Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely
Madame Marineaux had spent the entire afternoon with me, helping curl my hair, pulling my stays until I could hardly breathe—yet, oh how tiny my waist was after!—and pinching my cheeks to add color.
Now we rattled in her carriage on our way to the ball—a ball! My very first ball, and in Paris no less. Oh, how proud Mama would be if she were here to see this.
Or—my brow furrowed—would she be proud? Something was wrong with that thought; but before
I could identify precisely what, Madame Marineaux gestured to the window.
“We are almost to the Palais Garnier. I think you will like what you see.”
I slid across the velvet bench seat and swept aside the matching curtain. “You have such a lovely carriage, Mad—ohhh.” I stopped speaking, too enthralled by the gleaming and golden palace at the end of the street. As party guests alighted from their carriages and glided toward huge archways that marked the building’s entrance, bright streetlights bathed them in an ethereal glow.
And as our own carriage slowly rolled closer, the full splendor of the palace came into view—the giant golden angels flanking its sides, the copper-domed roof, and the elaborate faces and statues that peered out from every spare inch. All I knew of the palace was that it was meant to be a theater—yet we had no theaters even half as magnificent in Philadelphia. Even the lovely Arch Street Theatre I had visited with Clarence seemed a drab, tiny thing in comparison to this.
“Come.” Madame Marineaux’s sweet voice broke into my gawking. “We must make our grand entrance. An old lady and a stunning young femme.”
“Old lady!” I cried. “Hardly! You look positively perfect tonight.” And I meant that. Madame
Marineaux’s gown was a vivid black silk—so unusual yet so striking against her pale skin and dark hair. I was elated to be spending the evening with a hostess as remarkable as she.
A footman opened the carriage door and helped me bustle out. Other guests sailed past, all of them in pairs and chattering happily. Drifting over their conversations was the faint sound of a thrumming waltz. A breeze caressed my bare shoulders, sweeping beneath my curls.
It was a perfect night. I had no cares in the world. Only this delicious buzzing happiness in my chest.
Madame Marineaux swished past me toward the columns, her face beaming as she declared, “The ball calls us, Mademoiselle! Let us dance and dance until our feet hurt and the sun rises!”
Dancing! I gathered up my skirts and traipsed after her, my heart singing at the thought of real dancing! I had certainly learned the waltz, the mazurka, and all the other popular dances, but I’d never had chance to do them! As we approached, the music grew louder, and I could see dancers soaring past on the second-floor balconies.
But staring out from above those balconies were staid, golden statues of composers, and I grinned up at Mozart as he watched me approach. It was with such silly distractions in mind that I finally reached the wide steps leading to the Palais Garnier’s entrance. I followed Madame Marineaux up through an archway, and after passing through a wooden entryway, found myself in a high-ceilinged hall, where dim lantern light flickered over life-size statues of more composers.
Madame Marineaux whirled around quite suddenly, her gloved arms outstretched. “Oh, I almost forgot! You must take a dance card.”
I blinked and then realized she held a palm-size white booklet with a delicate cord attached to the spine. I gasped excitedly and snatched it up. My first dance card! I flipped it open and scanned the list of all the dances—we were currently on the polka redowa.
“I shall introduce you to everyone,” Madame Marineaux continued, clearly enjoying my pleasure, “and then I am certain all the men will be vying for a dance with the pretty American girl.” She hooked her arm into mine, our enormous skirts pressing inward, and gave a long, contented sigh. “I have been so lonely until you came along, Mademoiselle Fitt. It is . . . wonderful to have a companion once more.”
“But . . .” I looked away from the card. “What of the Marquis?” At that name something tickled in the back of my mind, yet when I tried to pinpoint why, the feeling flittered away like a hummingbird.
Madame Marineaux tugged me into a walk, leading me toward an archway. Beyond was an enormous staircase, glowing golden and warm. “I adore the Marquis, but a man is no replacement for one’s female friends. Nor is he a replacement for my m—” Her lips puckered. “My first man.”
“I . . . I am sorry.”
“Do not be! Did I not tell you only two days ago, c’est la vie? And look.” Smiling, she pointed to a bronze statue beside the stairwell. Beneath its elaborate candelabras stood two men in deep conversation. “There is a friend of mine, and”—she flashed her eyebrows at me—“he has a very handsome son who I am certain will wish to escort you to the dance floor.”
After our introduction, the young man, a Monsieur Something-or-other, did escort me. Up and up the stairwell we went. The music grew louder with each step, and my fingers traced along the balustrades. At the first landing the stairs split in two, and the monsieur—who prattled endlessly in
French and did not seem to mind that I neither understood nor listened—veered right.
