle Forbes lifted his hand to his mouth to cover what sounded like a chuckle but ended as a cough.
Aunt Muira frowned at her husband before responding, “Indeed, I do agree, Mr. Snyder. This ball is just what this city needs to take our mind off the war.”
“And what is your opinion, Miss McGuire?” Mr. Snyder addressed Rose in a tone that dared her to speak her true heart.
She flashed a caustic smile his way and tugged upon her long white gloves. “I fear I do not share your enthusiasm, Mr. Snyder.”
Amelia looped her arm through Rose’s. “Oh I do pray you will cheer up. We shall have so much fun.” The woman’s lavender perfume swirled around Rose, mingling with the rose oil she had dabbed on her own neck.
“I agree.” Aunt Muira’s tone was scolding. “Count your blessings, dear, or they shall be taken away from you and given to someone more appreciative.”
Uncle Forbes coughed again, and Rose swept a gaze his way again. Was he ill? But no. A smile creased the corners of his mouth.
Blessings, indeed. Rose tapped a gloved finger over the window frame in an attempt to count out those blessings. But the few she recollected were instantly shadowed by the disastrous future looming before her.
Soon the hackney turned down Light Street, which was aptly named this evening for the many streetlights setting the block aglow—the ban on city lights apparently lifted for this gala event. A parade of ladies in flowing gowns, escorted by gentlemen in top hats and coats, drifted down the avenue toward the Fountain Inn. Coaches, curricles, and chaises, along with gentlemen atop horses swarmed the cobblestone street. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of carriage wheels, and the laughter and chatter of the crowd rose in a chorus of gaiety that thumbed its nose at the British troops blockading the port.
The driver pulled the coach to a halt before the Fountain Inn, an elaborate structure that rose several stories into the night sky. Light shone from the upper windows onto iron-grated balconies before spilling down upon the crush of people swarming to enter the front doors. The gentlemen leaped from the carriage, the footman lowered the step, and Mr. Snyder’s bony hand appeared in the doorway. The audacious jewel on his middle finger winked at Rose in the lantern light. She drew a deep breath. She could do this. She could endure one night with this hideous man. Just one night at a time—although he insisted on many more. But she could not think of that now, or she feared she would lose all desire to live.
Avoiding Mr. Snyder’s outstretched hand, she clutched her gown and descended the steps, searching the crowd for any sign of Marianne or Cassandra. She could use a friend tonight. The ladies’ coiffures adorned with ribbons, flowers, and plumes bobbed alongside waves of black hats that swept through the front door like seawater pouring through a crack into the hold of a ship. With her hand all but hovering over Mr. Snyder’s arm, she allowed him to lead her through that crack, wondering all along if she would drown in the agony of her heart.
Once inside, Mr. Snyder ushered her through the main courtyard of the inn, where a large trickling fountain was the centerpiece in a flower garden set aglow by flickering lantern light. Rose gazed up at the inn’s chambers perched upon levels of terraces that circled the gardens. Several couples stood near the fountain or sat on the iron benches in deep conversation. She glanced over her shoulder to see Amelia hanging on Mr. Braxton’s arm, her eyes sparkling with excitement as they scanned the surroundings. From behind Amelia, Aunt Muira offered Rose a gentle smile. Rose knew her aunt meant well. And by all accounts, Mr. Snyder was a perfect match for any young lady. Until he revealed the devil buried beneath his polished facade.
Following the swarm of chattering guests, Mr. Snyder, with his head held high, led Rose through another set of doors to their left. A few heads turned their way as they moved into the brightly lit ballroom. The elegant tones of a minuet began at the far end of the hall where musicians sat on a raised stage. Two massive crystalline chandeliers hung from an arched stucco ceiling that was etched with flowers and gilded in gold. Mirrors on either side of the room reflected the light from dozens of candles. The smell of sweet punch, beeswax, and a myriad of perfumes tickled Rose’s nose and made her long for fresh air.
After their names were announced, Rose scanned the ladies who stood at the edge of the dancing couples, gossiping behind fluttering fans like a gaggle of geese flapping their wings. No sign of her friends anywhere. Rose’s heart sank even lower. She turned to ask Amelia if she had seen Marianne, but Mr. Braxton had already swept her out onto the dance floor.
Aunt Muira and Uncle Forbes soon followed, gazing into each other’s eyes as if they were the only ones in the room.
Rose swallowed a lump of sorrow. Her aunt and uncle shared an intimate, eternal love Rose had but tasted, but would never know in full.
“Would you care to join them?” Mr. Snyder’s blue eyes studied her, and Rose searched her mind for an excuse.
