Chapter 16 In Decent Proposal
In Decent Proposal
Witt
Angle: Capriciousness
“The bonnet is falling off your goose, Mamma.”
“Then pin it back!” Iris Witt smacks her daughter’s arm. “Don’t just sit there like a rag doll.”
Bonnie lets out a leaden sigh as she leans the slight distance across the carriage to reaffix the bonnet onto Iris’s goose
headdress. “You couldn’t have chosen something simpler?”
“Like a fairy queen, such as you?” Iris snorts derisively. “There will be ten Titanias there tonight, not that you two care
if you’re absorbed by the crowd.”
Beau’s too busy picking at his gums with a toothpick to bother looking affronted.
“Bad enough to endure yet another costume ball.” Iris sighs. “I don’t suppose we can expect the likes of the Parvenu Family
to innovate.”
“The Ameses?” Bonnie corrects.
“That’s what I said.” Iris sneers. “The Parvenus.”
The carriage stops before a stately manse on Sixtieth Street.
“Still don’t understand why we’re collecting Peyton,” Beau moans. “To protect his maidenly virtue?”
Bonnie slaps her brother with her clutched fan, but she’s smirking right along.
“We’re bringing him with us for the fun of it,” Iris declares.
“Here she goes,” Bonnie mutters.
“The monotony of this social sphere, the endless cycle of one predictable setting after another; it’s enough to drive one
to an early grave. The same people, the same conversation, with nothing novel to break it up. You’re both too young and frankly
too boring to know the agony I’m in,” Iris cries. “Comfort, wealth, it is a pernicious trap. At least the poor have work to
pour themselves into, and surely the fight against starvation affords a certain level of novelty to each day.”
“Go on, Mamma, try out poverty, see if you like it,” Beau snickers.
Iris lifts her chin. “Perhaps I will. Perhaps—”
She gasps. Clutches at Bonnie, who recoils as far as the carriage will allow.
“Oh yes, we’ll throw a poverty party. That will be quite a distraction. Haven’t been to one of those in ages—now, smiles in
place, children, here comes the young shut-in himself. Harry! My goodness, what a costume, and . . . what’s that you’re holding?
Now, now. This will be an interesting evening after all!”
“So the others will want an emerald valuation as well?” Cora stands in the middle of the parlor, adjusting her Egyptian headdress. “Do we have the funds for another emerald, even a smaller one?”
No one pays her any mind, a sensation she is growing alarmingly accustomed to. She might as well be here as a tableau vivant—meant to be looked at, certainly not listened to.
Cora truly doesn’t understand: Has she not done whatever Alice has asked of her since coming aboard—day after day playing
the demure heiress, doing her part to conquer Harry and, through him, ruin his father? Has she not proven herself through
tedious training, study, countless social engagements, keeping reporters in the dark, literally spinning the news in their
favor? And still, Alice refuses to see her as an equal . . . or even as someone capable of adding value. Someone who deserves
respect.
Alice continues pacing, running rivulets into her parlor floorboards, while Ward sits at the window, frowning down at the
bustling avenue below, his hand absently screwing his cane into the rug. He’s supposed to be Henry VIII for tonight’s costume
ball but looks rather more like a sad clown in his chosen attire—cockeyed velvet cap, a slightly too-snug burgundy doublet,
puffy brocade breeches.
“We need to find a solution before Thursday,” he murmurs. “We’re set to dine with the Ogdens and—”
“Thursday?” Alice spits out the word like venom. “Far too soon. Even assuming this forgery idea would work—a big assumption, mind you—we’ll absolutely need to delay.”
Ward grimaces. “Time is of the essence in general, is it not, my dear?”
“A forged emerald, you mean?” Cora cuts in, now desperate with confusion. “For me to, what? Wear to dinner with the Ogdens? Surely you aren’t going to risk someone wanting to buy a bracelet off me too—”
“Surely nothing. This isn’t a two-bit production, Cora. Your advice is neither relevant nor helpful.” Alice turns on her, blue eyes
frosty. “These people are serious players with deep pockets and aren’t going to just accept green glass and say thank you.
As to your earlier question, yes, each of them may want the stones evaluated, which would be more than understandable. Now,
pray be silent and let the adults talk.”
Cora reels back as if she’s been slapped.
“Don’t cry, ma puce,” Béatrice murmurs kindly, hovering near the entry. “Think of the makeup.”
Alice sighs, turning toward the window, dismissing Cora with a wave of her hand. Somehow the feathers of her hoopoe-themed
gown lend extra hauteur to the gesture.
“Cinderella’s carriage has just arrived, anyway,” she mutters. “Go be useful. Ward, do buy me more time if you can. Even a
week would . . .”
White-capped rage—or is it hurt?—crests between Cora’s temples, drowning out the sound of Alice and Ward’s further plotting.
