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?”