Chapter 15
A swirl of music, a warm gust of air, a relentlessly bright room, electric lights that reflected and refracted from hundreds
of cut crystal pendants. The minutes crawled past as Caroline drifted between clusters of guests, sometimes with Thomas by
her side, sometimes on her own. She felt under siege by the babble of conversation, the constant clink of crystal and silverware,
by the smell of food on the buffet tables. Only a few hours ago, the jasmine blooms arranged along the center of the long
buffet table had seemed so charming, their long twining stems woven between the line of candelabras. Now their heady scent
stank in her nostrils, pungent and revolting.
The press of bodies was overheating the room and she signaled Chin to open a few windows. She barely paid attention to the
effusive compliments, even from Mrs. Easton.
“You have such wonderful taste and you’re a generous hostess,” the older woman said, with only a slight tone of reproach.
“From flowers to food, it’s just perfect. And what a delightful string ensemble. Americans? Mr. Stanton’s idea, I believe
you said? Splendid.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, he has so many wonderful ideas. Shanghai quite inspires him.”
Mrs. Easton promenaded her around the ballroom, taking charge of each conversation as though Lennox Manor were hers and Caroline a pet being put on display.
Caroline watched for Grey, cast her eyes furtively around the huge room, all the while allowing Mrs. Easton to carry on; no one seemed to notice how little she spoke.
Mrs. Easton deposited her with two women. “Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Cole. They came to Shanghai only a few months ago.” Then the
formidable matron bustled off to assail another cluster of guests.
“Tell me, Mrs. Stanton,” said Mrs. Peters, “how do you like living in this house? It’s an absolute chateau!” From her accent,
Mrs. Peters came from somewhere in the Midwest. She laughed, a tinkling bell-like peal.
“It has its quirks but I find it delightful,” Caroline said. Mrs. Peters laughed again.
“Do you not find it rather far from the city?” Mrs. Cole said.
“With a motorcar, the city doesn’t seem that far,” she replied, “and I rather enjoy living on a country estate.”
Another laugh from Mrs. Peters. She laughed often, Caroline noticed. Doubtless she’d been told at some point that she had
a pretty laugh and now brought it out at every opportunity.
“Do you know the dramatic history of this house, Mrs. Stanton?” Mrs. Cole said. “The young couple who lived here committed
suicide—oh, three or five years ago? A young man, heir to a fortune, and his bride, an opera singer.”
“No, no,” Mrs. Peters said, jumping in to correct her friend, “it was only the husband who died. After the opera singer ran
off and broke his heart.”
“But I heard she wasn’t really an opera singer, not a properly trained one,” Mrs. Cole said. Her gown of saffron silk was
beautifully made and she had been eyeing Caroline’s dress the whole time. “She was part French, part Chinese. Something like
that. What was her name? Nora, something with an R in it.”
“Her name was Rosalie Roussel,” Caroline said, “and the young man who killed himself was Charles Burnett, our uncle Mason’s son.”
This effectively silenced the bell-like laughter, and the small group broke up, the other two making excuses about wanting
more champagne. Caroline sighed in relief as they moved away from her. She’d forgotten how much she disliked large gatherings.