Chapter 36
In the whole history of that strange phenomenon known as
fancy dress balls, no one has enjoyed the sport more than young Stella Moll. So
it never entered her mind to decline Claudia’s invitation just because she was
in a family way, even if it did raise some eyebrows. A gifted seamstress as
well as an artist, Stella had made several of her own costumes from the age of
13, including a pirate queen, a Russian gypsy, and a wood nymph. She had
advised her aunt that their costumes for Mrs. Thorne’s ball should be
lightweight, given the season, and colorful. She felt confident that she could
gracefully drape her own widening figure, given enough chiffon, as well as
devise something suitable for her aunt.
Agnes’s
enthusiasm did not go as far as her niece’s. She had accepted Claudia’s
invitation but did not feel like extending herself to procure an elaborate gown
or run the risk of appearing foolish in an attempt to fulfill the night’s
theme. Even Stella’s pouting could not sway Agnes from her position.
“So what are
you planning?” asked Stella, rising from her seat at the easel and bracing her
lower back. She had been painting a spectacular arrangement of rhododendron as
it stood on the old piano, washed by the morning sun. The supply of art paper
she had brought along was nearly exhausted since all around her she found
subjects begging to be painted—a corner of the garden after the rain, the
terrace at sunset, the splashing fountain amid a riot of red roses.
“My dark
blue gown from the big dinner should do quite nicely,” replied her aunt,
randomly pushing down some ivory keys. “I haven’t worn it in public before.”
“But it’s a
costume ball—you’ll need to do something to it, you know.”
“Who says I
must play along with Claudia’s ‘Secrets of India’?”
“If you
don’t make any effort you might be seen as a humbug,” cautioned her niece.
“Nothing to
fear," Agnes laughed, "that word has already gone out.”
“Really,
Aunt Agnes, won’t you let me create something for you?”
“Stella,
you will have your hands full creating your own gown.”
By the end
of the conversation, Agnes had agreed to let Stella sew a moon and stars from
silvery damask and attach them to her dark gown, allowing her to be technically
in costume using the tried-and-true allegory of Night. “After all,” observed
Stella, “India
has her nights, and night is everywhere the perfect place for secrets to be
born.”
That
evening the ladies revealed their costume plans to Lord Phillip and his father
over dinner. Agnes observed that gentlemen had the easy end of dress balls,
being obliged to appear in nothing more imaginative than their regular good
clothes and a small mask. Stella felt that the gentlemen should make some
effort at decoration so as to be in keeping with their female partners. (With
Phillip pledged as Agnes’s partner, the Duke had offered to accompany Stella.
Although he told his son that it was simply right that he spare the lady from
attending unescorted, he had become increasingly absorbed in preparations for
the evening, sending out for a tailor and consulting illustrations in
historical journals.)
“Who says
that I am not honoring the spirit of the evening?” asked Phillip. “I shall
appear in a black silk domino from head to foot—I found an exceptionally nice
one in father’s trunk yesterday. And I’ve picked up a dark blue mask to
complete the mystery.”
Stella
stared, then glanced at Agnes. “A domino? I don’t think I’ve seen one of those
since I was a little girl.”
“Yes, they
were all the rage forty years ago,” said the Duke. “I wore that cape as a young
man to the first ball I attended with Phillip’s dear mother. Never could bring
myself to throw it away. And here it comes, pressed into service again. Capital
idea!” he cried, waving his dinner roll at them.
Stella
tried again. “But as this is fancy dress, do you think that the plainness of a
domino—“ She was cut short by a look from Agnes, which sent her stumbling in a
new direction. “I’m sure, Lord Phillip, that you will be striking, and a
wonderful complement to Agnes’s starry Night.”
Dinner
concluded, the Duke urged Stella to show him her recent paintings, and the two
graciously left Phillip and Agnes alone in the dining room. The two sweethearts
walked out onto the terrace and stood on the far edge looking at the night sky,
each with an arm around the other. Agnes confessed that she was increasingly
nervous about the ball. Phillip squeezed her tighter and murmured that he would
be there to protect her, and this filled her with a calm and a gratitude that
she could not remember feeling. To have a man protecting you—what a delicious
position for a woman to be in. And she knew Phillip said it without
condescension but only from devotion. She gave in to the sweet feeling and
looked up into his eyes, so soft yet so sharply awake. Closing her eyes, she
let him kiss her long and tenderly on the lips.
Phillip
pulled back at last and gazed at her, running one finger around her moonlit
face. “Agnes Eileen Somerset.”
“Yes,
Phillip George Aspen.”
“May I call
on you tomorrow morning?”
“Whatever
for?” she asked limply, still holding his gaze.
“I have a
question you may have the answer to.”
“Well, why
don’t you ask me now?”
“I cannot.
I am not . . . completely prepared.” His lips brushed her ear.
“I wish you
would try.” Their voices were no more than whispers. “Otherwise how will I
sleep, wondering all night through what your question could be?”
