Chapter 23 Water Tank
Water Tank
Ogden
Angle: Carnality
Priscilla Ogden’s lady’s maid rubs chamomile-scented lotion into Priscilla’s forearms before presenting her with the long
gloves she’ll wear until dinner is served. Her husband finds her raised veins unsightly. He tries to hide his reaction—his
good heart will not allow him to hurt his wife’s feelings—but Priscilla has noted it nonetheless and covers her legs, ankles,
and arms as much as she possibly can. Thick, layered necklaces draped tight around her neck disguise the increasing crepe
effect of her skin. Cosmetics do the rest. And prayer.
She was so beautiful once. Long and languid, like a painting of the pre-Raphaelite school.
Artists once begged her to pose for them.
Young men jostled across a crowded ball to secure dances with her, and she received no fewer than four proposals that first social season.
There was no question whom she would choose.
Brett Ogden was like a knight on a steed, just as beautiful and well mannered and wealthy, and he loved her ardently.
He truly did. He still does and Priscilla knows it, even if he doesn’t visit her bedroom at night anymore.
That’s to do with his grief over their lack of children, not her. He’s said as much.
No, Brett is the soul of faithfulness and honor. It is only that womankind is so treacherous! There are so many traps set
throughout the city every day, women whose eyes turn to her husband, who intend to draw him away, to lure him into their bed
and into ruin. Cruel creatures, these females.
Priscilla has even begun to wonder about her lady’s maid. She’d selected her precisely because she was the plainest of all
the options her housekeeper presented to her, but there’s a certain blush to her cheeks now. A confident swing to her slim
hips that was not once apparent. She’ll have to send her packing. But that’s a problem for tomorrow.
“That will be all,” Priscilla says coolly, as her (temporary) maid affixes a pearl comb into her piled graying hair.
She has one ally, at least, among the fairer and fouler sex. The duchess truly has no designs upon her husband. Priscilla
can see that now. Her new friend’s mind is dispassionately and reassuringly affixed upon the fate of her nation.
Priscilla rises from her dressing table with a smile that sours quickly as she remembers the other guest tonight. She shall
have to watch the young heiress closely.
“Fefu! Fritz!” She calls for her dogs and they rush to follow at her heels.
What a comfort they are. At least they still come when she beckons them.
“Spectacular,” Mr. Ogden breathes.
For once, he’s not looking at Alice.
The emerald, now loose from its setting, lays before them on a simple square of silk.
Mr. Ogden reaches for the stone, then pulls his hand back with visible effort. “May I?”
“Of course,” Alice replies softly. She glances past Ward, sipping his post-dinner madeira in the corner of the parlor, where
Cora makes a fuss over Mrs. Ogden’s two terriers, to Priscilla’s grudging approval. If Cora isn’t in fact an animal lover,
she’s putting on one hell of a performance. Even Mr. Ogden’s eyes dart over to her from time to time.
“I hope you don’t find this too forward,” he murmurs now, subtly adjusting his body so his shoulder grazes Alice’s. “But I
should like to have this stone appraised.”
Alice affects a practiced bewilderment. “For what purpose?”
“Why, for yours alone,” he says, his voice an intense rumble as he holds the stone up to the lantern light, as if he has a
keen enough eye to check for inclusions himself. “So that you know your worth at last.”
There are ways to feign a blush, Alice has learned. Not the color itself, but a tipped chin, averted eyes, lips lifting at
the corners as if compelled to do so by a flood of unexpected emotion.
“McAllister here tells me there’s been interest in your family’s mining company,” Brett Ogden goes on. Ward raises his glass
in acknowledgment. “I would not be a true friend to you if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure your interests
are fully looked after. In fact . . .”
He shoots her a rueful smile. No doubt, in his youth—perhaps even now—that plaintive expression coupled with his roguishly handsome features would make some women weak at the knees.
He presses his hand to hers, his pinkie finger playing against the fabric on her knee. “If you were to get into bed with any
New York businessman, I would hope it would be me. If you’ll forgive the expression.”
There’s a momentary silence in the parlor, Mrs. Ogden’s attention caught afresh on their conversation, then Cora squeals.
“And look how he can fetch! What a darling.”
One of the terriers—is this one Fritz?—darts past Alice’s legs and back. She adjusts her skirts to keep them from being trampled
yet again. When she looks up, she finds Ogden’s attention has wandered across the room.
“Your niece is very charming,” Ogden says. “How old is she?”
“Cousin,” Alice corrects. “Miss Ritter is twenty-two.”
“Ah. In the first bloom of womanhood.”