She hurries past them all, blinking back hot tears. Past Dagmar too, who has chosen to remain in the kitchen, polishing pots,
agnostically silent on the subject as always.
Cora hurtles down the narrow steps.
“Enjoy the party, Cora,” Béatrice calls gently after her.
Cora ducks into the corner of the narrow, stuffy stairwell, attempting to catch her breath, calm her juddering pulse. Alice
could not have possibly meant those cutting gibes. No, she is overwhelmed, obviously, ever more anxious as they hurtle toward
this grand production’s final act on May 1.
Just breathe, Cora tells herself. Breathe, reset the stage.
She carefully wipes her eyes, attempting to preserve Béa’s handiwork. This is hardly the time for self-pity. And this is what
she wanted, after all: to be part of a winning team, to star in a lucrative performance, with instruction from a master (however
cold or ruthless that master might be). Alice will fill in Cora, eventually, of course she will, when the time is right. Alice
needs her, after all.
Cora only wishes Alice were better at showing it.
She takes a few fortifying breaths and steps into the respite of the night, taking in the picturesque New York winter evening
in all its splendor. The warmly lit lanterns, the horse-drawn carriages clopping down the road, the frigid air laced with
perfume and expectation. As for her escort, the carriage is already parked at the curb.
Alice was right, per usual: The Witts’ cab is indeed lifted straight from a fairy tale, ornate white wood, gilded frame, and
hitched to four majestic gray steeds. A reedy, well-dressed driver stands ready to assist.
Get into character now, Cora. Calm, regal, earnest, doting.
She lifts the beaded skirts of her Egyptian princess costume, her heaviest and most exquisite gown yet this season—though
calling it “hers” is a stretch, as it will be sold on, same as all the rest of them, soon after the party. She blinks the
less-than-glamorous reality away and glides down from the front stoop just as Harry steps out from the carriage.
Harry bows, offering his hand. Thankfully, his attire tonight is loads better than the hasty, misconceived getup he threw
together for the Patriarch’s Ball. He’s dressed as a Scottish Highlander, with a sharp cap, full cape, and gentleman’s kilt.
Will wonders never cease; he must have finally hired a tailor.
“Miss Ritter,” Harry says. “You’re as exquisite as a Nymphaea caerulea.”
Cora cocks her head.
“An Egyptian lotus,” Harry hastens to explain. “You know, given the, ah, costume.”
He gestures manically toward her Cleopatra dress.
Goodness, he seems more off than usual.
She affords him an indulgent smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Peyton,” she says with perfect Württembergian inflection. “You look very dashing yourself.”
They settle into the crowded carriage, onto one of the car’s long velvet benches. Seated across are the Witt twins, Bonnie
and Beau, dressed as a fairy and a silken-clad jester, respectively, with their dreadful mother, Mrs. Witt, sandwiched between
and overlapping them. The older woman is puffed up like merengue in frills and lace, with some kind of taxidermied bird both
posing as a hat and wearing a hat of its own.
“Mother Goose,” Mrs. Witt explains proudly, as she likely will all night.
Cora smiles. “How clever, Mrs. Witt.”
As Alice explained earlier this week, it would be untoward for Cora and Harry to attend the ball on their own. Given Alice
and Mr. McAllister considered it more strategic to ride with the Ogdens tonight—one thread of their exclusive debates that
she was able to parse—Cora has been tasked with suffering the Witts.
“My, my, how beautiful you look, Miss Ritter.” Mrs. Witt smirks. “The detail in that gown is astonishing. Everyone will wonder
how many emeralds you had to sell to pay for such a costume. I’m surprised your cousin is allowing any expense to be allocated
anywhere but back home to the resistance effort.”
Mrs. Witt’s shrewd eyes flash dangerously. Was that a knowing cut? Was this costume a misstep? Does she see through their resistance ruse, or is she just being vicious?
Here and now, Cora decides that out of all the marks, she dislikes Mrs. Witt the most.
With an airy laugh, Mrs. Witt leans across the cab and pats Cora’s knee. “Quite right to bring your best tonight. Of all nights.”
She flashes Harry a little smirk.
Harry starts nervously laughing, which quickly devolves into a choking cough.
“Goodness, Harry, are you all right?” Cora places her hand on his shoulder.
“Quite,” he heaves, flashing her a demented smile. “I’m in a fit about this ball. I’m sure it will be one for the ages!”
“It’ll be flashy, no doubt,” Beau muses dryly. “Too bad money can’t buy class.”
Beau adjusts his jester hat, peering out the window with a sneer that at least manages to cover his gray teeth.
Mrs. Witt laughs along. “Pearl Ames will always try. I suppose she thinks a royal title for her little mousy daughter might