Chapter 22 High-Wire Act
High-Wire Act
“What a wonderfully appropriate performance tonight, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Peyton?” Mrs. Ames winks like a doting aunt at
Cora and Harry before taking her seat beside Arabella and her husband of few words in the first row of their private opera
box. “A story of love, romance, amore!”
From what Cora’s heard about Carmen, it’s actually about the power of one selfish woman to destroy the life of the man who falls in love with her. But given that
Harry, her own intended object of seduction, is sitting rigidly beside her, it feels best to keep that observation to herself.
Harry glances briefly at Arabella before taking Cora’s hand and giving it a perfunctory kiss. “Indeed, Mrs. Ames. Maybe the
Met knew we would be coming.”
The performance already began before they could take their seats.
A cigar factory scene, female choristers singing.
Apparently it would be beyond the pale to arrive on time for the opera, she learned recently.
That’s when all the more inexpensive seats below are filled.
On this level, arrivals are far more leisurely.
Cora must admit, she’d have liked to hear the overture.
A woman enters the scene, draped in beads and gossamer scarves, exotic even for this Spain-set scene. All eyes onstage and
off turn to her, just in time for her to begin to sing, deeply, soulfully, and yes—seductively.
Cora flashes Harry a suggestive smile before she, too, considers Arabella. Her smile turns hollow. It’s impossible to ignore
how positively peaked the poor girl looks tonight. She appears to be wearing powder, as if to cover splotchy skin, but it’s
her puffy eyes that bear the marks of recent crying.
As if to consciously block Cora’s view of her daughter, Mrs. Ames whips her fan open and puts it to immediate use. Cora herself
feels no need of her fan, clasped daintily in her lap. The air up here is rarified in more ways than one, nice and cool against
Cora’s skin—of which, in this particularly low-cut gown, much has been bared, as per usual these days. Up here in the Diamond
Horseshoe, as they call these prized box seats, she feels laid open to society. On display. Exposed.
Or perhaps that’s her mounting jitters over just how much she’s meant to achieve tonight, and the height of this upper-level
private box is not helping quell the vertiginous sensation of being about to fall off a cliff.
The Metropolitan Opera House, Cora’s learned, has been open only since October, which may explain why this magnificent space
still smells of fresh paint. Despite how new she is to this world, she can clearly see why the house has asserted itself as
the fashionable place to convene on Monday evenings in the span of one season.
A true feat of design, ingenuity, and the power of persuasion.
Huge, sparkling chandeliers float atop a pasture-sized audience, the curved walls lined, floor to ceiling, with spacious gilded boxes, like lace on the bustle of a massive dress.
Downtown’s Academy of Music hardly stands a chance of survival when faced with this competition.
One triumph among many for the “new money” millionaires who helped fund the place, including the company Cora is currently keeping.
The Ameses’ box is situated close to the center of the upper ring, though still not as central as Mrs. Ames would have liked
(she’s mentioned something to that effect at least five times tonight), and most certainly not as primely positioned as the
Vandemeers’ box, which Cora has been watching surreptitiously since the moment they took their seats.
The pretty, perpetually scowling Mimi Vandemeer, dressed all in white, is hard to miss. She’s somehow positioned herself so
that the lantern light reflects against the emerald solitaire, making it shine like a green beacon even from this distance.
The woman seated beside Mimi is far more subdued in a gown of deep blue, in keeping with her perpetual state of somber fretting
over the fate of Württemberg.
No amount of staring will amend the situation, but Cora can’t help but inwardly gripe over Alice’s placement—right beside
the damned necklace! If only Alice had the deft hands. For once, she could be the one carrying out someone else’s strategy. And if only Cora’s own invitation into the Vandemeers’ box hadn’t been preempted by Harry Peyton’s insistence that they attend the opera
together, as a newly betrothed couple, in the box of his dear friends, the Ameses.
Alice, as usual, was unperturbed.
“I’m sure you’ll figure out a pretext for visiting us,” she’d said and left it at that. What a time to finally have trust placed in her.
And now here Cora is. In position and out of ideas.
Down onstage, a sweet-voiced soprano sings to the tenor hero. Thanks to Béa’s lessons, Cora can make out a few of the words
in the French libretto. Something about a letter, an engagement?
Cora presses her hand to Harry’s and nods to the stage. “Who is she?”
“Michaela,” Arabella supplies. “His childhood sweetheart. Still in love with him, the fool.”
The box grows quiet. A discomfited Harry begins pulling at his collar.
