Chapter 15 #2
The Kincaid mansion drips with newfound wealth.
Fine damask covers the furniture—likely from China—and with the array of other items from the Orient, I wonder whether Mr. Kincaid is an import merchant like Papa.
Gorgeous, nearly translucent porcelain decorates the sideboards, and beneath my feet, Turkish rugs soften my step as I approach the ballroom.
I pause before entering and glance at my reflection in a nearby mirror.
My color is high, and I’ve gone through quite an adventure to get here.
Though my leg protested, I walked to Mount Pleasant, in my gown, then took the steam ferry across the river.
At this time of night, I was one of few passengers, but my apprehension only grew as the steamer churned the Cooper, carrying me back to the city that wants me dead.
Now, outside this ballroom, where I will undoubtedly encounter familiar faces, I feel foolish.
Reckless. I’ve never been the impulsive sort.
I’ve always been cautious and followed the rules.
But seeing that photograph—Barbara’s swooning desire, Kate’s lecherous grin—stirred such anger and jealousy in me.
And then I hear her. Kate. Her voice soars over the din of conversation inside the ballroom.
A few measures later, another voice joins hers.
A woman’s voice. I have no doubt who it belongs to.
My heart pounds as I push past a couple standing in the doorway and make my way into the crowded room.
The cloying scent of perfume mixes with the heady fragrance of gardenias.
And at the end of the ballroom, on a raised dais, I see her—Kate, resplendent, beautiful, seated at a piano.
Barbara stands near her, dressed in yellow once more, their voices twining together.
A string quartet accompanies them as they sing, their voices rising in soul-piercing harmony.
My fists clench at my sides. Kate is unabashedly flirting with Barbara as they sing, sending coy glances up at her through her lashes.
Mr. Kincaid looks on, beaming. He’s either oblivious to what’s going on, or he’s encouraging it.
No longer able to stomach the seduction happening onstage, I turn my attention to the crowd.
Next to the stage, I glimpse Arabella Meade holding court, surrounded by men and women alike, her fan languidly sweeping the air.
Her beauty is incandescent under candlelight.
Now that Rebecca is gone, Arabella has no rival.
With her looks and her father’s standing as a wealthy shipowner, I’m shocked she hasn’t yet married.
Perhaps the rumors are true—that the Meades have lost their fortune, that they’re hiding behind a mountain of debt.
I can think of no other reason for Arabella’s lack of suitors.
With Papa gone, Captain Meade lost one of his chief merchants and silk-buying customers, which would surely take a toll as well.
Perhaps Captain Meade and Mr. Kincaid have formed a new alliance, which would help to explain Arabella’s presence here.
I’ll have to do my best to avoid her, as she’s the most likely to recognize me.
Other familiar faces drift past me as I hover along the outside edges of the room, trying not to draw too much attention.
I exchange bland pleasantries with the guests, remembering my Scots burr.
I am no longer Lillian Carmichael. I’m Mary Jones tonight, and for every night outside the walls of Angel’s Rest.
Though I hide my disdain behind a gracious smile, the simmer of cold anger that Kate witnessed in me is easy to nurse here.
I hate so many people in this room. Leroy Burrows, haughty and overdressed, took great pleasure in denouncing my father to the papers.
Georgina McClintock resembles a cream puff in her toffee-colored gown, white hair bundled at her nape in a knot of complex braids an enslaved maid likely spent hours accomplishing.
As the chivalry’s chief matchmaker, she helped arrange my and William’s betrothal and was once my mother’s closest friend. Once.
Part of me worries that Mother will be here. But even in the unlikely event she was invited to this party, she’d still be in full mourning for Papa. Besides, our family name fell off the society invitation lists long before tonight.
A footman passes by, carrying a tray with drinks.
I accept his offer of champagne to calm my nerves and find a seat near the back of the room.
The irritating duet ends, finally, thankfully, and Barbara descends the stage, her cheeks flushed.
She goes to her husband, who kisses her temple.
She’s a talented singer, I’ll give her that.
Begrudgingly. I’m sure she and Kate owned the stage together in their heyday.
“Varina” resumes playing, and the chatter in the room fades to a hush as she lifts her voice to sing.