Phillip
drank in a long draught of the rich evening air. “Come along.” He pulled her
behind him and the two broke into a run toward the dark garden. They did not
stop until he had led them clear to the other end and around the hedge, to the
special bench between the lovelorn gods. They sat down facing each other and he
took both her hands in his.
Agnes
studied Phillip’s face while her heart beat like the hammer of a blacksmith in
her chest. She felt lightheaded and struggled to catch her breath. Phillip was
perched on the edge of the seat like one ready to spring up at any moment. She
waited for him to speak. With an impatient sigh he let go of her hands, rose,
and began walking back and forth in front of her.
“Agnes, I
have had many false starts in life. You know that. I have hidden nothing from
you. I stand to inherit my father’s estate, but God willing, that is a long way
off. We have bought land a few miles north—I told you about it, to farm, and I
intend to make a comfortable profit from that, although surely nothing
extravagant. I cannot pretend that I deserve you in any way, either by virtue
of fortune or character. But I love you like nothing I have ever imagined.” He
sat back down and ran his hands down both sides of her neck and shoulders, then
took her hands again and studied them. “I can barely breathe when I am near
you.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I admire you more than I can tell you. Of
course, if your father were alive, I would be asking him, but as things are, I
come to you directly. My father and I have discussed it, and he has the very
highest regard for you, so he is completely behind us.”
Phillip
paused and watched the face of his beloved. “I don’t need your answer now, but
I beg you to consider my offer.”
Agnes
reached up and smoothed his forehead. “But my dear Phillip, what is the offer?”
“What is
it? I thought I said.”
Agnes shook
her head.
“Good
Lord. My dear Agnes, here it is: I want
to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. We have not known each other
long, I admit that, only a few weeks, really, but it seems I have known you for
years. And time is not standing still for us, is it? Every day away from you
seems wasted.” He got to his feet and spoke to the fields below them. “I want
to wake every morning and see you even before the sunlight. I want to hold your
hands and look at you any time for as long as I like. . . and hear your voice
before I close my eyes at night . . . I want to ask your advice and eat with
you and make your bath and, if God blesses us, give you children—you would be a
wonderful mother,” he added warmly, taking his seat once more. “Agnes, my
question is, will you be my bride and live with me every day for as long as we
are on this earth? Would you?”
Agnes’s
tears shone in twin lines down her cheeks. She put her arms around Phillip’s
neck and gathered him to her. For several minutes she could not find the breath
to speak, but let herself cry quietly against him. He encircled her with his
arms and rested his face against her hair. At last she straightened and began
to dry her eyes on her sleeve. Phillip searched his pockets for a handkerchief
but, finding none, braced himself and waited.
Agnes
sighed and sniffled. “You must understand,” she said, pinching the pleats of
her skirt, “that you don’t really know me. I am given to spells of gloom that
turn me quite ugly at least once a month. I haven’t as much money as you may
think. And my time for having children draws short, I’m afraid. You need to
understand this.” She raised her eyes to his.
Phillip
leaned back as a perplexed smile lit his face. “Are you trying to talk me out
of it? That job is usually left to well-meaning friends.”
Agnes
uttered a short, gasping laugh. “No, I am not trying to talk you out of it. I
don’t know what I should do if you changed your mind. But are you sure,
Phillip?”
Phillip
took her face in his hands and drew closer, then closer, and pressed his mouth
to hers in a way that left no fragment of doubt. When he released her, she put
her lips to his ear and whispered over and over the word he had prayed to hear:
yes, I will marry you—yes, yes, yes.
Chapter 37
Of course, no one must know. One summer was a scandalously
short time to be acquainted before a betrothal. Agnes and Phillip agreed to
keep their promise a secret until spring. They would attend the ball as
interested friends—even romantically inclined friends—but with nothing more
than the usual affection they displayed in public. But the excitement was
almost more than Agnes could bear, and she imagined that everyone would see the
beautiful words bride to be written across her shining features. She
must not even tell Stella or Vera, which would be hard indeed.
Two
dizzying days passed, and the date of the ball arrived. The weather fit
Claudia’s theme perfectly. They might well be in Hyderabad, with the mercury at eighty-nine
degrees and a stifling humidity dampening everything. Throughout the afternoon
most of Brookside’s rooms stood deserted as
staff, having dispatched their most necessary duties, were allowed to sit
languidly under shade trees or play cards in the cool of the cellar. Dahlia
served a simple dinner of cold meats, boiled eggs, and potato salad, which
Agnes, Stella, Phillip, and the Duke ate on the terrace.
“Terrible
luck,” observed the Duke, “to have this miserable heat the night of the
festivities. One hardly feels like putting on a costume or dancing.”
“We may be
relieved by rain,” said his son, observing the sky. “Those clouds to the north
look like they shall do something before the night is out. I smell a storm
coming.”
Stella
shifted in her chair. “The only thing worse than a warm costume is a wet
costume.”
“We shall
not let that happen to you, my lady,” the Duke assured her, brandishing a
forkful of potato. “Phillip and I will shelter both you ladies under umbrellas,
one in each hand, if needed.”
