Chapter Twenty-Two The Performer
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Performer
Attendance for any of my mother’s events was mandatory. No negotiation.
Her gatherings were the place to be, and if you weren’t there, it was a laughable offense.
Anyone who thought they were anyone important would be there.
In her defense, this cruel sense of entertainment and social engagement wasn’t for naught.
The couture we wore would be auctioned, along with the other art pieces on display for the evening.
The proceeds from the gala today were going to the orphans of Saint Lucia’s in Hudson Valley.
In the receiving room, people would arrive and be greeted before entering the ballroom.
The entertainment room was cleared of any furnishings to make room for a full band, the piano, and small banquet tables for a champagne tower and a display of sweets.
An auctioneer placed a podium at the base of the grand staircase.
On the plateau joining the twin staircases leading down to the first floor were various items laid out for buyers to prepare their wallets: five sculptures, twenty paintings, and a few miscellaneous showpieces.
The gathering was more formal than her last few, with full catering that had had the staff holed up in the serving kitchen since morning.
Many of her friends attended—from editorialists to the press to socialites to Mother’s tearoom birds—as well as Father’s business partners.
They all came, no matter what. Though, by the way people dressed, I would have assumed this was a gala for some sort of royalty, which we were not, despite my mother’s ambitions.
My dress for the evening was a rich cream silk with layered sleeves that hung just off the shoulder, collarbones only serving to complement the accessories around my neck, choking me.
The earrings dangled, tickling my skin as they swung.
A pattern of dusty-pink flowers was embroidered into the dress, real blossoms pinned in front of my bodice.
A matching fan in my hand and white lambskin opera gloves covered me up to mid-forearm.
At least if I felt silly wearing something so extravagant, I remembered that my sisters would be wearing dresses similar in extravagance and color somewhere within the gathering.
It was so much, too stuffy, though that could just be the flowers. At least if I cried from overstimulation, I could blame it on the pollen.
“Ah, how fitting for a blooming flower!” a voice sounded from behind me.
I tore my attention from my mother beside me to an older gentleman confidently approaching.
He cupped my hand and kissed the knuckle of my glove.
“It feels like ages since I’ve seen you,” he said, his smile making him appear red in the face as he greeted my mother next, touching cheeks.
“Blooming just in time for spring,” my mother piped up, shooting me a look as if to remind me of my manners.
“How generous a compliment.” I could feel the tension in my jaw.
“And now I hear you are a wife!” he exclaimed, then turned again to my mother. “Congratulations.”
Something about the way my mother received congratulatory remarks instead of myself always sat a bit sour in my stomach. Though it suited her, and she accepted them like a gluttonous hen picking at someone else’s dough.
Like flies to sweet cream on a summer’s day, the initial greeting invited more to our midst. People nudged their shoulders so they could physically participate in conversation with my mother.
Offering sweet words of gratification and awe for whatever they could notice, to fluff her ego like a staff to her pillow.
Soon there was a shoulder in my way, then a torso, until, in their infatuation, I was physically removed from the conversation entirely. As telling as it was about my place in my own family’s home, it was an excuse to leave the swarming flies who salivated for a bite of my mother’s change purse.
I didn’t know many here, only a few familiar faces. Business partners, a banker, possibly an old neighbor. The younger women in attendance were tethered to their mothers like foals to a broodmare’s teat, waiting to be weaned off and handed to the next eligible man.
The ballroom was newly constructed, not even five years old. The wood floors had barely a scratch or a scuff, a fresh coat of white paint freshened the walls, and a new set of paintings garnished the room.
The house was always under some sort of work, additions upon additions.
I supposed there wasn’t much else to do when you had an overactive wife who was instructed to stay at home with an entire reserve at her disposal.
My mother didn’t spend money because she needed to.
When you’d hoarded the amount of wealth my parents had, you didn’t spend out of necessity.
You became something of a peacock, flaunting it for fun or assuming status.
People tended to take you seriously when you could sign checks without looking at the price.
“I’m impressed you’re still sober.”
I glared over my shoulder at none other than Arkady.
He was dressed decently, but clearly it was something new.
