Chapter 5
After that, the world spun more and more quickly.
Your play. My lessons. Our mother’s social whirl.
I recall the evening we both collided straight-on with our futures, at that soirée at Mrs. Cornwallis-West’s home.
I’d turned seventeen and almost didn’t attend because Maman was so appalled at the state of my fingernails.
I was practicing so many hours then, hellbent on Fr?ulein Wietrowetz’s approval, perfecting every note. I was playing and playing until my neck and shoulders pinched with agony and my fingers cramped.
Poor Maman! Before we left for the party, she made me promise that when I removed my gloves for supper, I’d eat strictly with my right hand, to hide the calluses on my left.
LONDON, ENGLAND
The rigid expectations of high society were gradually becoming easier for Inez to manage.
She hadn’t overcome her bashfulness in the midst of the unfamiliar; she still grew tongue-tied at the most mundane of questions.
She felt stiff and shamed in the elegant, tight gowns her mother insisted she wear, as if she were some sort of imposter princess, and all anyone had to do was squint hard enough against her shiny diamonds and pearls to glimpse the raw country girl underneath.
She had to remind herself not to scratch at her scalp when a bejeweled clip pulled at her hair and not shove away a wayward feather from an aigrette when it tickled her ear.
But Inez was nothing if not resourceful in her efforts to remain unseen and had learned certain tricks to work around the rules.
Smile when greeting her hosts while lightly clasping hands, then look down.
Smile at anyone she was introduced to while lightly clasping hands, then look down.
Murmur Yes, or No, or How kind, or Do you think so? to anyone persisting in pursuing a conversation.
Keep looking down.
Retreat to a wall whenever possible. A chair set against a wall was ideal.
In this way, Inez preserved her sanity and learned that a good many London mansions made liberal use of parquet flooring.
The residence of Mrs. George Cornwallis-West was no exception.
Once upon a time, she had been Miss Jennie Jerome, and then Lady Randolph Churchill.
She’d had a famous first husband and an even more famous son—and now a scandalously young second husband, to boot—but what Inez liked most about Mrs. Cornwallis-West was that she was American.
When Inez had offered her smile-shake hands-look down routine as they were first introduced, Mrs. Cornwallis-West had wrapped both her satin-gloved hands around Inez’s, drew her near, and whispered, “Don’t worry.
It’s a jovial enough group, and none of us bite.
But there’s a little alcove over there if you want it, just right behind that screen. ”
Inez had been so startled she’d broken her own rule and looked up again. Her hostess met her eyes and nodded, still smiling, then released Inez’s hands to move on to the next guest in line as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.
She would later learn that Maman had warned Mrs. Cornwallis-West about her younger daughter’s daunting shyness, and that Jennie, well accustomed to the freezing cold shoulder of British disapproval, had taken pity on her enough to supply Inez with the screen and the alcove and a solitary chair beside a potted date.
An oasis from the splendor and glamour of the evening, hidden in plain sight.
It would not hide Inez from the fated events of the party itself, as it turned out. But a false sense of security was better than none. At least, so it seemed at the time.
She did manage to dine with mostly her right hand, keeping her left on her lap atop her napkin and gloves, fingers curled.
Mrs. Cornwallis-West’s table had been dressed in cool blue damask and enormous silver centerpieces of hothouse roses and hydrangea with petals of pink and peach and purple, shiny leaves.
Each arrangement had been studded with small, lime-colored pears; Inez could catch their summer perfume even over the first course, cream of barley soup.
The centerpieces were, in fact, so lush and extravagant that it was impossible to see the person seated opposite her across the table, which was a relief.
But she was still expected to maintain polite conversation with the two gentlemen flanking her.
Happily, Rita was only a seat away to her right, entrancing everyone in her easy way, drawing every eye nearby, so Inez only had to worry about the man on her left.
She’d glanced at him briefly as they were introduced—as was her way—and really all she remembered about him was that he was brown-haired and handsome, likely in his late twenties, and his name was George Something.
He had the breezy, casual air of the outdoors clinging to him, the mark of someone who didn’t spend all his days toiling inside.
An importer, maybe? A diplomat? Younger son of a lord?
She’d met over thirty people so far tonight and honestly couldn’t recall a single solid fact about this one beyond his first name, and only that because the farrier’s son in Medmenham was also named George, and he liked to whistle at her whenever he chanced across her walking alone.