Distracted as I am by her performance, and my still-boiling jealousy, I hardly notice that someone has taken the chair next to mine.
It’s his smell that finds me first. Fresh limes and tobacco smoke.
I turn my head slowly and see his long, elegant fingers clutching his silver-topped walking stick.
Remember, you’re Mary Jones. I repeat the phrase over and over in my head as Dr. Broadbent, my former physician, angles toward me.
“She’s a bit tawdry, isn’t she?” he whispers, gesturing to Varina.
“Yes,” I concur, remembering that Mary Jones is a wealthy widow and would, in fact, look down her nose at performers like Varina.
“That dress is ill-fitting. Cheap.” Though my jealousy adds a bitter drop of poison to my words, it’s no lie.
As the daughter of a silk merchant, I know good fabric when I see it.
Most of Kate’s costumes are made of poor-quality satin—meant for the stage, not a fine ballroom.
Dr. Broadbent assesses me coolly, his refined, aquiline features unchanged since the last time I saw him, in the courtroom where he provided the damning testimony for my conviction. “I’m so sorry, have we been introduced?” he asks. “I didn’t see you at the reception.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I was late.” I demur even though I’ve known this man since childhood. He nursed me through countless illnesses, only to betray me in my hour of greatest need. “Mrs. Mary Jones.”
“You’re Scottish.” He smiles. “How charming. Lionel Broadbent, physician.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Broadbent,” I say. My pulse hammers beneath my skin. A few moments pass. I glance at him as he watches Varina. If he recognizes me, he’s doing a tremendous job of concealing it. He doesn’t, I determine.
“Is your husband with you tonight, Mrs. Jones?” he asks abruptly, still watching Varina.
“No, sir. He’s been gone three years now.
The war.” I’m grateful that the periwinkle gown is somber enough in color to count as half mourning but curse myself for not studying Great Britain’s recent wars more deliberately.
William always kept me well schooled in such matters—one thing I enjoyed about our courtship. Our shared love of history.
“In Africa, I assume?”
“Yes,” I say, my mouth dry.
His gray eyes rake over me. “You’re quite young for a widow. Are you here visiting family?”
My scalp prickles beneath the heavy wig. A bead of perspiration runs down my temple as I nod. “My cousin. She was supposed to come tonight. She fell ill.”
“How unfortunate.” He clears his throat. “How much longer will you stay?”
“At the party?”
“No, ma’am. In the States.”
“I’m not . . . certain. I haven’t yet booked passage home.”
His eyes scrape over me again, and quite suddenly, I realize why he’s asking me these questions.
He’s interested in me. Perhaps romantically.
I’m not surprised. The doctor is a confirmed bachelor and a rumored playboy, handsome, with a reserved charisma.
I remember that many of the young women in my cohort secretly admired him, though their standing in society would never have allowed betrothal to a doctor.
But that never kept him from his dalliances.
From the way he’s looking at me, it appears nothing has changed.
“If you’d be inclined, Mrs. Jones, I’d very much like to call on you while you’re here,” he says, giving credence to my suspicions.
Disgust roils through me, but I master it before it alters my expression.
Still, I’m pleased my disguise seems to be effective.
He doesn’t recognize me. Perhaps my acting is better than Kate thinks.
“I’m afraid my elderly cousin doesn’t have the patience for entertaining gentleman callers, sir. She’s quite infirm.”
He hums thoughtfully and withdraws a small metal case from beneath the lapel of his jacket.
He takes out a crisp calling card and offers it to me.
“I see. Should you—or your cousin, for that matter—ever find yourself in need of a doctor during your stay, I do call on my patients at home. Or if you happen to be near Savage Street during your visit, you might stop in. I keep office hours between one o’clock and three.
You may bring your cousin, if you’d prefer to have a chaperone. ”
I take his card gingerly. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m quite surprised your cousin allowed you to come out alone tonight. Surely she told you.”
“Told me?”
“About our murders. There’s a curfew. Women are no longer allowed to be out past eight o’clock without an escort.”
I take out my handkerchief and dab the bit of lace-trimmed fabric along my temple.
The air is much too close. My confidence fades.
