Chapter 3
The darkness is still clinging to me on the night of Beresford’s dinner party.
I haven’t summoned anything since the visit to Grandmother’s house, but my emotions have been more volatile than ever.
Yesterday, when someone knocked on our front door, I nearly jumped out of my skin, but it was only a messenger, letting us know what time the carriage would be coming to pick us up on the night of the event.
Mama, Anne, and I are ready at the appointed hour, all of us dressed in shades of crimson, glowing and glittering thanks to a judicious application of the faceted beads to our old gowns.
Anne did most of the beadwork, while I focused on the lace and Mama handled the tucks and the ribbons.
I was the architect of our hairstyles—waterfalls of curls artfully pinned halfway up, with the rest cascading down our backs.
Since all the family jewelry has been sold, Anne and I fashioned three matching chokers out of ribbons and lace.
We don’t look rich, but we all look beautiful, and beauty is a currency of its own.
The carriage that comes to retrieve us is driven by a wizened old man who looks terribly bored by the task.
The jet-black horses, however, are exquisite, tall, and graceful.
Here and there in their luxurious manes and tails are tiny braids woven with gold threads, and they wear bejeweled harnesses and headgear decorated with sparkling golden feathers.
“How charming!” exclaims Mama. “What fun we’re going to have!”
In spite of my worries, my spirits lift a little.
The journey to Beresford’s estate is a long one, and the carriage windows are tightly covered so we can’t see the route, but the interior of the vehicle is cozy and comfortable, lit with tiny lanterns.
There’s a wooden lid at the center of one of the bench seats, and upon opening it we find a compartment containing a bottle of wine and three glasses, along with a tin of sugared nuts.
“We must partake carefully of the wine, since none of us have had the luxury of alcohol in a long time,” Mama warns.
I pour a little for myself and sip it cautiously. The fine wines I’ve sampled before never tasted very good to me, but this one is fantastic—sweet and crisp and refreshing. By the time the carriage finally halts, its warmth has settled in my stomach and I feel it buzzing lightly in my veins.
Footmen guide us out of the carriage and along a path through a well-groomed garden, into a magnificent greenhouse.
Along the open center of the greenhouse, between lush beds of flowers and walls of fruit trees, the dinner has been spread with shining elegance upon long, narrow tables.
Dozens of lanterns, dripping from the paneled glass ceiling overhead, shed a dazzling light on crystal goblets, golden flatware, and gilt-edged plates.
The centerpieces overflow with blue and scarlet flowers, interspersed with gold-painted branches and feathery gold ferns.
I’m surprised that we’re not dining at the house, but none of the other guests seem to care.
Most of them are in their twenties or early thirties, but there are some adults my mother’s age as well.
Everyone is fabulously adorned for the occasion, wide-eyed with wonder at the beauty of the place, ready to be suitably impressed by whatever else Theron James Beresford has planned for the evening.
Directed by the servants, we take our seats at the center table. A middle-aged woman greets my mother and asks, “What do we know of this Beresford? Are you friends of his?”
“Barely acquaintances,” replies Mama.
“He’s new to the region,” replies a man I recognize—a tanner from Loisay.
“This is the Valenkirk estate. Beresford took it over a few years ago, after the Valencourts’ fortunes failed and they had to leave.
He’s been living here quietly since then.
I’m not sure why he suddenly decided to host these fabulous dinners, but I’m not complaining.
I heard he had a wife, but perhaps I was wrong about that.
He’s certainly not behaving like a married man.
” He nods toward the far end of our table.
My gaze follows his nod, and there is our host himself, looking resplendent in a dark suit trimmed with gold.
His mane of blue hair is pinned back on one side with a gold clip, showing an ear lined with sparkling studs and gold earrings.
Even his blue beard glints with flecks of gold as he leans toward the beautiful young woman on his right, murmuring something to her with smirking lips.
Immediately, unreasonably, I resent her. I resent the girl on his left, too, whose slim jeweled fingers curve over his arm. I hate the fawning smile on her face and the shrill laugh I can hear from a dozen seats away.
