Chapter 22 High-Wire Act #2
Most certainly for the best. Last thing Cora needs right now is Harry’s own “Michaela” tagging along all night. She ignores
the fresh stab of compunction at the toll this is taking on Arabella . . . which, she realizes, is truly nothing compared
to the fate due to befall her entire family, and her old friend Harry, in a matter of weeks.
Harry smiles blithely as they pass among the crowds in the gilded outer halls. “Would you care for champagne? Believe I could
use a glass myself.”
“That would be lovely,” Cora agrees, throat still tight.
Inside the central saloon, there is a sprawling ornate bar, with several barkeeps behind it pouring drinks for the well-heeled
men approaching, while waiters in long tails circulate the room with trays bearing champagne glasses. The room is a swirl
of color and flash, even finer gowns and jewels on display than at the Patriarch’s Ball. But the one jewel Cora’s looking
for, she cannot seem to locate.
Wherever Mimi Vandemeer has wandered off to, it isn’t this saloon.
First of three intermissions, Cora reminds herself. There is still time.
But not much, goodness knows. Given that their timeline for the embassy coup has now advanced, getting those emeralds back
is crucial; the gems must be in Alice’s possession when she meets with the Ogdens for their own valuation tomorrow. Mimi Vandemeer needs to walk out
onto Broadway tonight with green glass around her neck or—
“Are you enjoying the show?” Harry asks, dutifully taking her hand as they make their way through the milling crowd. “I wonder,
does your homeland have an opera house?”
“We do indeed, Mr. Peyton. The grand Württemberg Opera House, in Stuttgart. I am sure you will love it as much as I do.”
“I do hope Arabella will love it too—ah, rather, will feel at home. There. In your country.” Harry swallows, his grip tightening
around Cora’s hand. “She seems so out of sorts tonight, does she not?”
“I think she’s preoccupied with the play.” Enough of this. Cora loops her arm through his, pulling him closer. “You are a very good friend, Mr. Peyton, worrying about her well-being,”
she purrs. “A very upstanding man.”
This finally draws a real smile out of him, his face igniting with relief.
By all appearances, they do make for a handsome couple tonight—Harry in his new navy ditto suit, his dark hair slicked and
parted. Cora’s truly exquisite gown, her favorite yet, the pale pink chiffon embroidered with stunning silver rosettes. Does
Harry suspect it’s all a performance, a trick, even on some subconscious level?
Cora steals another look at him, but he’s now preoccupied, flagging a waiter, who approaches promptly to offer them both champagne.
As she’s halfway through her glass, however, the bell announcing the end of the first intermission sounds. The flow of traffic
shifts back to the hallway, pulling her and Harry along in its wake, all the way back to the Ameses’ box for the opera’s second
act.
And that’s the first chance gone.
Nerves singing now, Cora dares a glance at the Vandemeer booth as the houselights dim once again. Mimi’s back beside Alice.
And Alice looks absolutely livid.
Cora turns her attention pointedly to the stage, roiling herself.
What does she expect me to do? Sprint away from present company all the way to the other box and tackle Mimi Vandemeer in
plain view of the entire theater?
Actually, that may be exactly what Alice expects.
As the sunken orchestra jumps playfully into a jaunty tune, Carmen and her female friends process around the stage, dancing
flirtatiously with the men seated around what looks to be an inn. Then there begins a sort of ballet in the style of bullfighters—the
men showing off their youthful vigor to the women—before Carmen begins to sing her sultry song.
Cora’s cheeks grow hot in the dark, thoughts turning, of all things, to that night downtown with Dagmar.
And . . . Cal Archer. She still cannot wrap her mind around the reality that he is Alice’s brother, who has been duping her all the while she thought she was duping him.
She also cannot wrap her tangled mind around her feelings for him.
Cal has no doubt been an unforeseen and welcome diversion to this whole undertaking—but he is also a liar.
Although, she supposes, that does make two of them.
In quieter moments, she’s taken to replaying every single interaction between them, searching for signs, moments she could
consider a different way, like a gem that takes on new dimensions under the light.
Like, say, an emerald.
Cora swallows hard. Time is ticking, options dwindling.
Across the theater, Mimi idly strokes her necklace, unknowingly taunting her.
Carmen’s second act is quite stirring. Cora is pleased to find that even with her limited French, she can follow the plot just fine.
Without really intending to, she sinks into the story. The curtain close at the end of act 2 subsequently comes as a jarring
surprise.
Second intermission. The lights turning on, the crowd below rising into animated conversation.