I’d never imagined him in a suit this expensive, not without some paint stains or clay dust. He raised a brow as he lifted his champagne flute to his lips, then extended an extra one to me.
“Are you trying to tempt me?” I teased, plucking the glass from his hand and turning away to spectate the crowd.
“Not that it takes much convincing,” he said from beside me, joining me in my voyeurism.
“I wouldn’t mind temptation. Even from someone as stale as you.”
“It seems like I do well enough, based on your advances.”
“It means nothing.” I sipped. “I am just bored.”
He leaned down to my ear, his lips impossibly close. “Denial is an adorable color on you. Wear it more often for me, will you?”
“Insufferable.”
“Yes, you must be tortured.” He rolled his eyes. “Who are you hoping wins you tonight?”
“Excuse me?” I snapped.
“I overheard your mother talking about the auction for your attire.” He cocked his head with a smirk. “What did you think I meant?”
I smiled through a clenched jaw. “Yes, very funny for a man who can’t afford to bid.”
“Who said I can’t afford it?” He loomed closer. “Or are you assuming I don’t think you’re worth bidding on?”
I blew a frustrated breath from my nose, snapping my neck toward the crowd.
Arkady leaned down, brushing the hair away from my shoulder. “If I were you, I’d start hoping I win,” he hummed in my ear, “because if I’m going to spend that much money, I’m expecting more than just the dress.”
His words made me dizzy. I couldn’t tell if this was just another one of his teases. When I turned to look at him, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
“Casanova,” I mumbled into my cup, suddenly losing the need to drink any spirits when his words alone sent me into a head high.
As more people arrived, music played in tandem. Staff with trays of bites to eat fluttered around to the congregating groups like bees in a garden, prompting the guests to indulge. The tower of champagne glasses was poured, and the golden liquid glistened as it cascaded down the crystal.
No matter how many people I conversed with, I couldn’t stop thinking about Arkady. What was he doing? Was he talking politely with a stranger? Telling a group a wild story about his figure studies? Talking to a woman about one of the sculptures being auctioned tonight?
Just the thought put my stomach in an upset, my mouth a bit too dry to partake in any drinking with much joy.
I scanned the crowd, looking for the brunet. It might have been a bout of sudden loneliness, but I wanted to speak with him.
Among the chattering faces, I spotted him. He looked charming and light, unlike how he really was—indifferent to such pleasantries. If only he would put on such an act for me. Perhaps it was an honor to know what he was really like. I wished he would lie to me, pretend for me.
Maybe that was why I wanted it. Because I wanted him to know I was not as unpleasant as our interactions suggested, that I did want it to work.
Just as I feared, as I drew closer, I realized he was talking to another woman.
She was a dazzling thing, in a dress of fine making and colors that suited her perfectly.
Her smile was especially delightful, her laugh melodic.
And then there was Arkady . . . He was laughing with her, perfectly at ease.
It made me sick to my stomach.
I glanced down at my trembling glass, my reflection bubbling in the untouched champagne. I abandoned it on a passing serving tray.
Why is it so difficult for you to be pleasant? My mother’s voice rang in my subconscious, making me wince at the shrill tone.
It might be clichéd to say I forgot to breathe, but in all honesty, the rush of air in my lungs made me nauseous, and breathing felt all too manual of a process.
Breathe in, hold, exhale.
A gravity weighed on my ankles, my wrists, my heart. Everything was just so heavy. An inescapable sinking.
“Petre.”
I heard Arkady’s voice, but my legs carried me elsewhere, anywhere but there. I no longer had the energy to keep up a facade, a smile, an exterior. I wanted to go home, to curl up in the corner of my living room with my journal. A moth or two to keep me company.
Before I could exit the room, I was grabbed by the waist and swept onto the dance floor. A waltz of many couples twisted around each other like a well-oiled clock, with a cog such as myself being accidentally shuffled in during the exchanging of partners.
Every face on the floor was a blur, as all I could do was remember how he’d looked with someone other than me. I kept my face down, the murmuring of voices and music fading in and out as the room glimmered around me, the peripheral fading, helpless but to focus on the cravat of a stranger.