My grandmother, however, appears much more like winter with that icy glare upon her face. A shiver whispers down my back, and I feel like I’m a child again, cowering under Grandmama’s scowl when she’d come for a visit. I straighten my shoulders, reminding myself that I’m no longer seven years old.
“Girls! Let me take a look at you,” she says from the bottom step. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved gown trimmed with ruches of black silk, and her gray hair is pulled neatly behind her ears. Unlike me, she shows no trace of nerves or unease. After all, Grandmama has hosted balls, dinners, and her famed afternoon teas for nearly four decades. Playing hostess comes as naturally to her as nibbling on her morning scone.
Grandmama studies Sophie, and her prune lips twitch in approval. “Quite sufficient, Sophia.”
As she studies me, however, her mouth takes a noticeable downward curve. She scowls at my mother’s pearls, and her scowl grows fiercer when she notes the — pardon my language — ample bosom that presses against my bodice.
“I suppose there’s little we can do about those now,” Grandmama mutters. “You clearly inherited them from your mother.”
And what if I have? I think, but bridle my words.
Grandmama prods a bony finger into my side. “Back straight! Chin up! What sort of gentleman would want a wife who slouches?” Her sharp eyes land upon my pocket. “What’s this I see? A letter?”
Heat inches up my spine. “It’s from a schoolmate, that’s all.”
“A schoolmate, hmm? From that fanatical institution of yours?”
I bristle in silence. She’s referring to the abolitionists at Westacre, teachers and students alike. It is a Quaker school, although I wouldn’t call us fanatical. Grandmama, however, has deemed everything “radical” where my mother is concerned.
“I’ll return the letter to my desk,” I say, and pick up my skirts.
For some reason, Grandmama glances at Sophie before she takes me by the elbow. “You’ll do no such thing. Our guests — and your suitors — will arrive at any moment.”
Her words prove prophetic. Soon our home swells with the most prominent men and women in Washington, all dressed in their very best: tailcoats for the men and ball gowns for the women. Many of them fawn over Sophie and me, asking us who made our dresses and what sort of fabric was used. My sister answers each question with ease, and I can’t help but gape at her. In my absence she has transformed into quite the accomplished hostess, and I’m left wishing that I could flit through the crowd as she does now. But I fumble to say the right thing and I keep tugging at my bodice because it’s far lower than I’m used to. I long for the simple muslin dresses that I wore at school, but I tell myself that if I’m to catch the Red Raven, I must look the part.
My gaze rakes the parlor, and I wonder if the Raven has already arrived. Will he be young or old? Plump or thin? With each new face, I wonder. And I keep my ears tuned for three names in particular.
“Blackgrace, Crandall, and Duchamps,” I murmur.
Sophie turns to me curiously. “Do you mean Senator Blackgrace? Or Congressman Crandall?”
My cheeks flame when I realize I’ve spoken aloud. Thankfully, Sophie soon forgets about me because the Radfords arrive next, with William looking very dashing in a black two-breasted tailcoat. With my sister occupied, I repeat the three names once more, this time in silence, and I recall my uncle’s letter:
General McClellan suspects three men to be the Raven: Senator Benjamin Blackgrace, Congressman Joshua Crandall, and the French diplomat Laurent Duchamps. Each man possesses past ties to the Confederacy, and you’ll need to ensure that they receive invitations to the ball. On the evening of the ball itself, I’ve concocted a means for you to uncover the Raven, based on intercepted Confederate intelligence. Read this carefully, Lizzie, for I don’t wish you to come to harm . . .
Grandmama beckons me from the front parlor. “Elizabeth! Come say hello to Mr. Noble,” she says, motioning toward a man whose height may rival that of President Lincoln himself.
I’ve no choice but to heed her, but I halt when I hear Sophie welcoming an older couple.
“Why, how do you do, Senator and Mrs. Blackgrace?” she says, her voice carrying into my ears like the school bell at Westacre.
Senator Blackgrace!
I spin around and let my eyes lay claim to the senator. Well over sixty, he possesses oil-black hair and shifty dark eyes, like the crows that loiter in the square outside. Or even a raven. My heartbeat gathers steam.
“Elizabeth!” Grandmama says.
I step toward her automatically — loath to face her wrath — but then I pivot in the other direction toward the senator. She calls for me again, but this time I pretend not to hear her. A strange thrill courses through me at my rebellion. I’m not in the habit of disobeying Mrs. Lydia Van Persie. No one is.
As I approach the senator, I nod politely to his prim wife, who hails from South Carolina and who may be her husband’s connection to the Confederacy. I let Sophie converse with Mrs. Blackgrace, and I give the senator a smile, crooked as it might be.