“Apologies.” Arabella’s pale cheeks turn rosy. “You were asking Mr. Peyton, not me.”
She buries her face in her program.
“And yet, very useful,” Cora chirps. “Thank you, Arabella. Have you seen Carmen before?”
Arabella stays quiet.
“You’ll have to forgive my gloomy daughter.” Mrs. Ames leans conspiratorially toward Cora and Harry. “She’s pining for your
cousin, the prince. Perhaps this opera is a bit heavy for her current spirits, but I thought this a perfect introduction to
the opera for our Württembergian friends.” She flashes Cora a cloying smile. Then her eyes dart resentfully across the theater
to the Vandemeers’ box. “Pity the duchess was unable to accept our invitation.”
“It was only that the Vandemeers asked her first.” Cora dares a little wink. “You know how they do so love to be first.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Ames covers her snicker with her fan. “Very aptly observed, my dear. I dare say, one visit to New York and you’re as canny as a native . . . and may I also say, we so hope to enjoy the closest possible relations with your dear family for many years to come.”
Cora valiantly resists the urge to roll her eyes. Had the devil himself arrived in New York and offered the Ames family a
royal title, Mrs. Ames would have had her daughter penning letters to hell for the past three months. Who has been keeping up the other side of this princely correspondence? she wonders now. Béatrice? Mr. McAllister? Alice herself?
Cora lets out a giggle at the very thought. Mrs. Ames blinks, affronted.
“Forgive my wandering mind,” Cora says carefully. “I was caught in imaginings of all of these good times. Our new beginning
here in this grand city.”
As Mrs. Ames nods, apparently mollified by that, Cora moves on, gazing across the open space, scanning the boxes surrounding
them. There’s Ward in ridiculous white tails beside the stout, regal Mrs. Astor. The Witt and the Ogden booths side by side—Mrs.
Witt ignoring the opera entirely while whispering something into the ear of her guest. Mr. Ogden staring rather obviously
at Alice in the next box.
And Alice staring daggers at Cora.
Cora sits back, face flushing. Perhaps it’s time to use her own damned fan.
“There will be many visits to Württemberg on the horizon as well, no doubt,” Mrs. Ames says, drawing Cora’s attention once
again.
Cora blinks, perplexed.
“Once the conflict has been resolved.” Mrs. Ames leans closer to speak over the swelling orchestrations filling the opera house. “We’d thought perhaps to divide our time between there and here once Arabella is wed.”
Harry leans across Cora. “After the weddings, I expect our families will grow closer than ever,” he says emphatically. “Like
we used to be. For all the years to come.”
Arabella turns to peer at him with those waiflike eyes of hers, not exactly looking as if she’s happy with that forecast.
Harry looks away, suddenly flushed.
Cora chases away the guilt, teasing her throat like the start of a cold. She has a job to do tonight, no room for doubt. Alice
may never think of her as an equal, or value her to the extent she might Mr. McAllister or Béa, but she is uniquely relying
on Cora tonight.
And it’s time to deliver.
The theater erupts into applause as the curtain closes and houselights rise throughout the vast space.
“Intermission,” Mr. Ames grunts, walking out of the box more quickly than Cora’s ever before seen the man move. Not a fan
of the opera, apparently. “Let’s go find a drink.”
“Oh, darling!” Mrs. Ames laughs awkwardly. “He does have a knack for putting into five words what it would take me seventy
to say. A drink. Yes, let’s.”
Across the expanse of the Met, Mimi Vandemeer rises from her seat and turns to speak to someone. Alice stands more slowly,
staring at the exposed clasp on the back of Mimi’s neck. Then back at Cora.
Not the most subtle reminder, Alice. Cora nods back: Message received. Get the necklace. Swap it with another. Don’t get caught. Simple, yes? It’s only a matter of where and when.
She turns to Harry, ready to suggest a visit to the Vandemeers’ box, citing a burning desire to visit with her dear friend Mimi—given how Harry’s been sequestered from society, Cora can’t imagine he realizes that no one considers the gossiping Mimi an actual friend—but the view across the theater scuppers that plan before she can even attempt it.
Apart from Mrs. Vandemeer, who has settled in next to Alice with two fresh coupes of champagne, the box across the way has
emptied out. For whatever reason, Mimi is on the move.
“Shall we stretch our legs?” Cora suggests.
“Let’s join the Ameses in the saloon.” Harry offers his arm. He turns back to the still-seated Arabella. “Will you come too,
Arabella?”
The girl shakes her head with a tentative smile. “I’m all right here.”