The moment we reached the second floor, however, we were forced to slow. People were everywhere. Women clad in all shades of a pastel rainbow hung on their black-suited partners. As we waited for the crowds to thin, the young man took my dance card, withdrew a pencil from his waistcoat, and scribbled his name beside the galop. I grinned delightedly as I slipped the dance card’s cord around my wrist. My first dance! And with such a dashing gentleman on my arm . . . except, I felt there was someone else I would rather have on my arm. But for whatever reason, I could not remember who.
I brushed it off, intoxicated by the atmosphere. My escort said something and motioned to our left.
Yet before I could even try to comprehend his French, he was tugging me through a dim doorway and into a round room with a bright sunshine painted on the ceiling. Mirrors adorned the walls, magnifying the light from a gold chandelier and reflecting a flushed, bright-eyed me.
I had just enough time to evaluate if my roses were still in place in my hair (they were) when my escort pulled me through the tiny room and into an alcove crowded with men. They debated in excited
French, hands wild and mustaches wiggling, as completely disinterested in the dancing going on beyond as I was in their debates.
Fortunately, my partner was of the same mind, and we finally managed to wedge ourselves into the ornate ballroom just as the first strains of the galop began.
And moments later, with his gloved hand on my back and his other hand clasping mine, we sashayed onto the dark-wood floors. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, dripping with light and illuminating all the swirling faces. My partner smiled; I smiled.
The dance passed in a blur, and I barely had time to catch my breath before Madame Marineaux had a new young man to meet me—and to sign my dance card. One after another, I waltzed, polkaed, skipped les lanciers, and hopped into another galop. And one after another, my partners’ faces blurred together. . . .
Just as the first bouncing beats of a waltz began, my newest partner drew me into his arms. But then another man shoved through the crowd. He snarled something at the Frenchman, and before I could even process it all, this new young man had me in his arms.
His suit was like all the other gentlemen’s, his patent leather shoes just as gleaming, his white gloves just as crisp, yet something about the way it all came together on Daniel was a thousand times more striking. His hair was slick and combed, but a ruffle at the front meant he’d run his fingers through it anyway.
I observed it all in a flash, and a combination of delight and fear bubbled through me. Though why
I would be afraid of Daniel Sheridan, I did not know, so I let the pleasure take over, and I beamed up at him.
The music began. He shot a look to his left, his brow furrowed, then he tugged me into the waltz.
One, two, three. Step, step, step. “Empress, what the hell are you doin’ here?” His voice was low as if he did not want us overheard.
“It’s a ball, Daniel! I am dancing.” My skirts billowed out as we spun. “And I am so glad you came—you’re a lovely dancer.”
“What?” He scowled, staring at my face. “What is wrong with you, Empress?”
“Nothing!” I smiled even wider, my face hurting. Everything beyond Daniel had blurred into a myriad of colors and sound. All I cared about was this moment—Daniel’s green eyes gazing into mine and his hands guiding me over the floor. “I have never felt better in my entire life, Daniel! And oh, I’m so glad I get to dance with you. I had no idea you could waltz.”
“Why?” he spat, anger brightening his eyes. “Because I’m not a gentleman?”
“Oh, but you are a gentleman. You’re the most handsome gentleman here.”
Now his scowl eased back, replaced by confusion. Yet on we danced—step, two, three, step, two, three.
“Where’s your monocle?” I asked. “I bet it would look very jaunty on you tonight.”
“Jaunty?” he repeated.
“Yes! You look so wonderful, and I think the monocle would look lovely with your suit. So where is it?” One, two, three, step, step, step.
“With . . . with my other clothes.” His eyebrows curved down. “Joseph and I’ve been out all afternoon in search of Jie. We had to change into our suits here. . . . Eleanor, why are you smiling at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . like you’re drunk. You don’t smell of alcohol, so what is this . . . this giddiness?” He whirled me past Madame Marineaux, and I gave her my brightest, happiest grin. “And,” he said, “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” I laughed. “It’s the most fun I’ve ever had!”
“See? That’s not normal. Not after what happened this afternoon.”
“What happened this afternoon?”
His careful step-step-step faltered. “Are you jokin’ with me?”
“I would never joke with you, Daniel—not unless you wanted me to.”
He stopped waltzing, and I spun directly into him. I grasped at his shoulders, melting into his chest. Maybe he’ll kiss me.
But he didn’t. He twisted me around and yanked me off the dance floor.
“The waltz isn’t over!” I cried.
“No, but you are. We’re done dancin’.” He pulled me roughly toward the archways leading back to the stairwell, yet before we could get to the marble steps, Madame Marineaux strode into our path.
“Monsieur Sheridan, where are you taking Mademoiselle Fitt?” Her eyes darted from my face to