Across the parlor table, Ward’s eyes meet Alice’s, flashing consternation. He sets down his wineglass. “Now, I might be talkin’
out of turn here, but I don’t think the duchess is completely averse to the idea of you investing in this company of hers.”
“It is a matter of trust,” Alice puts in, returning to the script. “Nothing is pure business in Württemberg, unlike here,
you see. Friendship is a commodity of its own and—”
Ogden stands, newly distracted. “What do you say to a little music? Miss Ritter, an accomplished young lady like yourself
must possess some musical gifts, no?”
Cora glances between Alice and Ward, eyes wide.
Mrs. Ogden attempts a wavering smile as she strokes the dog on her lap. “I myself was quite skilled at the pianoforte at your age. Some said I could have pursued a career in music, before love came along and scuppered those plans.”
She gazes adoringly up at her husband, but when he strides across the parlor, it’s Cora to whom he offers a hand.
Taking it, she stands. “I . . . suppose I do have a fair singing voice.”
She does, Alice recalls. The girl has a habit of drifting around the Third Avenue house singing to herself like the heroine
of a two-bit operetta. It’s a sweet tone. Rather too enchanting for tonight’s audience.
Alice waits for Cora to look at her so she can offer a slight head shake, a flash of her eyes, any subtle signal she can muster
that this is not a man whose attentions the girl will want fixed upon her.
But Cora does not look over.
“Excellent!” Mr. Ogden claps, invigorated. “Priscilla, darling, perhaps you’ll serve as her accompanist.”
He points his wife toward the piano.
Before she can assume the bench, Alice jolts upright.
“Cora, dear, will you be so kind as to sing one of our Württembergian folk songs? They are among the great gems of our culture”—she
is careful to insert that word back into the conversation—“and we would so love to spread our songs beyond our borders.”
Priscilla Ogden frowns deeply. “I wouldn’t know how to begin to play along with that.”
“No need!” Alice smiles. “Our songs are traditionally unaccompanied by instruments.”
She lifts her nearly empty glass and Ogden moves to fill it, though his eyes remain raptly fixed on Cora. They erred in dressing the girl quite so fetchingly tonight. Alice hadn’t predicted this wrinkle, but she ought to have. She could kick herself now.
“That’s right.” Cora smiles in apparent relief. “They are extemporaneous expressions of—”
“Yodeling,” Alice cuts in sharply, praying the girl understands the assignment. “You may know the style best as yodeling.”
Cora swallows around her smile. “Yes.”
“Yodeling,” Mrs. Ogden repeats.
“Well, I for one would very much like to hear this,” Ward crows, turning his chair around to face Cora.
“I’m not sure I’m in very good voice tonight,” Cora demurs. “Bit of a tickle in my throat.”
“Oh pishposh.” Alice laughs. “Why, I heard you singing ‘Unt Demelische in Pleinden’ just this morning. Your sudden variations in tonality were thrilling. Go on, why don’t you give that song a go? I’ll note
for our audience that this song is sung in an old dialect of Württemberg, rarely spoken these days apart from some of our
elderly rural citizens.”
Now Cora’s stormy eyes meet hers, relaying fresh alarm. Alice tries to remain placid, with all eyes upon her, but feels her
forehead begin to crease.
Do it, please, she silently signals. It’s for your own good.
Cora’s eyes clear. She understands.
“Very well.” Cora clasps her hands formally in front of her bosom. “‘Unt . . . Demelisk . . . in Pleinum.’”
As Alice sits, she motions for Mr. Ogden to retake his seat beside her.
Cora draws a deep breath and begins.
“In de pelleper gons phillipa, den shutten goss ver plitti-plat—”
“She is describing our brooks and rivers,” Alice murmurs low into Ogden’s ear, her own voice like velvet. She feels his attention returning to her, bit by bit.
“Unt fa bellingen sha pilsner . . . ,” Cora goes on, her voice rising rather too prettily.
“And here is where the warbling really kicks in!” Alice announces, clapping.
Cora grits her teeth for a beat, before going on, “In Pl-EI-ei-EI-ei-EI-num.”
“Heavens,” Mrs. Ogden breathes.
“And again!” Alice chirps.
Cora’s yodel is even more impressive in the recapitulation: “In Plei-EI-ei-EI-ei-EI-ei-nuuuuuuuuuum.”
If this song reminds Alice of anything, it’s the howling of stray cats in heat in the alley below their house. The poor girl
is perfectly—and she does mean perfectly—wretched.
She grants Cora a standing ovation, putting her out of her misery rather than torturing her—indeed, them all—with a second
verse. Ward and Ogden clap along, Ward with a hearty whistle, while Mrs. Ogden glances bemusedly around at the rest of them
before applauding and murmuring, “That’s how it’s meant to sound. My goodness.”