Chapter Fifteen
Despite all Jane’s worries, her fears about what she might say or do when she saw Benedict that night, she had to admit she was quite delighted by the sight of Shore’s Edge’s transformation into a dream fairyland.
Not yet needed for the receiving line, Jane wandered as if in a dream, taking it all in, forgetting her cares.
The pale stone facade was all lit up in the gathering night, taken from simple austerity to fairyland, all amber-gold from flickering torches, flowers floating in the fountains along with tiny candles.
Paper lanterns painted in cherry-pink were strung in the trees, while more lanterns lined pathways.
Liveried footmen in old-fashioned knee breeches and frock coats, their hair powdered, lined the drive and the front steps, waiting for the wrought-iron gates to swing open again and the carriages to arrive.
It was a hovering, taut moment of anticipation, waiting for a party to begin.
For guests to stream in and sweep into the waiting house, looking around at the rooms and halls they had speculated about for so long while the house was being built.
Jane turned and went back inside the house to examine it one last time before the crowds arrived.
Footmen and maids rushed past, without Kate under their feet now, as the puppy had been safely locked away.
Everything looked grand, elegant and perfect, but Jane wondered how it compared to Benedict’s life in England.
May had insisted on the Grand Palais of France as her pattern, lighter and brighter than the New York mansion, for her summertime, seaside parties.
May spun round, taking it all in. The first floor was the main staging area for tonight’s soiree, the four main reception rooms opening off each other in an infinite enfilade.
There was the more informal sitting room, where the family usually gathered, set up for light music performances with piano and harp for those who didn’t want to dance.
She remembered being with Benedict there, watching him laugh, watching his wonder at being part of a family moment. It all seemed so long ago.
The sitting room led into the family dining room, laid with a light buffet, wine and tea for anyone who might feel peckish before the midnight breakfast in the garden. More footmen waited there to assist, while maids laid out the last of the food.
The table groaned under the weight of polished silver trays and crystal bowls, arranged with meticulous care.
There were plates of oysters in crushed ice, sparkling like jewels alongside bowls of lemon wedges.
There were rich patés and towers of grapes, peaches and figs, glowing with a perfect, waxy sheen.
There was beef, pheasant and ham—glazed and sliced thin.
Crystal dishes overflowed with candied nuts and sugared almonds, tempting guests with a final flourish.
Jane hurried to the main ballroom and drawing room, with Connor’s library just beyond leading outside to the terrace and the gardens.
Carved, heavy double doors brought from a castle in Bavaria swung open to reveal the architects’ great triumph, the Gold Ballroom, where even May had abandoned restraint.
The walls were panelled in gilt-touched walnut, carved with fruit and vines, interspersed with mirrors that reflected Jane back to herself in her twilight-blue gown and pearls.
She didn’t look like herself in that moment, and she wondered if, just maybe, this was what a duchess should look like.
She gave a little spin, letting her tulle train unfurl.
She spun around again and ran her hand over the draperies swathed at the windows, yellow floor-length cut-velvet giving enticing glimpses of the lighted garden beyond. Green-and-gold velvet chairs lined the gleaming parquet floor, with a Celtic knot at its centre, waiting for dancers.
Two Venetian chandeliers—May’s great challenge to bring home from their European visit—glittered high above, with clusters of bright flowers and leaves that glittered.
The vast fireplace was flanked by carved figures of Youth and Maturity, made in Florence.
On the mantelpiece sparkled a crystal globe from Waterford, Jane’s mother’s favourite, flanked by silver candlesticks.
A table waited nearby lined with baskets of favours, boutonnieres of white roses, silk sashes, fans, compacts and watch cases.
An orchestra tuned up for the dancing, hidden behind Chinese screens. Florists scurried around, adding last-minute touches to arrangements of carnations and trailing ivy.
She wondered if it had all been set up to impress Benedict.
Overwhelmed by it all, by her emotions of longing for Benedict and being hurt by him, Jane drifted away into the next room, the Rose Sitting Room set up for card games, but she couldn’t find much relief in solitude there either.
