Jasper cleared his throat and looked suddenly nervous.
Jem took a chair. “This will be very interesting to watch.”
“Merinda, have you ever danced before?” asked Jasper.
Merinda scowled. “What do you think?”
Jasper flushed, his eyes sparkling at the glorious prospect of taking Merinda into his arms. “Merinda,” he said, “this is going to be difficult for you.”
“Difficult?” She laughed at him, gave an exaggerated bow, and mimicked a few of the movements she had seen Jem and Jasper performing before. “See?”
“Yes, well, it’s different when you’re dancing alone, Merinda,” Jem remarked from the sofa.
“How hard can it be?” Merinda asked. “Now, Jasper, do that thing you did.”
“What thing, Merinda?”
“Where you bowed to Jem and placed your hand out and looked like one of those fellows in the Spenser’s catalogue.”
“Like this?” Jasper bowed, rather tersely and unsure, and held out his hand.
“Yes! You don’t cut a very dashing figure, but I suppose I am not primed to be the belle of the ball.” She laughed lightly, no doubt thinking of the Jasper who hit the top beam of every doorframe, who gleefully inspected the larvae under his microscope on Saturdays, smoky-faced from a botched experiment in the chemistry lab.
But Jem saw Jasper’s back straighten. Her words had cut him unintentionally, and now he made to act an even more convincing part. “I can be a gentleman, Merinda.”
Jem’s heart sank. He was trying so hard.
Merinda, however, remained concentrated on the problem at hand. She moved toward him expectantly, grabbed both his hands with force, and clutched tightly.
“I don’t—I say, Merinda, it doesn’t need to be as drastic as all this!” Jasper was flustered.
“I want to do this right!” And off she went, pushing Jasper backward.
Jasper allowed a few more awkward steps before correcting her. “Merinda, I lead.”
“Lead?”
“I lead. I… I go first. I guide you. There is no other way to do it. You saw Jem and me do it. You follow my lead.”
Merinda mumbled something about the conventions of patriarchy, but Jasper went on: “The most important thing is the count. One is pronounced. It is the down count. Then two and three are lifting… ” He raised the inflection in his voice. “Much lighter.”
“All right! One!” Merinda smashed Jasper’s foot, and he stepped back with a yelp. “Sorry, Jasper. Beginner’s luck, eh? Let’s go again. Ah, I get it! One-two-three. One-two-three. All twirly and light on the two-three and… Jemima! ”
“Yes!”
“Put that silly song on.”
“Strauss, Merinda. He’s extremely famous.”
“Yes, yes. I am sure.”
The music swelled. Merinda’s eyes latched on to Jasper’s. “Lead if you must.”
Easier said than done. There were many things Merinda could do, but it seemed that waltzing was not one of them. Especially when it required her unconditional submission to Jasper’s directive. She stepped and tripped, stepped and fell. He caught her and spun her, led her, cajoled her. And for a split second, she melted into his arms and the rhythm….
But it didn’t last. She laughed and stomped her heel and declared dancing the silliest pastime. “Cracker jacks! Can’t we just go to the ball and sit it out with punch and finger sandwiches?”
Jem planted her palm to her forehead. “You’re not even trying.”
“Don’t be absurd, Jem,” Jasper said mischievously. “She’s very trying!”
There was something vulnerable and majestic about “The Blue Danube,” however, and it worked its magic. Clumsily, Jasper and Merinda made their way through several bars on their seventeenth try. But then, just as the piece melted to legato, the angels winked from above and Merinda finally succumbed to Jasper. They blended, and under his lead she seemed stronger and more graceful than ever. Jasper was spellbound, Merinda was momentarily tamed, and the waltz gave them a moment of crystalline perfection.
The next morning, Jem received three rose blooms and an accompanying notecard. The card was an invitation to accompany Gavin to the Policeman’s Ball. Jem’s heart did four somersaults, and she squealed and ran to Merinda’s room. She jumped on her bed, waking her up.
