She Walks in Beauty (18 page)
For the second time that evening, a blush stole over my cheeks. “Thank you, Franklin.”
AFTER MY DANCE with Franklin, Lizzie found me.
“You look good with him, Clara. You’re both so tall.”
“No better than you do. With you being so fair and he being so dark.”
Lizzie leaned closer. Peered up into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
I should have known I couldn’t hide my thoughts from her.
“You look unwell.”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t do anything in this corset. I hate it.” And truly,
hate
wasn’t a strong enough word. I despised it with the passion of a prisoner who can glimpse freedom from her cell. A freedom that was daily denied.
“Really? I rather kind of … like it.”
“You do?”
Her shoulder seemed to want to lift in a shrug, but it locked itself in place before it could do so. “I like the way it feels. So … snug. And close. As if … I feel like it … makes me stronger. As if, when I wear it, I’m ready for all of this. You probably think I’m silly.”
“No.” I wished I could say the same. Not even my feelings, it seemed, were conventional. If I could just see things the way Lizzie did, the way Aunt did, then maybe I would feel as if I belonged here.
“Didn’t you see me twirling my fan over there?”
“What? Where?”
“Clara! You’re hopeless. I was
twirling my fan
.”
Which meant … something. I knew it was supposed to mean something.
“Did you not see Mr. Porter?”
Mr. Porter? “Is he the one with the droopy mustache?”
“No. That’s Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Porter is the one with the red nose. The tall one.”
“Oh. No. I didn’t see him. What did he do?”
“You didn’t see him?” She batted me on the arm with her fan. “It certainly seemed as if the only thing he saw was you!”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, Clara. The fan. You didn’t notice! When I twirl it, it means that you’re being watched.”
“I’m sorry. I can never quite seem to remember—”
She sighed. “How are you going to flirt with all of your beaux when you don’t even know that you have them?”
“I don’t. I don’t have any beaux.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.” How could I when I didn’t remember even the simplest of things?
“You do. I’ll show you. Come with me.” Lizzie grabbed hold of my hand and led me toward the front of the ballroom. “Go on. Stand right there. In the middle. Where there’s that open space.”
“In the middle? Of everyone?”
She sighed. And then she seized my hand. Together we walked into the center of the room.
“Do you see? Over there?”
I realized Mr. Hamilton indeed was looking in our direction. “Do you mean Mr. Hamilton?”
“Yes! And beside him is a Lorillard. And over there is one of the van Rensselaers. And two away from him is a Gould.”
As she turned me about the room supplying name after name, it seemed each one heard what was being said. For invariably, when Lizzie said a name, that man would look over. Straight at us.
“They’re looking at
you
, Lizzie.”
“No they aren’t. They’re all looking at you.” Her voice had gone quiet, and I had to lean close in order to hear.
“So … what do I do?”
“Do? You smile and you flirt, and in the end you spurn them all for the hand of Mr. De Vries. That’s what you do. At least that’s what I intend to do!” She was smiling now. “And I thought that on that matter at least we were agreed. So go flirt, Clara. Amuse yourself while you still can.”
“But … it would seem … why can’t we just pursue Mr. De Vries?”
“And forego the flirting? And the dancing?”
“Yes. Exactly that. Forego all of it.”
She shook her head. “Truly, Clara, you’re too prosaic! There’s no good in going directly after him. He’ll run away. We must approach without seeming to approach. Do you see him there?”
I looked in the direction she had nodded and I did see. Mr. De Vries was by the punch bowl surrounded by girls. And he looked rather bored with it all.
For a while I pretended to be Lizzie. I flirted with my fan, casting all kinds of glances toward the men, trying to coax them to my side. And it worked! Of a sudden I had more suitors than I could manage.
Perhaps … perhaps Lizzie had been right. Perhaps I could do this. Perhaps I would do this. But … what if I did? And what if I succeeded? What if I won the heir?
Though Mr. Douglas was a member of what Aunt so scathingly called the working class, there was no fault to be found in his dance steps. Every hop, every turn, every chassé was timed perfectly. And he corrected me a time or two. I could tell by a pull in this direction or a push in that.
The fact that he was a newspaperman was a great fascination to me. At first I was rather nervous, knowing that he might report on the slightest of social infractions, but then I remembered that he had made an agreement with Father and curiosity soon displaced my unease.
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Douglas?”
“By all means, Miss Carter.”
“Do you know Mr. Riis? Mr. Jacob Riis?”
His eyes narrowed as his gaze intersected mine. “Why do you wish to know?”
“I just … I mean … Is it true? All of those things that he wrote?”
“In his book?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Yes? Then people really did sleep on roofs? And little children truly did wander the streets? “But then why doesn’t anyone do anything?”
“Do anything? I’d think you would be the last person to advocate for
doing something
, Miss Carter.”
“When people are being treated as animals? Someone must!”
“But those same indigent poor keep our city’s finest in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed.” His eyes seemed to send me a challenge.