While I appear to have fooled him, I don’t even know Mary’s full story yet, and my ruse is full of holes.
The longer I engage in conversation with him, the more likely he will see through my unpracticed veneer.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come.
Varina ends her song, and the room explodes in applause. In the brief pause before the next song, Dr. Broadbent leans close and whispers, “I can see by your expression that I’ve frightened you. But we do have a persistent murderess, Mrs. Jones. A she-devil who hungers for the blood of young women.”
“How terrible.” I nearly slip out of my Scots accent but catch myself just in time to roll my r’s.
“Yes. As a physician, it’s harrowing but fascinating. I’ve been practicing medicine for over twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. Bodies completely drained of blood.”
“And it’s a woman? This murderer?”
“Yes. Lillian Carmichael. She’s been seen about town since her apparent death. She collapsed on the morning of her execution, on the way to the gallows. She murdered her own sister. Poisoned her.”
At this, I flinch.
“Miss Carmichael was a former patient of mine. I examined her corpse myself. Her body, though absent of heartbeat, pulse, and breath, was remarkably preserved. I’ve never seen the like.”
“How uncanny,” I say. Although I manage to keep my voice steady, inside, I’m tied in knots.
With his cool manner and probing questions, I have the feeling Dr. Broadbent is toying with me.
That he senses my dissembling. I must find a way to extricate myself from this party, undetected, before my lies get the better of me.
I try to control my emotions, as Kate admonished, focusing on the glittering tableau of wealth surrounding me—the plasterwork ceiling with its swirling clouds, the whale oil chandeliers, the fashionable taffeta-clad ladies with their ruffles and lace. Vanities I once believed important.
“I’ve read a story written by a fellow physician, Dr. Polidori,” Broadbent continues, losing no interest in the topic at hand, “though as a lady, you’re unlikely to have read it yourself.
I’m convinced Miss Carmichael must be akin to the creature Polidori describes in his novella.
A vampire. I’m curious whether he ever encountered such a creature himself.
I’d give anything to study one. To capture Miss Carmichael and investigate her physiology.
The science that might come about . . . it would be truly uncharted territory. ”
I could almost laugh if I weren’t disgusted.
But even though the killer isn’t me, what if he’s right?
What if there is some beastly creature walking the streets of Charleston, draining women of their blood?
Whether it’s a human or monster, I’d be in just as much danger as any other lady here.
So would Kate. Suddenly, everything feels like a waking nightmare.
I recall my terrible dream of Rebecca. Her sharp teeth and wild, rage-filled eyes.
Surely . . . no. The thought is abominable.
My sister has been dead for nearly three years. It couldn’t be her.
“I really should escort you home,” Broadbent says, turning the subject effortlessly.
“Should we become separated, come find me before you leave. I’ll safely see you returned to your cousin.
” His persistence is jarring. His interest unsettling.
The urge to flee screams through me. All my petty jealousy over Kate and Barbara, my foolish curiosity—none of it was worth the risk of this encounter.
Suddenly, the neckline of my dress feels much too snug. The air too thin to breathe.
As soon as Varina begins the next song, I excuse myself with a smile and slip down the hall and up a set of stairs.
I hide behind a hutch, clawing open the neck of my bodice as I try to catch my breath.
I bite my lip until I taste blood. A Negro maid comes out of one of the rooms, her eyes widening.
“Ma’am, you’re bleeding. Are you all right? ”
“Is there a room where I can hide, until the party is over? Please. I beg of you.”
“Certainly.” A moment of immediate understanding passes between us. “Come with me.”
She ushers me down the hall and unlocks a door, motioning me inside. “This room belongs to the mistress’s daughter. She’s with her grandmother tonight, across town. No one will find you here.”
“Thank you,” I say, sobbing, barely comprehending the fact that Barbara is a mother.
The maid gives me a shy smile, presses a clean handkerchief into my hand, then leaves me.
I collapse onto the thick Aubusson carpet and try to push aside my memories, but they come anyway.
They have nothing to do with blood-drinking monsters, but they’re nearly as vile.
My mother, swooning with pleasure in Dr. Broadbent’s arms, while on the other side of the house, Rebecca lay dying, with Papa in prayer at her bedside.