Chapter 9 Quiet Decorum #2
“Join me for punch, then.”
“Oh, Mr. Witt, that won’t be necessary—”
“I insist.” He leads her toward the refreshments table.
Cora swallows a groan, although at least they’re headed in Harry Peyton’s vague direction. As Cora approaches, she can see
Mrs. Ames’s expression more clearly now. She’s also watching her daughter and Harry’s little reunion, and looks none too pleased
herself.
A plan formulates in Cora’s mind—a slight pivot from quiet decorum, though Alice will have to forgive the hasty improvisation—and hasty it will have to be.
Beau twists the ladle like a sword before sloshing the red punch into a glass. “After this moment of respite, I do hope you will honor me with a— Say!”
Because she’s already started swaying, one hand to her forehead, the other held out as if bracing for a fall.
Beau fumbles to place down the drinks and help, but Mrs. Ames has already caught sight of Cora’s impending tumble and is mercifully
quicker.
“Miss Ritter, Cora dear, are you ill?” Mrs. Ames bustles to her side, Arabella and Harry on her heels.
“I’m . . . not sure,” Cora whispers, stumbling a step. Two, for good measure. “I—”
As Beau approaches, Cora spins dramatically—and in one fluid motion, discreetly lifts the small pencil tucked inside his pocket—then
wobbles, falling backward toward an approaching Harry Peyton, uttering a silent prayer that he’ll catch her.
She lands softly into his wide, outstretched arms. Good boy.
Harry hovers over her, blue eyes widening.
“My goodness, miss.” He gently places her on the floor, pressing his fingers to her neck. Not exactly what she’d expected, but
she can work with it. “Your systolic pressure has plummeted. At these levels, I worry about your heart—”
“My heart,” she whispers, gazing deeply into his eyes. “It does feel rather transfixed at the moment.”
A hint of red flashes on Harry’s skin.
Cora bites her lip to stop her smile from growing any farther. Up close, Harry looks even more charmingly guileless. High
cheekbones, dark hair peeking out from that ill-fitting wig, literal wide eyes. His thick eyebrows stitched, still studying
her with concern.
She begins to rise, and he hastens to offer a hand.
“Thank you for your exquisite timing, but I promise I am more than all right,” Cora says in her Württembergian lilt, smoothening her skirts. “Although also quite . . . mortified.”
“Then you should consider yourself in good company,” Harry says, still holding her arm for balance, gesturing down at his
outfit with a frown. “I thought tonight was a costumed event. I had it in my head that all balls were costumed balls. Obviously
that was an ill-informed presupposition.”
“We all make mistakes,” Cora supplies kindly. “At least this is a charming one. Fortunately, I do feel a bit better now.”
“You should always carry smelling salts on your person,” Harry says gravely. “And drink plentiful liquids to keep yourself
hydrated.”
“I told her she needed punch,” Beau mumbles behind them.
Cora ignores him. She peers down at Harry’s hand, still touching her, then away, as if shy. “Truly keen advice.”
“It is hotter than Dante’s inferno in here,” Mrs. Ames coos in sympathy, offering her a second arm. “Please, do take your time,
Miss Ritter.”
Harry adds, “Fresh air can also help with syncope.”
“Syncope?” Cora asks, gazing up at him.
He looks beyond flattered to be asked. “The scientific term for swooning. Caused by a decrease in blood to the brain.”
“We’d both be happy to escort you outside, Cora,” Arabella cuts in, too quickly.
Beau clears his throat, stepping forward.
“That won’t be necessary. Harold, good to see you out and about.” As they shake hands, Beau adds, “Allow me to take it from
here. Lady Cora and I were just in the middle of discussing the possibility of a dan . . .” He stops, searching his pocket.
“Oh. How?” Beau glances up. “Ah, excuse me, but . . .” He pats his pockets again. “Can’t find the dang pencil. Keep your card ready, Lady Cora. I’ll only be a minute.”
Mrs. Ames rolls her eyes, sweeping forward, her wide frame blocking Beau out entirely as he hurries away.
“Mr. Peyton, this is Miss Cora Ritter.” She looks inordinately proud to have gotten the honorific right. “Cousin to the Grand Duchess Marie Charlotte
Gabriella of Württemberg.”
Harry’s forehead wrinkles. “Württemberg . . .”
“A nation within the German Empire,” Mrs. Ames chirps.
“Ah. How fascinating.” Sincerity rings in Harry’s voice. He bows. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Ritter.”
“The grand duchess was kind enough to bring Miss Ritter along to New York for the social season,” Mrs. Ames explains. “A welcome
respite for them both. Our family has pledged to do everything we can to make their time in our city as comfortable and memorable
as possible, haven’t we, Arabella?”