Why did I ever think Beresford might be strange or wild enough to be a good match for someone like me?
He clearly doesn’t lack female attention.
There’s no reason for him to even look at me, especially after I made such a terrible first impression, snapping at him from the wreckage of the spilled tea and the smashed table.
I’m surprised he didn’t rescind our invitation on the spot.
“Sybil.” Anne looks at me intently from across the table. “Are you alright?”
Her tone is pointed, her eyes fraught with concern. She’s worried that I’m losing control of my emotions.
I inhale deeply through my nose and let out a steady breath. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”
As if on cue, our host rises from his chair and lifts his glass. Servants advance between the chairs, filling all the guests’ glasses with sparkling gold liquor.
“A toast.” Beresford’s deep voice rolls through the room. I wonder if anyone else feels it vibrating in their bones like I do. “To food, to friendship, and to pleasure!”
Some of the older guests look a little uncertain about the propriety of toasting to pleasure, but they lift their glasses anyway. After we repeat the words and drink, Beresford settles back into his chair and keeps flirting with his female companions. I force myself to stop watching him.
The meal is a seven-course affair. My stomach tends to be finicky about rich food, so I take care to eat only a couple bites of the most decadent dishes.
The last thing I need is stomach cramps that send me to the privy for half an hour or more.
Thankfully I’m able to find enough safe things to eat so that by the end of the dinner, I’m comfortably full.
As more wine is poured, Beresford announces that the party will continue with dancing in the North Conservatory.
Footmen draw back the ivory curtains from an archway that’s nearly two stories high, revealing another section of the greenhouse building.
Strains of music emerge from the glimmering space beyond, like some otherworldly melody calling us into a realm of enchantment.
With a woman on each arm, Beresford proceeds through the arch, and the other guests rise to follow him, some hurriedly finishing their wine and setting it back on the table, others bringing the glasses along.
Anne proceeds along her side of the table, while Mama and I hurry along ours, intending to meet her at the end of the room. By the time we reach her, however, she has already been asked to dance. She waves to us with a sheepish smile, borne away on the arm of an attractive young man.
“May I have this dance?”
Mama and I both turn, but the gentleman is addressing my mother. He bends in a respectful half-bow, with his hand extended. He’s a well-dressed fellow with a decent jawline and flecks of gray at his temples. Something about his posture hints at a military career.
My mother throws me an uncertain glance. I nod my encouragement, so she takes the man’s hand with a smile and they proceed into the conservatory.
The rest of the dinner guests trickle out of the banquet area while I hesitate, pretending to adjust the ribbon at my waist. When I glance up, I spot a young man heading my way, but he takes only a few steps before his two friends intercept him with a cautionary whisper and sidelong looks in my direction.
I can’t hear the words at this distance, but I don’t have to. I know they’re telling him who I am. Warning him that I’m a summoner, a witch, an anomaly, something odd and unpredictable. Someone he should avoid.
Part of me wants to confront the trio and demand that they say all those things to my face. But what purpose would that serve? It would only ratchet up my emotions to greater heights and possibly cause the very thing I want to avoid.
More couples are pairing off, and with every second my dread of entering the ballroom alone increases, until the idea feels unbearable. Instead of subjecting myself to that embarrassment, I slink away, finding refuge among the rows of fruit trees and plants.
The beauty of the greenhouse captures my attention within moments, soothing the pain of isolation.
Every bed is a work of art, carefully planned, with the tall stalks and climbing plants at the back, then the medium sized ones with lush foliage and large blooms in the middle, and the little ones at the front.
No matter where I look, there’s a vignette of exquisite beauty.
A slender green stem rises up from a mass of broad, glossy leaves, its delicate arch ending with a tiny lavender flower.
An explosion of blooms with daggerlike petals catches my eye next, and I marvel at the way each petal displays all the colors of the sunset, from deep purple to butter yellow to flaming orange.
Palm fronds arch over berry bushes, which thrive next to plants with frosty-looking leaves, which give way to a myriad of starlike white flowers.