Chapter 42 Katherine—The Beat Goes On
KATHERINE—THE BEAT GOES ON
Georgina in yellow and Scarlett in ruby red come to where I and the princess sit. We are in a withdrawn part of the room with tables and seating. I almost wish she had her dais and throne.
“This is phenomenal.” Georgina’s eyes are as big as gold-rimmed teacups as she points to the large woven tapestries hung from the wall. “The weavers must’ve worked the whole year to produce all this silk. And the duke made this happen in a few weeks?”
“How long has the duke been planning—” Scarlett turns her head, seeming to follow a young blond woman wearing a poppy-colored gown of muslin and satin—not quite regal, but the height of Parisian fashion.
“Scarlett?” Georgina tugs her arm. “Scarlett, do you know her?”
My sister’s mouth opens, then puckers shut. “Yes. From Bridewell. She’s given money to help women, particularly the courtesans who end up there.” Scarlett changes her expression. “It’s good to know everyone is truly welcome.”
Georgina whirls around. Her gown floats in the air, which now smells heavily of rose water. “This is beautiful.”
Fanning my nose, I don’t blame her excitement. It’s breathtaking to see the transformation—cream-colored walls strewn with burgundy and bronze busts. She stops and points to a tapestry depicting a great hunt with trackers and armed men.
“Why hang a banner with armed men? At a ball?”
“Well, runners are here, too,” Scarlett says. She’s not pointing to art but to men observing from the far ends of the drawing room and by the doors.
More footmen stand along the walls but in Russian-styled mantles of smoky dark blue with silver frogging. Each bears matching cutlasses that hang from their side. I nod. “He’s found a way to be a tzar in Mayfair.”
My bravest sister looks tense. Scarlett gets close to my ear. “Sis. Do I need to have worries?”
“Not yet.”
My stomach tenses, but the princess leans over and grabs my hand. “Faith, my dear. Jasha said he’d defeat evil minions tonight. All will be well.”
I offer her a smile and return to count the exits and runners.
“Lord Mark’s favorite picture,” Georgina says. At the far side of the room, tall wax tapers highlight the portrait of Dido Belle and her cousin.
“It has returned. Didn’t it once hang in the music room?”
Nodding, Georgina says, “I should’ve worn my hair in a turban. That would keep his attention now that I’m changing.”
Glowing like dew sparkles on her countenance, she rubs her abdomen.
The looser fit to the lacy bodice suggests my Georgie is with child.
Oh my goodness. I hadn’t noticed. All the tumult in my life, and I’ve missed that my sister has been preparing to expand her family.
I’m out of my chair, making her sit, but not before hugging her, sandwiching her between Scarlett and me.
“Do you need something?”
“Ginger biscuits.” Her gown has been fitted with an inner pocket, from which she draws one of her famous treats.
The princess shakes her head but then smiles. “Sisters should be close. Raise your children like siblings.”
Taking Scarlett’s hand and claiming Georgina’s, I quite agree. “Together. Patsy and Cesar Wilcox would be proud. And Elizaveta and Andrew, too.”
The princess beams. She peers across the room toward her son and granddaughter.
The pair makes their way to the center. The tune is slow, and they dance in their usual formation, Lydia standing on his toes.
The two of them, with her pink skirt whirling as they turn in a waltz, look like a sketch for the magazine La Belle Assemblée.
Lydia laughs and holds tightly to his legs.
His cane barely touches the floor. The strategist ensures his best little girl feels like the world revolves around her.
“They are my pride and joy,” the princess says. The regal woman looks to me and my sisters. “Yes, let your children be raised like siblings, but make sure the babies know who they are and whose they are. No more secret business.”
Our laughter rises with the music. As Scarlett and Georgina talk about teas and cravings, I watch the dancers.
They twirl and laugh under the grand chandelier, which casts shadows and magical light upon them.
The wrought iron limbs hold glittering icicle-shaped crystals that could be wishes and hopes.
As the set ends and they walk away, I hear the violinists, flutists, and musicians on the oboe play one of Beethoven’s Contredanses but not Jasha’s and my No. 12. Georgina would know which one, but she’s too happy sneaking biscuits to be interrupted.
A clack sounds, but I see no crutch or hammer. Busick and Patience Strathmore, the Duke and Duchess of Repington, have arrived. The war hero rarely makes appearances, but the amputee from the Great War with Napoleon has come to our ball.