She tried her first spoonful of the soup. The steam rose up, filled her nose with the aroma of barley before her tongue tasted it, followed by a slow wafting of pear.
George Something had his head cocked and appeared to be listening to Rita, allowing his own soup to cool.
Behind them stood a footman at attention, waiting to refill water or wine.
Across were those pears and flowers, and when she allowed herself a longer glance, there was Mr. Something, faintly smiling.
His eyes cut to hers, and instantly Inez dropped her gaze.
He leaned nearer. “Your sister is quite the entertainer.”
His voice was pleasingly honeyed, surprising for a man so young.
“She’s an excellent storyteller.” Inez dunked her spoon into the soup.
“I understand she’s captured the fickle attention of the West End. Good for her.”
“She’s very talented,” Inez said loyally.
“I’m sure. And you, Miss Jolivet? Have you any talents?”
“Perhaps,” she said, and hesitated. “I hope so, at least.”
A pause; he tried the soup. Rita released a light, musical laugh, and half the table laughed with her. Mr. Something spoke again.
“Did you know we have a genuine palm reader with us here tonight?”
Inez was surprised. “No. Do we?”
“Mademoiselle Thenaud.” His eyes were a soft smoky green, a fine contrast to his tanned skin and dark hair.
“Just across over there, past the saltcellar, to the left. Gray ringlets, the rubied tiara.” He returned to his soup.
“She was Victoria’s personal soothsayer, as a matter of fact.
But she doesn’t merely read palms, of course.
She’s also an actress. I’ve met her before once or twice, but I understand that Lady Churchill—pardon me, Mrs. Cornwallis-West—is a devoted follower.
” Another sip of soup, another sidelong look.
“You should seek her out after supper. Perhaps she’ll tell your fortune. ”
“Oh, I—I wouldn’t really care for that, I think.”
George Something turned his head to smile at her, nothing faint this time, a real smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes and revealed a dimple in his right cheek. “Perfectly understandable. Sometimes it’s best to leave the future alone, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“If you don’t mind, I might venture a guess as to your talents, Miss Jolivet.”
“No, really—”
“You are an artist,” Mr. Something said. “A musician. The … cello? No. Nor the harp. Too traditional for such a radiant soul.” He rubbed a finger along his chin, then smiled again. “The violin. You are a master of the violin.”
Inez forgot herself enough to actually laugh. “A master? Hardly. I’m barely an amateur.”
“Now, that is a lie. I’ve been informed by no less than King Edward himself that you’re a genuine virtuosa. He said your skills are enough to make grown men fall to their knees in wonder, and women to take up arms to conquer nations. I fear he’s quite smitten with you. Good thing he’s already wed.”
Inez blinked at him, momentarily speechless. “Who are you?”
“Just the fellow lucky enough to be seated beside you at supper.”
“You knew all along that I play the violin.”
“I confess I did.”
She shook her head, bemused. “Why pretend you didn’t?”
He leaned close again; she caught a hint of lemon and lavender beneath the constant fragrance of the pears. “Would you believe I was trying to impress you with my own soothsaying skills?”
“That’s—”
“Sadly asinine, I know. I apologize. I’m not usually so clumsy in the face of radiance. Allow me to say merely that I hope someday I’ll be the lucky fellow who gets to hear you play, Miss Jolivet.”
She stared up at him, mired in that green-smoke gaze, in that attractive smile that was improbably, impossibly, aimed just at her. That felt like warmth and admiration and genuine interest, and sparked a hot, uncomfortable blooming in her chest.
“Well, maybe,” she replied, stilted, as the servants shifted around them to clear the course and her heart pounded Never, ever, not ever.
HIS NAME WAS George Vernon. After the ladies retired to the drawing room to leave the gentlemen to their cigars and port, she’d sidled up to Rita to ask.
“A bit of a Renaissance man, from what I understand. He’s originally from America and grew up to become a nice, boring banker for years, from a respectable enough family and all—the Butlers, I think?
Somewhere in Virginia, if I remember right.
Anyway, decent money. Vernon is his stage name.
Just like us, he’s reinvented himself, and now he’s a concert singer.
” Rita sipped at a tiny glass of sherry.
“A bloody good one, too, I heard. Why? Are you smitten?”