The next day, true to his word, Mr. D sent a carriage to meet us—a barouche, to be specific, all polished black lacquer and rich scarlet velvet, topped with a rigid canopy, the sides left open to the breeze. Nevertheless, the seats gave off a musty smell; in the constant humidity of the Hawaiian Islands, velvet was never the rational choice. Mr. D, however, was nowhere to be seen; the driver told us he meant to meet us at the party.
The Merciers had sent their delivery on Saturday, and I’d chosen to wear the striped silk dress with the “modified bustle,” which took the form of a giant pink bow below the small of my back. I had regarded it with great suspicion in the mirror, especially when I noticed Kashmir seemed to find it humorous.
“I feel gift wrapped,” I had said to him.
“As long as we still have the receipt,” he’d replied.
He nudged me now—as he had twice already—reminding me to sit forward in the carriage. I perched on the edge of my seat so as not to crush the taffeta. Kash had dressed impeccably, with a closely tailored sack coat, buttoned only at the top, the bottom open to display his vest and the gold chain of a pocket watch. He’d slicked down his thick black curls, and sitting this close to him, I caught a hint of some sort of cologne, like honey and leather and ambergris.
Slate had put on a frock coat and a stylish ribbon necktie, but his manic energy was barely hidden beneath his proper exterior; it welled up like the spring in the woods. He fidgeted uneasily as we crept through town, one knee bouncing madly as he peered out the window.
It had been nearly a week since I’d spend this much time with either of them, but the silence was thicker than the funk of the moldering velvet; I couldn’t speak plainly to Kashmir in front of Slate, not about the map. Kash patted my leg then, gently but firmly; I’d been jigging it up and down in rhythm with my father.
I looked into Kashmir’s eyes and found reassurance there. I gave him a grateful smile and let myself relax, then sat up quickly as I remembered about the bow.
The carriage had arrived at the Temptation about an hour after sundown, and it took us another half hour to get to the edge of town. Nu’uanu Street was even more crowded than usual, and the revelry did not end there. Once we moved beyond the laughter and shouting near the docks, the sound of brass music brightened the dusk—one of the concerts Blake had mentioned. Bee was likely there; Rotgut was on dog watch tonight, and Ayen had demanded a night out.
We rolled past late-night picnickers, groups heading toward the beach in their bathing costumes, young men and women on horseback enjoying a night ride, and a plein-air performance of what appeared to be a comedy (at least, the audience was laughing). The entire city had come alive to make merry under the silvery light of the full moon.
Nu’uanu Valley was no exception. Families sat on their lanais, playing music or cards, and farther back, in the darkness between the trees, torchlight writhed. The sound of a man singing and drumming, a distinctive rhythm—one, two, one-and-two—drifted out of the dark, making me shiver as I remembered the story of the Hu’akai Po.
The house I had glimpsed the other day had been transformed from a white box into a shining luminaria, and the coral drive was lined with lanterns at the edge of the lawn. All of the doors and the shutters were thrown open to the warm night air, allowing the guests to move in and out as freely as the breeze. The carriage pulled up to the door, where we were welcomed by a Hawaiian butler sporting stockings to display his well-turned calves.
He showed us into the foyer and announced our arrival to a delicate, exuberant blond woman in a rich gathered gown of sky-blue silk. Blake stood just behind her to her right, his hair perfectly parted, his scrubbed cheeks glowing, his hand over his silk waistcoat: the very picture of a fine young American gentleman, except for the garland of deep crimson blossoms hanging from his wrist.
Mrs. Kitty Hart, wide-eyed and giddy, was so very pleased to make our acquaintance, and I immediately saw the resemblance to her son, although Blake’s eyes were much more sincere. “A ship’s captain, how romantic!” she said to Slate, making a deep society courtesy, her ruffled skirts swishing above her tiny satin shoes. “It must be such an adventure, sailing the seven seas. How serendipitous the tides that brought you to my little party!”