who had been the cause of it.
Yes indeed, it was a perfect time to receive a call from the Mrs. Astor.
Alana watched as Pumphrey entered the parlor with Mrs. Astor's calling card on a salver. The white vellum card was completely folded in two, a rather dramatic gesture of disapproval in the language of calling cards. Alana merely stared at it, not needing to read the name engraved upon it.
"Miss?" Pumphrey raised his eyebrows, waiting for her instructions.
"Send her in," she said.
Caroline Astor did not enter a room in a flurry of sable and diamonds, as one would expect of the Mrs. Astor. Instead, it was almost as if the room opened itself to her and bowed. Her omnipotent presence filled the space before her first gleaming black boot touched the Persian carpet. By her very height she threatened; what was worse, she knew it. And today she looked as tall as Alana had ever seen her. She was like a general who upon his first taste of great power had suddenly become a dictator. And Caroline Astor loved being dictator. A cut-direct from her, and one became social anathema.
"Mrs. Astor," Alana said evenly, rising from the ruby tasseled cushions in the window seat, "how good of you to call on me."
"Alice dear." Caroline Astor took Alana's hands and squeezed them. She didn't smile.
"We've been having a dreadful bit of rain, haven't we? I'm so glad to see the sun finally out." The motions, well choreographed from the previous day of visitors, were mechanical. Alana showed the matron to a Thonet chair and began to count her fifteen minutes. But when Caroline Astor began removing her gloves, Alana's heart almost stopped beating.
When her parents, who were close, personal friends of the Astor's, had died, Caroline Astor hadn't called long enough to necessitate the removal of her gloves. It was not done, except under very serious circumstances. This had to be a catastrophe.
"Darling Alice, we've a lot to discuss and not much time to do it. I don't want to be seen lingering here. It would not do." The matron removed a diamond hatpin the length of a saber. She took off her hat of handsome ochre-colored moiré and revealed a smooth dark brown coif. Caroline Astor had to be forty, yet she sported not one gray hair.
Wigs, Alana thought in a moment of uncharacteristic ungraciousness.
Unable to read thoughts, Mrs. Astor placed her hat upon a table and like the commander she was, got right to the point. "Alice, the reason for your engagement eludes me. I must tell you what a shock it was to hear of it."
Alana lowered herself gingerly to the edge of the tufted Belter settee. She wanted to answer that she too was shocked to hear of it. Instead, she said uneasily, "It's quick, I grant you."
"Your mother was a Schermerhorn , my second cousin, I think, once removed. Am I correct?"
Alana nodded.
"That almost makes us relatives, then, doesn't it?" Mrs. Astor smiled.
Alana nodded. No, that most definitely makes us relatives, she thought, but in her mood she wasn't about to protest the distance Mrs. Astor had put between them.
"Alice— Alana," the matron quickly corrected. "That's what your mother called you, wasn't it?"
Alana nodded, hating this attempt at familiarity. She didn't want to be reminded of her mother. Not today. It had been almost three years, but the fire that had taken her parents and, in essence, her sister, was still vivid in her mind.
"She wouldn't want you to marry that . . . Irisher , Alana. You know that."
The question ripped into her very soul. No, her mother would not want her to marry Sheridan, and that was why she didn't want even to consider his offer. Her mother had married for love and surely expected her daughters to do the same.
But things had not turned out as expected. And first and foremost her mother would have wanted her to care for Christabel .
"My mother and father would not have forbidden me to marry Sheridan if I loved him." Alana gave her the most truthful and intentionally misleading answer
Yes indeed, it was a perfect time to receive a call from the Mrs. Astor.
Alana watched as Pumphrey entered the parlor with Mrs. Astor's calling card on a salver. The white vellum card was completely folded in two, a rather dramatic gesture of disapproval in the language of calling cards. Alana merely stared at it, not needing to read the name engraved upon it.
"Miss?" Pumphrey raised his eyebrows, waiting for her instructions.
"Send her in," she said.
Caroline Astor did not enter a room in a flurry of sable and diamonds, as one would expect of the Mrs. Astor. Instead, it was almost as if the room opened itself to her and bowed. Her omnipotent presence filled the space before her first gleaming black boot touched the Persian carpet. By her very height she threatened; what was worse, she knew it. And today she looked as tall as Alana had ever seen her. She was like a general who upon his first taste of great power had suddenly become a dictator. And Caroline Astor loved being dictator. A cut-direct from her, and one became social anathema.
"Mrs. Astor," Alana said evenly, rising from the ruby tasseled cushions in the window seat, "how good of you to call on me."
"Alice dear." Caroline Astor took Alana's hands and squeezed them. She didn't smile.
"We've been having a dreadful bit of rain, haven't we? I'm so glad to see the sun finally out." The motions, well choreographed from the previous day of visitors, were mechanical. Alana showed the matron to a Thonet chair and began to count her fifteen minutes. But when Caroline Astor began removing her gloves, Alana's heart almost stopped beating.
When her parents, who were close, personal friends of the Astor's, had died, Caroline Astor hadn't called long enough to necessitate the removal of her gloves. It was not done, except under very serious circumstances. This had to be a catastrophe.
"Darling Alice, we've a lot to discuss and not much time to do it. I don't want to be seen lingering here. It would not do." The matron removed a diamond hatpin the length of a saber. She took off her hat of handsome ochre-colored moiré and revealed a smooth dark brown coif. Caroline Astor had to be forty, yet she sported not one gray hair.
Wigs, Alana thought in a moment of uncharacteristic ungraciousness.
Unable to read thoughts, Mrs. Astor placed her hat upon a table and like the commander she was, got right to the point. "Alice, the reason for your engagement eludes me. I must tell you what a shock it was to hear of it."
Alana lowered herself gingerly to the edge of the tufted Belter settee. She wanted to answer that she too was shocked to hear of it. Instead, she said uneasily, "It's quick, I grant you."
"Your mother was a Schermerhorn , my second cousin, I think, once removed. Am I correct?"
Alana nodded.
"That almost makes us relatives, then, doesn't it?" Mrs. Astor smiled.
Alana nodded. No, that most definitely makes us relatives, she thought, but in her mood she wasn't about to protest the distance Mrs. Astor had put between them.
"Alice— Alana," the matron quickly corrected. "That's what your mother called you, wasn't it?"
Alana nodded, hating this attempt at familiarity. She didn't want to be reminded of her mother. Not today. It had been almost three years, but the fire that had taken her parents and, in essence, her sister, was still vivid in her mind.
"She wouldn't want you to marry that . . . Irisher , Alana. You know that."
The question ripped into her very soul. No, her mother would not want her to marry Sheridan, and that was why she didn't want even to consider his offer. Her mother had married for love and surely expected her daughters to do the same.
But things had not turned out as expected. And first and foremost her mother would have wanted her to care for Christabel .
"My mother and father would not have forbidden me to marry Sheridan if I loved him." Alana gave her the most truthful and intentionally misleading answer
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