I decided to meet it. “This is 1891, Mr. Douglas. Surely no one in the United States of America should have to be without food. Or shelter.”
“I agree.”
“You … agree?”
“I agree. But the plight of the immigrant runs from the slums of the city into the very deep pockets of some of our finest citizens. If someone really wanted to help the city, they’d torch Tammany Hall and all the Democrats that nest there.”
“Tammany Hall.” I’d heard Miss Miller say those words before.
“That’s right: Tammany Hall. They’re the only organization that cares what happens to the immigrants. But that’s only so they’ll receive their votes. It’s the only thing that Tammany Hall and those at the top of society agree upon: The immigrants need to stay exactly where they are. It’s the only way no one gets hurt.”
“No one except those poor, destitute souls.”
“Exactly.”
We danced the next few moments in silence. I couldn’t have said whether or not he enjoyed the polka, but he did lean near as the dance drew to a close. “Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You’re an accomplished enough dancer. Is that why you close your eyes during the waltz? Because you don’t have to work at it?”
I felt my face flush with color. “On the contrary. I am so poor a dancer that if I do not close my eyes, I risk dancing upon my partner’s toes. It was never my intention to exalt myself. Only to mask my own inadequacies. Please forgive me for leading you to think otherwise.”
For the first time that evening, he seemed to look at me with something close to interest. “Is that so?”
I nodded. And I very nearly nibbled at my lip. Is that what people thought of me?
“Then it was a pleasure, Miss Carter. You’re very much better at dancing than you think.”
I left the dance floor only to find that Mr. Douglas’s eyes followed me wherever I went. I knew, of course, that he had to observe me in order to write his articles, but still, it was a bit disconcerting. And so at the next intermission, when Aunt and I came to stand beside him, I spoke to him. But only, of course, after Aunt had begun conversing with someone else.
“Don’t you ever dance? With anyone but me?”
“There’s no point.”
“No point?”
He leaned close as if imparting a secret. “There aren’t that many among this crowd who are worth it. They’re more interested in catching a man than in learning how to keep one.”
“And what would that take?”
“Learning how to keep one?” His smile was colored by condescension. “Being more concerned about his character than his pocketbook. A fellow is more than his inheritance. At least some of us would like to think so. There ought to be a better way to do this; marriages ought to be contracted on something other than beauty and fortune.”
“They are. They’re contracted on the basis of . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well . . .”
“You, for instance. What do you have to offer?”
I felt my chin lift in response to his question. “I … well … I know how to … play . . .”
“Yes?”
“A rather difficult Hungarian dance.” I’d worked nearly two months in order to master it.
“Very impressive.”
“And I can sing. Several arias by Mozart.”
“Terrific. And I expect you know the difference between a lemon fork and a lettuce fork too.”
He made it sound as if that were a very facile accomplishment. “What if I do?”
“What if you do? If you do, then bravo.” He began to clap. “With all the injustice in this city, one more raven-haired debutante who knows her waltz from her polka is just what’s needed.”
“You don’t have to be so sarcastic!”
“And you don’t need to be so naive. Wake up. Read a book. Educate yourself.”
He was becoming rather unpleasant. “If you’re not enjoying this, then why don’t you just stop? Stop dancing. Stop writing.” And why didn’t I stop too?
“Because I can’t. God help me, I wish I could, but I can’t.” Desperation seemed to envelop his words. But then he smiled. “And besides, I want to see how all of this plays out.”
“All of what?”
“All of your father’s crooked schemes. I figure if I stay around long enough, I’ll have something truly important to write about.”
Crooked schemes? What was he talking about? “What do you mean? Explain yourself!”
He stared at me for the longest time, as if taking my measure. “Does Mulberry Street mean anything to you?”
Mulberry Street? I began to shake my head and then thought the better of it. Because, somehow, somewhere, I had heard of it.
“Stop asking questions and go play with your fan, little girl. There’s a big evil world out there that you don’t want to be a part of.”
T
HE
N
EW
Y
ORK
J
OURNAL
—S
OCIETY
D
ECEMBER 22, 1891
The Posts’ ball was the site of something never before seen in this fair city. It was an event at which more than half the eligible bachelors in the city gave their hearts away. To the same girl. Of course, each year features a new debutante that sets the hearts of the city to beating double-time. But this year one debutante, Miss Clara Carter, is something quite extraordinary to behold.
T
HE
T
ATTLER
D
ECEMBER 22, 1891
The Tattler December 22, 1891 … and this poor reporter finds himself wearied to tears of this generation of debutantes who profess to be nothing more than pawns in the hands of their mothers or fathers. If you asked any of them, they would tell you the same: They do what they do because they are told to do it. They line up every year and partake of the pageantry of the season because it’s what they’re expected to do. But can a girl who flirts with abandon truly be innocent of trawling for the fortunes of this city’s wealthiest citizens? Does naiveté beget stupidity as well?