“Ah yes,” Arabella mumbles, but only after her mother has nudged her.
Harry smiles. It’s a nice one, Cora notes, just a shade flummoxed, with dimples and those doe-like blue eyes, his gaze never
wavering. It’s the perfect opening moment, really . . . if not for the anxious-looking Arabella beside him.
“I wonder, do you find yourself homesick at all, Miss Ritter?” Harry asks. “In the somatic or figurative sense?”
“Heavens no, Mr. Peyton,” Mrs. Ames answers for her, “it is a gift they have reached our shores. Don’t you know Miss Ritter’s
country is on the brink of a civil war? The governing king has wronged his people, and a national resistance, led by her cousin, seeks to restore order and prosperity for all.”
Harry’s eyes dart back to Cora’s—wide with interest or concern, Cora can’t be sure.
Mrs. Ames drops her voice an octave, murmuring to Arabella, “Speaking of, dear daughter, I do believe we should ask the grand duchess if she’s heard from the prince.
I overheard Mrs. Vandemeer inviting her to an intimate dinner.
It might be prudent to remind the duchess of the particular bond between our two families, wouldn’t you agree? ”
“But—”
Mrs. Ames turns toward Harry. “We shall leave you two to become better acquainted.”
Before Arabella can further object, her mother whisks her across the ballroom.
Cora lets out a low, steady breath. And now the stage is mine.
Harry inches closer. “Tell me, Miss Ritter, how are you acclimating to our city? I am always captivated by the effects of
new environmental factors on the body.”
Goodness, the boy really does have a fascination with anatomy—Harry is most certainly a far sight quirkier than Alice had
intimated. Still, Cora manages a doting laugh. She studies the dancers surrounding them, the kaleidoscope of silk, lace, color.
“I suppose I find it quite beautiful. Busy. Lonely.” She glances back, offering him a sad smile. “I am . . . still finding my way.”
“Manhattan is not a hard city to master once you’re accustomed to it. I never get lost during my weekly jaunts to the Academy.”
Then Harry adds, more hesitantly, “But I understand how it might feel lonely. I’ve often wondered how other cities might compare.”
Cora swallows her surprise. A young man of Harry’s station . . . She would have thought he’d grown up summering in Newport, vacationed for months on end across Europe, same as the rest of this privileged set they’re rubbing shoulders with.
“Surely you’ve been to other cities besides New York?”
“I’m afraid my natural habitat has shrunk to the size of twenty blocks and two avenues.” His smile turns wistful. “I am fulfilled,
mind you, having thrown myself into my studies, the Academy, the pursuit of a greater calling. Still . . .” Harry trails off.
There’s a new glimmer of yearning in his eyes.
“They’ve become recluses these past few years,” Alice explained during training. “The father has cut them both off from the world.”
But it sounds as though Harry has been shuttered on this island for much longer . . . and Cora can definitely tap into that
yearning.
“Well, I have done enough travel for the both of us,” she says kindly. “I can be your field guide to other places, if you
like. And perhaps one day, with some luck, your horizons might extend far beyond Fifth Avenue.”
“With some luck.” Harry’s eyes dim. “I’m lucky in some senses. Not so fortunate in others.”
“One’s fortune can always change, Mr. Peyton.”
As if on cue, a new song begins. Talk about luck.
“Well,” Harry says, a hedging, cautious tone, “if your nervous system is now fully regulated, might you . . . be interested
in joining me for a waltz, Miss Ritter?”
Would she be interested? Alice had Cora waltzing, quadrilling, practicing the four-step across her living room with Dagmar
for evenings on end. Though Cora has some natural skill, it took a full week to master the intricacies of all the variations
of ballroom dance. She’s excited to show off her skills, put all of Alice’s meticulous training to the test.
“I should love nothing more.”
The crowd parts, scores of eyes watching them with curiosity, as they step onto the floor.
Cora resists the urge to look around, else risk seeming less than fully taken with her partner. But as they begin to glide
across the parquet, she would wager her cut, maybe even bet the farm itself, that Alice is watching her.
She hopes her mentor is delighted. Proud of her even, perish the thought. She and Harry Peyton, sailing across the ballroom,
just as she’d hoped. The night had its obstacles, most certainly, but Cora has triumphed. Sheltered, unusual fellow this Peyton
is, and still, ensnaring the lad was far easier than she anticipated. Painless, really, as a stroll around the park.
As they spin about the floor, Cora catches Arabella’s watchful, worried eye.
Just a pity there will be some unforeseen casualties.