It came in the form of her dear friend, Marianne, who hurried to join her from across the room in a flurry of pink satin. She grabbed Rose’s arm. “I was so glad when I heard you were attending.”
“How did you hear?” Rose turned from Mr. Snyder and gave her friend a questioning look, glad for the excuse to avoid his question. She had only just agreed to attend three days prior and had not spoken to anyone since.
“Oh, never mind.” Marianne smiled
and nodded toward Mr. Snyder. “Good evening, Councilman.”
He scrunched his lips together as if tasting something sour. The music stopped and those who remained on the floor lined up in two rows as others joined them, men along one side and women on the other. “Mrs. Brenin.” Mr. Snyder said. “If you’ll excuse us, Miss McGuire and I were about to partake of the country dance.”
He grabbed Rose’s arm to drag her onto the floor when Noah wove his way through the crowd to stand before him. “Mr. Snyder, I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, sir. Would you join me in the other room for a glass of port?” He flashed a smile toward his wife. “I’m sure the ladies can entertain themselves in our absence.”
“Importance, you say?” The councilman’s chest seemed to expand beneath his velvet waistcoat. “Can’t it wait?”
“Not unless you wish to keep the mayor waiting.”
Snyder peered around Noah toward the side doors. “Mayor Johnson wishes to speak to me?”
“Indeed. He asked for you directly.” Noah’s tone was serious, but his blue eyes held a twinkle of mischief.
“Of course. No doubt he seeks my wise council on a matter of urgency.” Mr. Snyder jutted out his chin. Releasing Rose’s arm, he faced her. “I shall return shortly to claim that dance, my dear.”
Rose shot a pointed gaze at his back as he left. She breathed a sigh of relief as music filled the room once again.
Cassandra, decked in a shimmering gown of emerald, appeared out of nowhere and sidled up beside Rose. She made a face at Mr. Snyder as he exited the room with Noah.
“You shouldn’t behave so, Cassandra.” Rose covered her mouth to hide her unavoidable smile.
“Why not? He deserves it.” Cassandra fingered the lace on her glove and gave Rose a coy glance.
Marianne’s eyes sparkled. She clutched Rose’s arm again and seemed ready to jump out of her shoes. If Rose didn’t know her friend better, she’d think it was the ball that thrilled her so. But she did know her friend. And Marianne had never been overfond of such social functions. Rose’s gaze shifted to Cassandra, who wore an unusually sly look, even for her.
Rose lifted a brow. “What’s going on with you two? Did Noah purposely steal Mr. Snyder away for some delightfully foul purpose?” Not that she would object. But what confused her was how her friends would know to aid her in such a manner. She’d never spoken to them of her aversion to Mr. Snyder or of his recent threats.
Cassandra batted the air with her white glove. “What does it matter? He’s gone.” Her green eyes scanned the crowd as if looking for someone. They locked on something in the distance, and Rose followed her gaze to see Mr. Heaton standing by himself across the room, drink in hand. His normally unruly black hair was slicked and tied at the back of his neck as he stood tall and handsome in a well-tailored suit of black lute string with velvet trim. His dark eyes focused on Cassandra as if there were no one else in the room worth looking at. He raised his glass toward her with a nod.
“My word.” Rose leaned toward Cassandra. “Mr. Heaton presents quite the handsome figure tonight.”
Marianne smiled. “And it would appear he only has eyes for you, Cassandra.”
Cassandra tore her gaze from him. “Don’t be absurd. Mr. Heaton has eyes for anything in a skirt.” Her giggle faltered on her lips.
Rose glanced back at Mr. Heaton and found his gaze still directed their way before he turned and slipped through a side door.
“Doesn’t he captain your ship, Destiny?” Rose asked Cassandra.
“Yes. And he’s already made quite a fortune in prizes.” Marianne’s delicate brows lifted.
“He’s a rogue and not to be trusted.” Cassandra spat. “I have begun to regret investing in his privateer.” She pressed down the folds of her emerald gown.
Several gentlemen approached the three ladies, requesting dances with both Rose and Cassandra. Rose politely refused each one, forbidding them to even sign her dance card. Cassandra, however, at least allowed them that small encouragement, although, in truth, she appeared more than aloof.
Rose hadn’t danced since her father had twirled her around their parlor when she was a little girl. The thought of a man touching her, even briefly, in such a seductive dalliance made her heart cinch. That was, any man but Alex. And with him gone, she’d never have the opportunity. Even the cheerful music rasped in her ears like a contentious chime. Truth be told, she’d rather go home and bury her head beneath her pillow.