Scarlett tries not to point, but she whispers, “That noise. It’s Pots’s artificial leg. I’ve seen studies.”
I reach my hand to her. “No science tonight. Let the man have peace. He’s come for the party.”
She nods like she understands.
“This is fantastic,” I hear His Grace, the Duke of Repington, say as they come closer. “After their use of the scorched earth policy to break Napoleon, I applaud the Cossacks.”
“Busick, no war strategy tonight,” his duchess says. She’s elegantly attired in jade with a matching tiara pinned to her braided chignon. “You promised.”
“Handsome couple,” Scarlett says. “You should go greet them.”
Repington, the blond war hero, is followed closely by the newly returned war commander William St. Landon. Jahleel’s barrister has come too.
“Is that Lord Ashbrook and his wife?” Georgina says. “I heard she recovers from amnesia.”
The fair-skinned woman with brownish-red hair is Lady Ashbrook, but I decide to stay seated. I don’t want Jahleel rushing to give the man the completed divorce paperwork, but he might have to. The Palmerses just arrived.
Lord Mark leads the small orchestra through a composition of his own. Its fast tempo hits all the right notes. Someone in the crowd says this is the John Canoe. My Jamaican mother would call this Junkanoo. She has played this tune on our pianoforte at Ground Street.
It’s a sweet touch that guests from Cheapside seem to appreciate. Many take to the floor; the lighter gowns of pink, sky blue, and pale green give way to vibrant orange, bright yellow, and gold.
“This is lovely.” Georgina taps her hand to the rhythm. “Look at Scarlett.”
She and Stephen form one of the four couples in the center. With flair, they move about each other. Hips swaying, heels tapping, they dance as the music provides flourishes, calls, and responses.
Joy sweeps the floor as more ladies in lighter-colored dresses find partners and join. The fan-waving from the matriarchs and the frowning from the ones still wearing powdered wigs increase. Yet they stay. They gossip and guzzle Jahleel’s champagne.
“This quadrille is more muscular,” says the princess. “But I like the influence of the Caribbean. It’s spectacular. We are from so many places.”
There are lessons of history in her countenance. And though we have our own share of troubles, we are lucky, very lucky to be here.
“You’re smiling, Katherine,” Georgina whispers and eats another of her smuggled biscuits. “I guess you’re happy.”
“I was thinking of our parents and how much fun they had going to a celebration in Cheapside when abolition passed. They enjoyed every moment.” That was before gossip of Mama’s sickness reduced those invitations.
As if she reads my mind, she says, “Katherine, stop frowning. Don’t remember the bad.”
“Georgie, if Jahleel had lost his battle, the gossips would win. I’m glad Jahleel is brave, braver than me.”
Scarlett whirls past us. Who knew the scientist loved to dance?
A waltz has begun. White gloves merge as couples twirl.
More come to the floor. Few cede their spots.
Everyone shimmers in embroidered muslins, satins, and lush brocades.
The Caribbean populace have wraps and turbans of emerald and ruby covering their tresses.
Jewels glitter at throats and dangle at ears.
There’s a sea of sapphires, diamonds, and red, red corals. Everyone is so festive and bright.
The polished floor beneath Scarlett’s feet gleams like ice. Pillars draped in light blue velvet frame the drawing room. Jahleel should’ve put up a dais for the princess to sit.
Georgina fans. Her nose wrinkles. The air feels hot and thick. Rose water, starch, sandalwood, and tobacco filter past us.
My own nose twists. I feel a little snubbed as I witness Jahleel, Lydia, and Baroness Derand chatting away near the entry.
Lord Mark comes. The stocky man drops into the chair beside his wife. He’s frowning. He’s reddening all over, not just his cheeks. The man seemed upset a couple of days ago. I forgot. Everyone was more worried about Thom’s surgery.
“What’s wrong, dearest?” Georgina asks and takes his hand. “The music has been wonderful.”
“That,” he says.
Mr. Steele announces, “The Marquess and Marchioness of Prahmn.”
My brother-in-law groans. “I hoped they’d change their minds.”
Stomachs roil—mine and my sister’s. If his parents upset her this early in her pregnancy, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Yet I keep calm and steady myself. From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Palmers greeting Lord Mark’s father. The last time the Marquess of Prahmn was here, Jahleel exposed the awful man’s sins, proving to all of London the marquess was a villain—a liar and adulterer.
The Palmerses and Prahmns are here to hurt Jahleel by proving me to be the same.