Merinda mumbled something unintelligible.
“Merinda, I am going to the ball! We’re both going to the ball!”
“I don’t care, Cinderella. I’m trying to sleep.”
Jem shook Merinda’s shoulder and pulled her up off her pillow. “We need to go shopping. Both of us.”
“Shopping? Not me. I’ll rummage in the trunk.”
“You will not disgrace Jasper with something out of your uncle’s smelly trunk. Come. The dance is a week from Saturday. You’re playing a part, after all. You’re undercover!”
This roused Merinda. She tossed the comforters back and followed Jem to the kitchen.
Dressed and out the door, they rode the streetcar to Spenser’s. Jem always enjoyed coming on her days off. She saw so little of the hustle and bustle of the place, so holed away was she in the mailroom.
The ladies’ department smelled of lavender. Jem explained their errand to the salesgirls, and they rushed to parade fabric and shirtwaists, gowns and tresses, bustles and shawls. Jem and Merinda were measured and spun.
Merinda’s transformation was more overwhelming than Jem’s. When Jem stepped from behind a curtained partition to spin in her new gown, her jaw dropped. Merinda, so often hidden in oversized men’s clothes and silly jackets and hats, had a beautiful figure offset by the sheer organdy of the dress. She claimed to have chosen it mostly because it had the least ornamentation or “frilly frous.”
“Merinda, you look beautiful.”
Merinda lifted the dress up over her ankle. “It’s too long.”
“We can hem it for you, miss. Sarah, will you bring the shoes you found?”
The shoppies showed her a pair of beautiful white shoes, at which she initially scoffed. Jem took them gently from the girl and showed Merinda the inseam and tread. “For waltzing.” She winked. “You don’t want to trip over Jasper and make a fool of yourself.”
Jem turned to see Merinda’s inevitable glower, but Merinda was no longer at her side. Moments later, she found her in the men’s department, her shoulder pressed against a mannequin dressed in the latest style and cut.
“What are you doing? We need gowns. This is one night when we are not going about in trousers and vests!”
“Look who is with Mr. Spenser!” Merinda pointed and Jem looked up. “I’m watching Tony Valari. DeLuca’s brother-in-law. He pointed him out to me one time when I was walking by the Hog.”
“He’s not doing anything now but talking. Shopping. Which is what we are supposed to be doing. Come along.”
“But DeLuca said Tony often does work for Mayor Montague. And yet here he is with Spenser. Which makes me wonder who’s on what side.”
“Or if they’re both on the same side,” Jem added. “Spenser and Montague could just be friends who use the same weasely man to run errands.”
“They have money and unfathomable influence, Jemima. They don’t need friends.”
Jem tugged her back in the direction of the ladies’ department, and this time she succeeded.
For herself, Jem found a dress and accessories, and then they strolled without purpose through the displays of daysuits and parasols, boots and hats, pearls and buttons. A feminine wonderland.
Jem’s mind spun in a recurring daydream wherein she was on Gavin’s arm as his wife. Set for life, living in a house with a white picket fence and matching dishes. Jem would spend her days idly responding to correspondence, making luncheon and dinner plans, engaging her social secretary in flippant conversation, and traveling with Gavin across the world. Greece! Cypress! Algiers! The globe at their fingertips.
A strange pang caught in her chest. Five years
ago such a marriage might have tempted her. But now…?
Merinda wandered in the direction of straw hats and bowlers, and Jem took a moment at the cosmetics counter, spritzing rosewater on her wrists and peeking into the crystal-framed mirror on the counter. The fluorescent display light caught the laugh lines rimming her eyes. She looked at herself plainly. The Jem that God saw.
“Gavin’s got a cracker jack of a girl,” she told her reflection.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Life in Toronto is more difficult than I imagined. Tony and I canvass the streets daily for odd jobs, barely scraping enough to buy day-old loaves of bread. I resented the King Edward Hotel the first time I saw it. There it sat on grand display with its royally draped awnings, rimmed with carriages and shiny automobiles spiriting guests away to highbrow events. I wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to be free of the constant gnaw of hunger and worry.
