Sparks of Light (Into the Dim #2)

The exquisite girl blinked, one hand reaching to touch her insanely tiny waist. I could all but see the wheels spinning beneath the poof of brown hair, anchored in place by a pale pink ribbon that matched the lacy layers of her day gown.

She sighed and took the proffered fabric. She brought it to her lips, balled it up, then set it on a silver tray at her side. “Yes, Mother.”

I wanted to scream. Stand up to her! Don’t let her treat you that way!

Then a thought hit me. Who am I to give that kind of advice? Hadn’t I been just like this girl until very recently? My mother had always been kind, of course. But she had regimented each and every moment of my day. She’d kept me apart. Alone. I understood her reasoning now, but back then, I never argued. Never once said, “Enough. This is my life, not yours.”

Seated next to me in the ladies’ salon were none other than Alva and Consuelo Vanderbilt. Wife and only daughter of the astronomically wealthy William K. Vanderbilt. Details tried to flood in, but I tamped them down to a bare minimum. March 11 of 1895. Okay, so Alva would—?later this month, actually—?send shock waves through her upper-crust society when she divorced her cheating tycoon hubby. And in November, Consuelo would marry the ninth Duke of Marlborough.

Old chubby hater himself. Ick.

The admittedly shallow research I’d filed away on Consuelo Vanderbilt threaded up. And it made me want to cry. At eighteen, Consuelo was in love with (and secretly engaged to) another man. She’d initially refused to marry the duke. But Alva Vanderbilt was intent on the match, and she ruled her daughter with an iron fist. After months of unsuccessful coercion, Alva had used psychological warfare. She convinced her daughter of her own impending death, saying her last wish was that Consuelo marry the duke. Of course, Mama made a remarkable recovery after Consuelo eventually acquiesced. She and the duke were married for twenty-six years. And though she would produce two sons—?the requisite “heir and a spare,” a phrase she is credited with having coined—?husband and wife would live most of those years apart. There would be rumors of affairs on both sides, until they finally divorced in 1921.

As Consuelo Vanderbilt’s entire life flashed through my mind, my stomach ached. She was sitting right here, and yet, there was nothing I could do to help her.

I swallowed hard. Stick to the mission, Walton. That’s what matters. You can’t go fixing everyone, so just stop.

One thing and one thing only was important right now. Alva Vanderbilt was throwing the party that Tesla would attend. If we couldn’t get to the physicist any other way, the soiree, at least, was a sure thing. My duty was clear. Fingers crossed . . . she would be our way in.





Chapter 21


“MOTHER, MIGHT WE NOT AT LEAST DISCUSS—?”

“No.” Alva cut her daughter off. “Do you have any notion of how difficult this marriage was to arrange? And I hear Mrs. Astor herself is impressed with the match. So much so,” she said, leaning closer, “that she is practically green with envy.”

Consuelo ducked her head. “It is only that I shall hate to leave your side. And, well, England is so very far away.”

Alva harrumphed, her face softening only a little as she looked at her only daughter. When she snapped pudgy fingers for a hovering maid to refill her teacup, I saw Consuelo’s eyes flash with momentary triumph.

Ooh . . . she’s smart! Pandering to Mama’s soft spot. It’s a good strategy. But now I need to talk to her. Alone. So how to get rid of Mommy Dearest?

Ideas flickered on the edge of my vision. An accidental tripping and falling into Alva’s stout lap. Or, hey, keep it simple with a hearty slap on the rump. “Did someone say soiree?”

At the very thought, my hands and feet went cold. Of course, I ought to be totally used to embarrassing myself by now. Yet the thought of all those haughty eyes turned my way . . .

Rescue came in the guise of a petite ginger that skimmed through the room toward me.

Phoebe bobbed a low curtsy, whispering, “I got nothing from the servant’s quarter on Jonathan or Nikola. Any luck here?”

“Maybe.” I slanted a sideways look toward the sour-faced Alva. “If I could talk to the daughter. Alone.”

Phoebe’s blue eyes narrowed as she nodded in understanding.

“More tea you say, Miss Wal—?Randolph?” she asked in an excessively loud voice. “Certainly. I’ll see it’s brought right away. And I’ll make sure it’s hot. Scalding, if you take my meaning?”

“Okay. If you’re sure?”

“Oh, I am.”

She was back in a moment, a servant pushing a rolling tea tray in her wake. With practiced movements, the server whisked away my cup and replaced it with another. When she went to pick up the steaming kettle, however, Phoebe plucked it from the affronted girl’s hand.

“No,” my friend said as she maneuvered herself into position. “I’ll serve Miss Randolph myself. She prefers it that—?Oh!”

Phoebe stumbled, allowing the contents of the teakettle to slosh out and splash across the bottom of Alva Vanderbilt’s ugly, voluminous skirts. Though the multiple layers beneath Alva’s gown minimized the chance of second-degree burns, the results were spectacular.

“You bumbling fool!” She surged from her chair like a breaching manatee. “You’ve ruined my gown!”

Phoebe began babbling apologies. “Oh, madame! I’m that sorry, I am. Here, let me help you.”

I jerked my chin at the door and mouthed, Get rid of her.

Alva, her pudding face now an alarming shade of plum, screached at the line of ladies’ maids waiting behind the marble columns. “Margót!”

A pale brunette, who looked as though she made a habit of sucking on lemons, materialized at Alva’s side. “Mon Dieu, madame!” she tutted over her mistress. “We shall feex thees right away. You—” When she tried to shoo Phoebe away, I stood.

“No, no. Phoebe will help you. Especially since this will take at least ten or fifteen minutes . . .”

“Oh, aye.” Phoebe nodded. “At least.”

Margót began to bustle the furious aristocrat away, wet skirts trailing on the patterned carpet.

“Shall I come too, Mother?” Consuelo asked, though I noticed she didn’t rise from her seat.

Alva, too flustered to think straight, only waved her daughter off. “Stay. Stay. I shall return momentarily. But you—” She whirled on me, one trembling, beringed finger pointing in my face. “If that incompetent worked for me, she’d be out on her ear with no reference.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I will definitely give your advice much consideration.”

Phoebe made a face at me behind Alva’s swishing skirts as they hustled off.

The efficient wait staff had already scrubbed the stains from the carpet and replaced Alva’s dampened chair with a dry one. With what I hoped was a proper degree of ennui, I balanced on the edge of the new chair and turned to Consuelo Vanderbilt.

“My apologies for my maid,” I said. “She’s new.”

The girl covered her mouth. It was a graceful move, but I’d already seen the grin. “Not to worry,” she said in a breathy voice. “At least Mother will have something new to complain about. Something other than me, that is.”

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