Rose fingered the heavy jewels around her neck, as out of place on her skin as she was at this ball. Her glance took in the dancers floating over the marble floor like swans on a crystalline pond. She spotted Amelia as she executed the steps of the quadrille with perfection—steps the young maid had practiced with Rose and her aunt in the parlor all week. Amelia’s face glowed with delight, and Rose smiled, happy for her companion, despite the agony weighing down her own heart.
Two more gentlemen approached. Rose politely declined the taller man’s offer to dance while Cassandra batted the other one away.
“Why not dance with the gentleman, Rose?” Marianne gripped her arm and swept her gaze over the room as if looking for someone. “It may help to lift your humors.”
“I agree.” Cassandra waved her silk printed fan about her face. “You shouldn’t be so glum at so gay an event. Who knows when we’ll have another evening such as this one with this war going on?”
“Then why aren’t you dancing?” Rose asked Cassandra.
“Because I have become, shall we say, more selective regarding whom I choose to pair up with on the dance floor.”
Marianne leaned close with a smile. “Which means she’s waiting for a particular gentleman to ask her.”
Cassandra huffed, but a grin played with the corners of her lips.
Rose would have giggled if her insides didn’t feel like they’d been run over by a carriage. “Please go enjoy yourselves. I’m afraid I’m not good company tonight.”
“Rubbish.” Marianne said. “Why don’t we go get some punch before the two of you break every gentleman’s heart in the room?” She tugged on Rose’s arm and led the way toward one of the side doors.
A billowing crowd of chattering people packed the refreshment parlor, helping themselves to the libations on a buffet lining the far wall. Men circled gaming tables perched about the room, playing whist or faro. The smoke of a dozen cigars hovered over them like storm clouds. Rose drew a hand to her nose.
“Oh no, there is Mr. Snyder.” Marianne dragged Rose to the side. “Perhaps we can get a drink without him seeing us.”
“He knows I’m here, Marianne.” Rose gave a cynical snort. “Besides, he appears to be quite in his element.”
Standing beside Noah, Mayor Johnson, General Smith, and two other councilmen, Mr. Snyder held a drink in one hand and his cane in the other. His voice—which sounded much like the squeaking of a rusty hinge—rose above the crowd and ground against Rose’s ears. By the bored expressions on the faces of his audience, he no doubt regaled them with his grand vision for the city. Noah stood at his side. Mr. Heaton suddenly appeared and handed Noah a glass of red liquid, which, after relieving Mr. Snyder of his empty one, Noah placed in the councilman’s hand.
Craning to see between the undulating crowd, Rose eyed them with curiosity. Neither Noah nor Mr. Heaton were the type to flatter someone in power, nor had they ever expressed an interest in Mr. Snyder’s affairs or politics in general.
She leaned toward Marianne. “I must thank Noah later for keeping Mr. Snyder occupied. But I don’t wish to keep your husband from you all evening.”
“Oh think nothing of it.” Marianne eased her toward an oblong table laden with cold tea, punch, and spiced wine. Rose selected a glass of punch and had barely taken a sip when Mr. Snyder, Noah, and Mr. Heaton descended upon them.
Mr. Snyder’s eyes carried a distant glaze that seemed at odds with the man’s normal intense focus. He extended his arm. “A dance, my dear?”
“I do not feel—” she began to protest.
“Nonsense.” He dragged her through the clamorous mob and out onto the dance floor where they joined a row of couples lining up for a reel. One glance to her side told her that Marianne, Noah, Luke, and Cassandra had followed. Oddly, their presence brought her some comfort.
The music began, and Rose bowed toward Mr. Snyder, whose gaze skittered about the room like a bird who’d lost his flock. They stepped toward each other. “Are you all right, Mr. Snyder?”
“Yes, of course.” Yet his voice wobbled slightly. He coughed and stepped back. They circled around and met again. When he moved toward the lady beside Rose, his face grew flushed, and he stumbled.
They stepped together. Rose placed her hand upon his upraised one and they floated down the middle of the rows, with the ladies on one side, the men on the other. “Did the mayor say something to upset you?” Rose asked.
“No, of course not. Naturally, he wanted my opinion on the defenses of the city.”
Naturally. Rose strung her lips tight as they made their way down the line of dancers. Marianne and Noah grinned at her in passing.
“You are marrying an important man, Miss McGuire,” he added, though his tone lacked its usual rigid pomposity.
He stepped away, then back again. “Perhaps now you won’t find the idea so disagreeable?” His grin broke into an odd giggle.
Surrender the Night Page 26