From a journal that Jem really, really ought to have returned by now
The Crystal Ballroom at the King Edward Hotel was every bit as magical as its name suggested. The moonlight shone through the windows and twinkled in the chandeliers high above their heads. Servers in coattails and white gloves offered champagne in delicate flutes. Ladies fanned themselves and congregated like bouquets as they awaited the announcement of the next dance.
Jem and Merinda were dressed in a way befitting ladies of their station. Their sleeves were like wispy tulips scalloping their arms, frosted with jewels.* Their skirts draped to the floor in an almost Grecian style.
Jasper appeared, clean-pressed, buttons burnished, spit-shone, and wide-eyed at Merinda’s transformation. “Merinda, I… ”
That was as far as his sentence got. Firstly, because Jasper lost his breath completely, and secondly, because the conductor started the easy three-step movement of the waltz.
Gavin Crawley, appearing like a fairytale prince, held his hand out for Jem, giving her a slight bow before straightening his shoulders in a trim line. His lips found her ear and he said something about Jem being a glowing jewel. He lifted her hand and kissed it, and they joined Merinda and Jasper on the dance floor.
The circular repetition of the waltz and Jem’s enchantment at the people spilling in out of the sparkling room left little chance for Jem to begin a conversation. When the dance spun to its final, lingering bar, Jem stopped only to catch her breath before the strings pulsed and they were tripped back into their routine.
Finally, they were allowed a respite, and Gavin linked Jem’s arm through his. “Would you like some champagne, Jem?”
“That would be lovely, Gavin.”
He bade her wait a moment, and he soon returned with a bottle of bubbling liquid and two glasses. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “Let’s take this outside.”
Jem breathed freely once they stepped out onto King Street. The lights from Yonge winked over the rooftops and billboards and blended with the starlight. “I love the city at night,” she said with a shiver. She had her wrap, which wouldn’t be enough to stay the winter chill, but her heart was beating and a swoosh of frosty air was a welcome reprieve from the crowded ballroom.
Gavin poured the champagne and set the bottle on the ground beside him. They were at the edge of the street. Nearby, the bells of St. James cathedral tolled ten. “Do you think there is such a thing as a witching hour, Jemima?” Gavin asked as they clinked their glasses with a crystal ting.
“A witching hour?”
“When everything becomes magical,” Gavin said, tracing Jem’s cheek with his fingers. “And anything”—he leaned closer—“becomes possible.”
Jem steadied herself. Gavin’s fingers explored the back of her hair and trailed down her neck and to the backless scoop of her dress beneath her wrap. “That tickles.” Jem took another sip.
“Let’s try another sensation, shall we?” Gavin moved his mouth closer so it hovered just above hers, his breath whispering over her chin. He leaned forward.
Jem stopped him with a hand on his chest. “No, thank you, Gavin.”
He didn’t pull away. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I’m a traditional girl.”
“You wear trousers all over Toronto and skulk around murder scenes.” He went for another kiss, and she turned away.
“Neither of those things involves kissing!” Jem protested.
Gavin’s voice soured. “How old-fashioned are you, exactly?”
Jem adjusted her stole. “It’s pathetically romantic, I’m sure. But I intend that the first man I kiss will be the man I marry.”
“Oh,” he said, and took a long drink from his glass. “But perhaps if you tried it… ” Gavin leaned in again and Jem smelled again the tang of champagne and his heady cologne.
She turned her head to the side. “I’ve had a wonderful time dancing with you, Gavin.”
“Dancing?” Gavin reached into his breast pocket and extracted a cigar. “Do you mind?”
Jem shook her head.
He unwrapped the cigar and pressed it to his lips. From another pocket he took a match, scraped it on the concrete to light it, and lit his cigar.
“I know that smell,” Jem said. “Must be my father’s brand.”
“Wellington? Your father has good taste.”