Cora looks again to the Vandemeers’ box, readying herself to begin tracking them, trailing them. But this time Mimi stays
in her seat, stretching her arms with an extravagant yawn.
“I should like to stretch my legs, beat the crowd this time,” Harry says, standing. “You stay here.”
“Oh!” Cora shakes her head. “But—”
“I insist.” And he’s gone, right on the heels of Mr. and Mrs. Ames, off to visit with the Ogdens, if Cora’s heard correctly.
Cora stands staring at the Vandemeer booth, rendered immobile by newly learned social mores. She’ll drink her champagne when
Harry returns and then she’ll go; she’ll run if she has to.
“Do you think I’m a fool?”
Cora startles and turns. She nearly forgot Arabella was still here.
The girl looks ghostlike in the corner, ivory dress making her milky skin appear bone white.
“Of course not,” Cora says, careful as porcelain. “Whyever would I?”
Arabella sighs. “Pinning all my hopes on someone I’ve never met. Rather than . . . well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Cora’s heart settles down to a more manageable pace. “You mean my cousin? I can assure you, he’s a man of honor. You couldn’t
choose anyone more solid to, ah, pin your hopes on.”
“He sounds like Harry,” Arabella says, rather wistfully. She brightens, with effort, extending a hand to Cora. “You’ve made
such a good choice, Miss Ritter. I’ve known Harry my entire life. He is such a find. Brilliant, in his way. A truly thoughtful,
curious person, who sees the good in everyone.”
“Yes,” Cora agrees, perhaps too hastily, taking Arabella’s hand. “I could see that about him from the start.”
“I only hope I shall find a happiness equal to what you two have found.” Arabella sounds the furthest thing from happy right
now.
“The barkeep convinced me to purchase a bottle,” Harry says sheepishly as he enters the booth again, cradling three empty
coupes in one arm. With hope, he looks to Arabella. “I’d love to uncork one smile out of you tonight, Bella.”
Arabella’s eyes glisten, but she musters a grin.
As Harry begins happily pouring, Cora seizes on the momentary distraction.
“Oh heavens,” she blurts. “Mimi will be so put out if I don’t at least say hello—”
And then she’s out the door like a cannon blast . . . only to be waylaid by Ward McAllister, who appears to be standing in wait for Cora, his hand outstretched like a horse tamer, a look of sharp amusement in his eye. “Not so fast, my dear, not nearly so fast.”
A sour taste rises in Cora’s mouth at the sight of him. She cannot say why, but she’s most certainly grown to dislike the
man. Perhaps only because she’s jealous. He’s clearly a true associate of Alice’s, or however Dagmar put it during their visit
to the saloon. And by that logic, Ward knows the whole game far better than she does.
Cora supposes she’d be wise to listen to him.
“We’re halfway through intermission,” she whispers, drawing nearer.
“Which leaves me just enough time to stop you from making a colossal mistake,” he drawls, that “cat who stole the cream” expression
plastered thick on his bearded face. He takes Cora’s arm and strolls with her farther down the hall from the saloon crowd.
“If you undertake this swap of yours in the booth, as you are no doubt planning, you’ll have all of New York high society
as witness to it. That emerald’s already drawn their eye. The Vandemeers’ box is practically a second opera stage tonight.
I know you’re a consummate performer, but surely this is a magic trick you’d prefer not be talked about all over town for
days to come.”
There’s a whole lot of sense in what he’s saying, loath as Cora is to admit it.
“What are you suggesting?” she whispers back.
“Something a bit more intimate?” He shrugs, nodding at the ringing bell signaling the end of the second intermission. “And
I urge you to make it snappy.”
He pivots away with his walking stick before she can grab it and slap the man with it.
Back in the Ameses’ box, Cora takes her seat beside Harry with a manic smile.
Intimate. Not in the box itself. Someplace private.
Farther along the box seat arc, she sees that Mr. McAllister has returned to Mrs. Astor’s box with refreshments, looking irritatingly
undaunted as he takes his seat.
“Do sit down, Arabella; you’re blocking the way.” Mrs. Ames settles into her seat, nudging her daughter back into the corner.
As the houselights sink, so do Cora’s spirits, her head pounding with the realization that she may well have minutes before
it’s too late and their entire plan—all the ground they’ve laid this season—is destroyed, and all because of her shortcomings.
But what is there to do? She cannot fly across the opera house and force Mimi Vandemeer to use the water closet.
“Good grief, I’ve overfilled this,” Harry says, handing her the glass. “Sorry, dear.”
She looks down at her wine.
Yes. Wine. That’s it!