to bed early.”
“Absolutely not.” Vida made her expression very serious. She had not realized what a strange person hid within this beautiful and conventional façade, but she liked Lilly very much for revealing her weirdness now. “Upon reflection, I have concluded you should not be alone tonight. You must stay where there are people and have some fun.” Vida grabbed Lilly’s hands and pulled her toward the fireplace. “Come, let’s pretend to be getting warm while we look around and see who might be worth your time.”
They whispered together tête-à-tête while covertly glancing at the gentlemen in the room. Henry Dries Stahl was rich, but had nothing to say. Freddy Flynn, Flora’s brother, was handsome, but liable to drink too much and become boorish. Hollis Granger was funny, but he had a peculiar smell. And then there were a lot of men who were all-right-looking, and were capable of holding a conversation with a woman, but were already married. Finally, Vida’s eye settled on an Englishman with some title or other, who was tall and wore a pleasant, open expression, and who she had seen at breakfast alone reading a book. Mr. Selvedge was passing then, and Vida wasted no time flagging him.
“There’s a favor you must do for me,” she said.
“Anything,” Selvedge replied with a little dip of the head.
“That British fellow who sits alone at breakfast, what’s his name?”
“Oh, that’s Lord Morrow.”
“Is there a Lady Morrow?”
“His mother, but she retires early and sleeps late.”
“Would you mind sitting Mrs. Adell beside him this evening for dinner?”
“Wonderful idea. Let’s make the introduction now.” Selvedge offered his hand to Lilly, and she took it, and off they went.
Vida watched Lilly walk away. Her head was high and steady as though the rest of her were pulled on wheels. Her lips swayed with that subtlety exhibited by girls bred from birth for a smart marriage, and her black train trailed over the carpet that had inspired her to say such melancholy things. For a moment Vida felt melancholy, too, thinking of all the years her new friend had labored to mold herself into the perfect bride, only to be left as she was now. But she would be all right, and meanwhile Vida had her own match to pursue. She turned to the grand hearth, pushed her bosom in and up so that it would catch the best light, pivoted to grab a passing glass of champagne. She sipped and took in the room. Mr. Selvedge was coming back her way.
“Any more seating changes you would like me to make?” he asked. His eyes were merry, and she could see he wasn’t really annoyed.
“As it happens, my parents won’t be coming this evening after all. I’m sorry to tell you so late—you do go to so much trouble. Perhaps you could find another table for me to join?”
“It’s no trouble at all. And you weren’t seated with your parents this evening in any case.”
A sweet wind filled Vida’s lungs. “Why not?” she asked with a coy sideways glance.
“Mr. Fitzhugh Farrar asked that you be seated at his table. I do hope you don’t mind. All the sporting fellows always ask to be sat with him, so you may find it a bit of a bore.”
Oh, I don’t care about that, Vida very nearly said out loud, so thrilled was she to hear that not only would they be seated together, but that Fitzhugh himself had requested it. “I’ll manage, somehow” was what she actually said with a little wink.
“It is always a pleasure,” Mr. Selvedge replied, winking back, “to be of service to a young lady who enjoys herself. May I escort you to your table, Miss Hazzard?”
A happy gust surged in Vida, and she held her hand aloft for him to take, and then he paraded her past the Blues of Park Avenue, and Mr. and Mrs. Louis Jones, and the rows and rows of footmen and waiters, past the oil paintings and statuary and potted palms and gilded doodads, and into the dining room, where a quartet was playing mildly, and where many of the first-class passengers were already seated, just waiting to see her as she came through the door. Mr. Selvedge commented on who was who, but she scarcely listened. For one thing she knew already, and for another she was concentrating on moving just the way a girl like her was supposed to, with grace but also with a little frisson of flirtation, and on lowering herself