Jem still hadn’t tired of the cool breeze. And with Gavin smoking—not kissing—she fell into the euphoria of the night air, the champagne, the dancing, and her handsome escort.
A very handsome escort who, at that very moment, was leaning in again and maneuvering for a kiss. She hadn’t noticed him putting out his cigar. And now he grabbed her around the waist. “Oh, Jem.” Truant fingers explored her collarbone.
“Stop it, Gavin,” Jem exploded. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
He kept her pulled close to him. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re perfectly respectable. How long will you be waiting?”
Jem gritted her teeth. “It might seem a stupid hill to die on.” She pushed him back. “But die on it I will.”
“Please.”
“Listen, Mr. Morality Squad, I am surprised at how hypocritical you’re acting!”
“And I am surprised at what a tease you’re being!”
“Me? A tease? You’re a cad!”
He growled at the sky. “I’m freezing.” Gavin grabbed the bottle of champagne and bounded off toward the hotel, leaving Jem alone on the street.
She headed toward St. James cathedral, which was not far away. Late-night revelers gave her a chorus of wolf whistles and howls as they headed to the nearest pub. Jem knew that as soon as she reached the church, all of the tension pent up in her chest would be released. Her body, which had felt so light while dancing, was suddenly weighed down with the memory of Gavin’s touch. Her nostrils couldn’t shake the smell of smoke and alcohol.
Jem reached the church just as she was reminding herself she wasn’t getting any younger. She dropped onto the park bench out front, drew her knees to her chest in a most unladylike fashion, and fixed her eyes on the steeple piercing the starlight overhead. For all her modern views, she held onto a few outlandishly traditional ones. And was it doing her any favors? Maybe a girl who wanted to secure a marriage had to kiss a man whenever he wanted to.
Not that she wanted to marry Gavin, she realized with a start. Not after tonight. Gavin was handsome and well off, but his forward behavior at the ball had changed something in her. Or shown her what she already knew: Gavin Crawley failed to stir her in the same way someone else did.
Someone who, at this very moment, was suddenly behind her. “I’d kiss you,” Ray said, “but I think that would mean I’d have to marry you.”
Jem startled upright. “Ray!”
Ray came around her bench and gave a little, flourished bow. He placed his bowler back on his head and sat down beside her.
“How are you everywhere? How?”
Ray spread his hands. “The Policeman’s Ball is of endless interest to me. Tertius Montague and Chie
f Tipton in the same room.” He stopped and laughed. “Or maybe I just wanted to see Merinda Herringford in a ball gown.”
“You heard everything.” Jem melted to a puddle.
“I was behind you, just outside the hotel, taking the air. I saw you with Gavin and I didn’t want to disturb you two. But then I thought I was going to have to disturb you. Then I heard him speak and I remembered… ” His half-smile appeared.
“You remembered what?”
“That you’re not a girl who is going to fall for a line with witching hour in it.”
Jem smiled ruefully. “It’s not such a bad line.”
“It’s a terrible line.” He inclined his chin. “Then, when you plunged off into the night all alone, I figured someone should look out for you.”
It felt wonderful, somehow, to know he’d been there, watching over her. But she wouldn’t let him know that. Instead, she said, “Very well, Ray, what line would you use?”**
“If I tell you, you’re going to want to kiss me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “It’s that good, is it?”
“It’s that good. You’ll try to kiss me and I won’t be able to stop you. Then I’ll have to marry you.” He winked. “I know how this works.”
Jem pretended to scowl. “So you will only sit there flirting with me.”
Ray crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not flirting.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He didn’t dignify her with a response. “Do you know what the problem with the English language is, Jemima? It’s too fast. It speeds along like the trolleys. My language sounds faster because it has more vowels, but it takes longer to work your mouth around words.” He was, indeed, looking at her mouth. She was looking at his. They simultaneously moved their eyes away. “So it should be with wooing a girl,” Ray said, a little more slowly.
The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder Page 10