As the red
sun sank, the foursome pushed back their chairs and went in to put on their
costumes. Marie helped Agnes into her magnificent starry gown, dusting her
mistress generously with powder before closing her into it. Mrs. Williams
tucked Stella into the dark orange dress the young artist had fashioned from
yards of misty chiffon, which molded lightly around her young bosom and fell in
airy folds to her slippers. With a short veil and satin vest, she was
transformed into an Afghan princess ready to invade her neighbor to the south.
She was the perfect accompaniment to the Duke, who had agreed to become the
legendary Lion of Punjab, complete with a curving tin sword hanging at his
side. Phillip wrapped his father’s head in a black turban below which his gray
side whiskers bristled impressively. For his own part, Phillip combed his hair
and grabbed his domino and mask; he was ready for the ball.
The Duke’s
carriage stood waiting for them as they emerged into the tropical dusk. The
trees etched their dark outline against the violet and orange sky, and the
insects of the night began to intone their habitual warnings. With minor
difficulties the party hoisted themselves into the conveyance, being careful
with the ladies’ generous skirts and making allowances for the Duke’s sword.
Despite her misgivings, Agnes felt a delicious thrill as she rode through the
warm night, seated across from the most fascinating man in the world, a man who
loved her, a man who made her heart stop as she looked at him, and she could
not help squeezing Stella’s hand.
“My dear,”
she said, looking at her niece with a smile, “this ball will put you well past
your usual bedtime. I’m afraid you’ll tire yourself terribly.”
“Then
simply lay me on a divan until you are all ready to leave,” returned Stella. “I
will not be the cause of anyone’s going home early!”
The Duke
patted Stella’s knee. “This princess will surely tire no sooner than I. These
two,” he waved a finger toward the fiancés, “can gambol about all night, I’ll
wager, dancing until dawn. You and I can take the carriage home when we’re
spent and send it back for them. Though I don’t envy the driver his wait.”
In no time
it seemed they had covered the three miles between the two homes and turned up
the drive to Beaujour. Red lanterns lit their way to the house that sat
throbbing with irresistible danger, ablaze against the black sky. Carriages
choked the narrow driveway in front as they discharged their passengers. The
guests stepped out gingerly in glittering costumes, calling to acquaintances,
laughing, shaking hands, and kissing powdered cheeks. Music drifted down from
the third floor ballroom, and Agnes felt her heart quicken as she imagined
dancing with her escort. Then her breath stopped. In the wide-open doorway,
silhouetted against the yellow glare, stood what had to be Claudia. Her outline
alone could rob a man of his senses. She advanced to meet Agnes’s party as they
came up the broad steps, and Agnes could see the shocking beauty of her silk
costume and boldly made-up face. Phillip
squeezed Agnes’s hand in either sympathy or fear, she could not guess which, as
their hostess broke into a luxurious smile.
“Oh, don’t
you look festive,” exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, taking them all in with her gaze. “A
domino, Lord Phillip,” she went on, looking at him slyly. “How charmingly
sentimental. And this lovely young lady must be the niece.” She looked so
intensely at Stella that the poor thing blushed a deep pink.
“Claudia,
this is my niece Stella Moll from Chicago,”
Agnes explained. “She is the wife of William Moll.”
“Moll of
the stockyard fame?” asked Claudia, widening her black-lined eyes and extending
a limp hand.
“Yes,”
Stella spoke up with a challenge in her voice and gave the extended hand a
brief but certain shake. “I am flattered that you know of my family and very
grateful that you included me in your invitation. It’s so nice to meet the
woman I have heard so much about.”
“Indeed,”
returned Claudia, with a short, limp shake of Stella’s hand. “Well, I like to
keep up with who’s who. You and the Duke make quite a pair tonight. This is the
most darling dress! My dear Duke, you look devastating in that turban. And you
are …?
“The Lion
of Punjab, Madam,” declared the Duke, drawing his sword to everyone’s alarm.
Claudia darted an inquiring glance at the others.
“Maharajah,
Madam, “the Duke explained, “and conqueror, ruler of the independent state of Punjab.
Accompanied by her highness, the Princess of Afghanistan, lately
acquired.”
“And Agnes
is the Night Sky,” put in Stella, unasked.
“Of
course,” said Claudia, taking Phillip’s free arm and leading them the rest of
the way up the steps. “She can join the other Night Skies already inside.”
It was
true. Before they reached the third floor and Claudia drifted away, they
crossed a pale young woman in a black dress wearing a halo of silver stars as
well as a stout woman in deep violet whose tiara supported a teetering crescent
moon. The Duke took a moment to observe in a low tone to both Stella and Agnes
that neither of the other Nights could compare to Agnes’s magnificent gown with
its application of celestial bodies. He also assured them that the decision to
forego a headdress had clearly been a sound one.
Stella
whispered back that she did not much like Mrs. Thorne or her comments on their
costumes and understood now her aunt’s warnings. But Stella was at that moment
startled out of any further observations.
To be continued . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment