A Tyranny of Petticoats (16 page)

“I hope to visit Charleston one day, perhaps after the war.” I cringe inwardly at what I must say next. “I’ve always admired South Carolinians and their tenacity to fight for their convictions.”

He sniffs. “If you’ll pardon me —”

I step in front of him. It’s rude of me, I know, but I let my uncle’s question tumble free: “Forgive me, Senator, but have you met my dear friends Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens?”

My heart clashes against my chest. I search the senator’s eyes. Will he understand the meaning behind my words?

But Senator Blackgrace only blinks at me. “I’m not acquainted with those gentlemen. Good evening, Miss Van Persie.”

He stalks off, and my arms fall to my sides.

He must not be the Raven.

If he were, he would’ve recognized the code phrase “Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens” that would mark me as a Confederate ally — for Alexander Stephens is the Confederacy’s vice president. And upon hearing that, the senator would have uttered a code phrase in return.

I wring my hands and wonder if I followed my uncle’s directions correctly. Could I have made a mistake? But the senator’s eyes didn’t even flicker when I mentioned the names.

Before I can take another breath, Grandmama thunders toward me with the force of a tempest. “Elizabeth! Mr. Noble has gone off to speak to Maud Ingersoll because you tarried here for so long. An Ingersoll! Her father, Robert, is an
atheist,
I’ll have you know.”

“I couldn’t interrupt my conversation with the senator. Wouldn’t that be impolite, Grandmama?”

“I’d define rudeness as disobeying your grandmother,” she retorts, and pinches me. “Posture, Elizabeth.”

I wish once more that she’d call me Lizzie, but I’m sure she’d simply pinch me again if I spoke up. I attempt to slip away, explaining that I haven’t had a bite to eat all night, but Grandmama shushes me.

“You may eat
after
your engagement.” She takes me by the wrist to haul me toward another suitor, but we’re soon swarmed by a flock of her elderly friends, and I gladly make my escape.

Hurrying away from Grandmama’s glare, I head into the library to gather my thoughts, but I find the room already occupied. In the far corner, Sophie stands beside Father’s globe, on the verge of tears. William paces beside her, equally distraught.

“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” he asks her.

I shrink back into the shadows, forgetting about the Raven and thinking only of my sister. Something is bothering her: that much is obvious.

William catches sight of me and straightens. “Lizzie, how do you do?”

“I’m — I’m well, thank you,” I say. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Nonsense, not at all.” He slides Sophie a look. “I’ll take my leave.”

He strides out of the room, leaving Sophie and me alone. I hurry to her. “What in the world has happened between the two of you?” I ask.

“It’s nothing —”

I take her hands. “It’s not nothing. Please, Sophie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She smiles a bit too brightly. “There’s no need to fret. William and I had a misunderstanding.” She frees her hands from mine and asks breezily, “How were Grandmama’s suitors? Or do you prefer your Westacre beau?”

I sigh. “What beau?”

“Your letter.” She gestures at my pocket and makes another grab for it. “What’s his name? Is he handsome?”

“Don’t change the topic. Has William done something to upset you?”

Her eyes widen — in the dim candlelight I cannot tell if it’s in anger or fear — and I expect her to storm off at my prying. Much to my surprise, she embraces me instead.

“Are you unwell?” I say with a startled laugh.

“Far from it. I’m simply happy to have you home, even if you won’t tell me about your beau.”

“I don’t have a beau, for the last time.”

“If you say so.” She pulls back just as quickly as she wrapped her arms around my waist. “I best return to the party.”

I look at her, puzzled. She seems as jittery as a caged cat. “Sophie?”

“William asked me for the next dance!” Then she skitters out of the room, leaving me to stare after her. She’s acting very oddly, although I’ve no idea why. Shaking my head, I resolve to get to the heart of the matter — but after the ball is over.

I leave the library to seek out Crandall and Duchamps, but I find Grandmama and Sophie in the foyer instead, whispering furiously to each other. About what, I don’t know. Most likely gossip. I attempt to skirt past them, but Grandmama possesses the eyes of a hungry hawk.

“There’s no use avoiding me,” she says. “We’ve much business to attend to, you and I.”

Grandmama then snatches my hand and drags me through the house from bachelor to bachelor. There’s Judge Jarrett’s son, followed by Ambassador Eckhart’s cousin, followed by a gentleman I don’t even remember the name of. I feel like a Thoroughbred on the auction block, with Grandmama ready to sell me to the highest bidder. As if the Van Persies’ coffers aren’t piled high enough . . .

After thirty minutes of these how-do-you-do’s, Grandmama pulls me toward the third parlor, which has been cleared of furniture to serve as a ballroom for the evening. A string quartet tucked away in one corner plays a lively song for our guests.

Grandmama peers into the crowd. “Ah, there he is.”

“May I ask who ‘he’ might be?”

She ignores me. “Do smile, or he’ll think that you possess no teeth.”

Grandmama tows me toward a portly man who’s chewing a cheese tart and licking his fingers. I stare at him, aghast. He looks older than my father. She can’t be serious.

The man turns around, and buttery crumbs fall from his lips. “Madame Van Persie!”

“How wonderful of you to come to our ball.” Grandmama’s own lips curl at the man’s ill manners, but she masks her distaste. “I don’t believe you’ve met my elder granddaughter. Elizabeth, dear, this is Monsieur Duchamps.”

Duchamps?
I force a smile despite the disgust rolling through my stomach. “How do you do, monsieur?”

“
Enchanté,
mademoiselle.” He takes my hand and kisses it, his mouth flopping against my skin like a freshly caught trout. “Your grandmother did not mention what a beauty you are.”

I flush, not from the compliment but because Duchamps wiggles his brows at me in such a way that I’m tempted to slap him.

Grandmama nudges me forth an inch. “Why don’t you and Monsieur Duchamps enjoy a dance?”

I’d rather flee to France, but I say, “I’d be delighted.”

As the quartet begins a waltz, Monsieur Duchamps leads me to the floor and I rifle through my memory of what Uncle Ambrose told me about him, which wasn’t much. Apparently he once invested in an Atlanta cotton mill, and rumor has it that he still carries sympathies for the South.

“I do love the waltz,” I say, trying to ignore the crumb dangling from his bottom lip. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Very much, and even more so in your company.” His left hand drifts toward my hip, and I squelch the impulse to bat it away. Grandmama instructed me to smile, but I wouldn’t mind if Monsieur Duchamps believes that I’m toothless.

“I’ve never traveled to France. I’m curious what your countrymen must think about our current war?” I hope my talk of politics will distract him, but his gaze falls upon my bosom, and he makes no effort to hide it.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve not stepped foot in my home country for many years.”

“Then what are your own opinions about the war?”

At last, his eyes flicker toward mine. “War is always unfortunate,” he says, ever the diplomat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, most unfortunate. Concerning your work —”

“How old are you, mademoiselle? Eighteen?”

“I’m seventeen just.”

“Have you always been so”— his brows wriggle at me again — “
mature
for your age?”

I’m tempted to retch upon his shoes, but I ask him a question of my own, ready to be done with this dance and with him altogether. “Tell me, have you had the chance to meet my dear friends Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens?”

“I don’t believe I have.” He pulls me so close that I smell onions on his breath. “But you should forget about those gentlemen. Perhaps you and I could be friends instead?”

My cheeks flame. “I think not!” I should slap him — twice, even, and very hard — but I won’t spare him another second.

“Mademoiselle —”

“
Au revoir,
Monsieur Duchamps.”

Free from his filthy hands, I gulp down a glass of champagne, but it does little to wash away the memory of the Frenchman. I take comfort in knowing that I won’t have to speak with him again, because he didn’t utter the code phrase I needed to hear. That leaves me with Congressman Crandall. I need to find him. He has to be the Raven . . . unless Uncle Ambrose has made a mistake.

I frown at that thought. Could it be possible that the spy’s true identity has slipped through my uncle’s fingers? If so, the Raven could be anyone, a district judge or a foreign diplomat or someone else entirely. My eyes flicker over the parlor, and I wonder if he’s here, sipping our champagne or smiling at our other guests. I dart quick glances over my shoulders.

Don’t be premature,
I tell myself. I must still speak with the congressman.

Smoothing my skirt, I search for our butler to tell me the whereabouts of the congressman, but when I pass by the servants’ staircase another idea tickles at the back of my mind. I could run to my room and stow away my uncle’s letter before Sophie or Grandmama inquires about it again. It wouldn’t take long. I take the stairs two at a time and reach into my pocket . . .

And find it empty.

My pulse halts. My gaze claws down the hallway, but I don’t find the slip of paper. I hurl myself toward the staircase to retrace my steps, but when I walk past Grandmama’s bedroom, my feet lurch to a stop. I blink hard. My grandmother is nowhere in sight, but her room is occupied. From her windowsill, two dark eyes fix on mine.

The eyes of a raven.

The creature hops onto my grandmother’s desk and settles next to the bedroom key that she must have forgotten. At first, I wonder if the bird has lost its way, but when I try to shoo it through the window, I notice a piece of parchment tied around its leg. I go still. Uncle Ambrose mentioned that the Red Raven used a raven to correspond with the Confederates.

While the bird cleans its feathers, I tiptoe toward it and remove the parchment and read:

I stumble away from the desk.

Another afternoon tea?

“So here you are.”

I jump and spin around. My grandmother stands in the doorway, her chin tipped high.

“I don’t believe I granted you permission to enter my quarters, Elizabeth,” she says.

My face drains of color. “Grandmama?” My instincts tell me to apologize quickly and exit even more so, but I can’t ignore the letter in my hand. I thrust it behind my back, but Grandmama clucks her tongue at the sight of it.

“I see you’ve been trespassing where you’re not welcome.” She doesn’t even address the parchment or the bird. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“What . . . what do
I
have to say for myself?” There’s a wobble in my voice.
Another afternoon tea.
Those words echo through me once again. “Why has this raven flown directly to your room?”

“How dare you question me,” she snaps, and drags me toward the door. “We’ll address your punishment later. For now, we’re needed downstairs.”

“That bird —”

“Is none of your concern.”

“But —”

“Hush!” Grandmama halts in front of the window to give me a good shake, and the moonlight illuminates her from hairline to toe.

I try to speak but can’t form any words.

“What are you gawking at?” she demands.

Goose bumps cover my skin, and I stare at my grandmother’s dress. It’s bloodred silk.
Red,
her favorite color.

“The letter was intended for you, wasn’t it?” I whisper.

Grandmama snatches the parchment from me. “That’s my private correspondence, and I’ve no need to explain myself.”

“Then you don’t even deny it?”

She merely picks at a loose thread at her wrist. “I’m well acquainted with Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens, if that’s what you mean.”

I brace a hand against the canopy bed. At last I’ve heard the words I’ve waited to hear all night, but they weren’t whispered by Blackgrace or Crandall or Duchamps. Uncle Ambrose was wrong. We were both so very wrong.

Grandmama lets out a noisy sigh. “There’s no use in lying to you. Your sister may have inherited my looks, but you were blessed with my mind.”

“Blessed?”

“Do watch your tone. I’ve no patience for insolence.”

Out of habit, I’m ready to utter an apology and slink away — but I clench my teeth and tell myself
No more.
I’ve allowed Grandmama to pull me out of Westacre and parade me through this ball like my marriage vows are for sale, but I cannot condone her treason.

“How could you?” I say. “How could you willingly work for the Confederates?”

She scowls. “I’m saving this family from ruin, I’ll have you know.”

“You call
this
‘ruin’?” I point at her jewelry box and the Chinese silk curtains cloaking her windows.

“Where did ‘this’ come from? I’ll tell you where: from the fortune your great-grandfather made building steamships — in the
South.
”

“That was years ago! Father works in railroads now.”

“And he’s a fool for that. If your insipid mother hadn’t persuaded him —”

“Insipid? How dare —”

“Her ridiculous convictions led us straight to the poorhouse! I possess the proof of it right in this very room.” She nods at her jewelry box. “Open it.”

“Why?”

“Open it.”

I reach for the box, knowing that I’ll find a trove of sapphire rings, ruby bracelets, and the largest pearls in all of Washington. But once I open it, I nearly gasp. It looks like Grandmama has been robbed. The rings, gone. The rubies, depleted. Only a strand of pearls remains, sitting lonely against the black velvet.