Walls of dark pink marble were lined with more mirrors, pink silk draped and tasselled at the windows, the card tables draped in more pink and cream. Servants rushed past her, and she longed to run—to anywhere; it didn’t matter, just away.
Yet she knew there was no away. She was stuck.
She peeked into the grand mahogany and crimson dining room, waiting in all its solemnity, watched over by paintings by Velazquez and Titian, a buffet laid with caviar and smoked salmon for the grandest of guests, such as the Mrs Astor, who was gracing them with her presence.
She dared not go in there and touch anything, especially while the butler and head footmen were measuring to make sure the table settings were perfect, the names cards straight.
A smaller orchestra waited there to play Irish airs, and it made her think of her childhood, all her old longings.
Jane backed out, careful of her train, and found herself back in the hall, with its staircase of Siena marble, its railings carved with garlands, lined with pink and cream roses to complement May’s gown of primrose-yellow and rose-pink satin.
She waited beneath the twin portraits of Jane and her done by Cecilia Beaux.
There was no escape now. It was time to greet the guests, to begin.
May was fussing with the arrangements of boutonnieres for the gentlemen on the table beside her, and May’s mother smoothed her diamond necklace and the perfect upsweep of her hair, looking nervous.
Connor touched her hand and whispered reassurance as she smiled, and they could hear the dance music begin, the clink of crystal and silver.
How very magical it could all be, Jane felt wistfully, that tense excitement just before a party—if her engagement were only real. If love were only real.
If only it could all be real, Jane thought. She couldn’t bear this longing for something she couldn’t have much longer. Her heart always stretched in two directions, towards hope and towards pain.
‘Jane!’ May called. ‘There you are at last. Come along, the first carriages are arriving.’
Jane lifted the embroidered hem of her skirt and hurried up the stairs to her family. Her mother arranged her pearls, the tulle edge of her sleeve, and smiled. She pressed a small gold Celtic cross into Jane’s hand. ‘Just for a little extra luck,’ she whispered, and Jane’s heart ached with love.
The front doors opened in a rush of laughter and chatter, and Jane took a deep breath and tried to smile.
She stood up very straight, held her head high and beamed even as her stomach felt queasy.
May had worked so hard for this night for so long; Jane refused to ruin it for her now.
She would just have to pretend not to have a care in the world, even if her engagement wasn’t real.
But then again, maybe Benedict wouldn’t even appear tonight. Maybe he was angry she had refused to marry him. It would leave the hordes of guests who were pouring in to see him disappointed, but Jane would be released.
The first guests appeared, and everything became a blur of greetings, flashing jewels, satins, tulles and laughter.
Mrs Astor and her daughter arrived to a sudden hush, followed by Amy and her beau, and the Van Joorts—Regina in a dreadfully enviable pale pink gown.
Everyone who was anyone in Newport was there.
But the one person she looked for most anxiously did not arrive until near the end of the receiving line.
Benedict appeared, his aunt on his arm, making their way up the stairs towards Jane as if time had slowed into a blur.
He glanced up and his eyes widened in admiration.
She had to smile at the thought that he could admire her, a tiny smile she couldn’t quite stop.
All the light of the party seemed to gather only on him.
And in that moment, the whole evening changed, just because he was there.
‘Your Grace,’ May said, quite as if he had never been on a windblown yacht with them, had never been ‘Benedict’.
She gave him her usual charming smile, the smile Jane always envied, as it had been so bred into her sister-in-law.
There was no sign of her earlier anger when Jane had told her about Benedict’s proposal.
‘I am so glad you could come tonight! The orchestra plans on playing a great deal of Arthur Sullivan in your honour. Perhaps The Lost Chord?’
He turned to Jane and she saw something like… Was it hope? It was as if he stood in front of a door he was hesitant to knock on. As if he wanted to ask, as part of her did, Can we try again? Is there still space for me? ‘I do hope I may be permitted to claim the first dance with Miss O’Neill.’