“I’m going to look positively wilted for the party. I am.”
“I do wish they’d bother to get here already. Do you think the duke knows how tardy his servants are? They are in his employ. Should someone inform him?”
“They’re here,” I said, and stood.
“Oh, really,” snarled Malinda. “Now you have the hearing of a dog, is that it, Eleanore?”
“How fitting,” chimed in Chloe from nearby, I suppose because she couldn’t resist.
The duke, as it happened, had at least five automobiles, because that was how many showed up to carry us off the isle. I rode to Tranquility with Mrs. Westcliffe again, Miss Swanston on my other side, and took comfort in the thought of all the other girls crammed into the other autos, sincerely hoping that the wind blew them to rags.
In defiance of the war and the airships and any sort of two-candles-a-month rule, Tranquility was lit to blazes when we pulled up. It appeared that every window in every room shone with light, and it turned out that the party wasn’t even to be held indoors.
We followed the butler through a ballroom to the formal gardens in back, and even the headmistress couldn’t contain her gasp of wonder.
Beneath the rising moon, the grounds opened up in a spread of rolling grasses and marble stairways and gazebos and trees, finely garbed people swirling through it all like flower petals loosed to the wind. Torches burned along the farther paths, bright dots of orange against the blackening sky; Chinese lanterns glowing red and green and turquoise swayed more placidly from the trees. A string orchestra played a waltz from a corner of the courtyard just below us. No one danced to it; the rest of the courtyard was taken up by elaborately dressed tables of food and champagne.
This was a far more momentous event than a tea party, clearly.
“Well,” said Mrs. Westcliffe at last, remembering to close her mouth.
“Quite so,” agreed Miss Swanston, with a sideways, smiling look at me. “Miss Jones. Would you care to lead the way?”
I descended the steps from the ballroom to the courtyard with satin clenched in both hands, making my way to the duke’s receiving line, stationed right by the first champagne table. Armand stood beside him, both of them in black tails and pomade so sleekly perfect they looked cut from a fashion journal.
Without making eye contact, I curtsied, mumbled my greeting, then moved quickly aside to allow Mrs. Westcliffe room to fawn.
“Your Grace.”
“Irene. Welcome. Miss Swanston. And, er—you, as well, Miss Eleanore. I trust the journey here wasn’t too taxing?”
“Not in the least. You are, as always, the most gracious host.…”
Because I’d moved, Armand was now directly in front of me. Our eyes locked. He did not speak. I did not speak.
“… you have certainly outdone yourself this year! What a truly handsome transformation to the gardens, truly inspired …”
I sighed, giving in first. “Happy birthday. I don’t have a gift.”
His brows drew together. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I didn’t bring a gift. Sorry.”
He stared down at me. “Why would you—wait. Did you think … all this was for me?”
“Isn’t it?”
And he started to laugh. Really laugh, genuinely laugh; it snared his father’s attention and that of Mrs. Westcliffe. Miss Swanston, angling behind me, placed a gloved hand on my elbow.
“How heartwarming to see young people getting along so well! Miss Jones, we mustn’t keep His Grace and Lord Armand. There are far too many guests eager to speak with them.”
“Have a grand time,” Armand managed, still chortling, as we moved off.
Mrs. Westcliffe found a lost flock of her little lambs milling about; apparently the other motorcars from Iverson had arrived. With a word to Miss Swanston, she left to tend to them.
Miss Swanston remained with me. By unspoken accord, we headed to the nearest table of food.
A maid bobbed at us and handed us plates. As the waltz shifted into a polonaise, we only stood there, taking it all in. Oysters on platters of chipped ice, haunches of beef waiting to be carved, fat lobster tails, strawberries, glazed duck, roasted artichokes, sturgeon in lemon sauce, salads, brandied fruits. Breads and breads and breads, a thousand kinds of cheeses and grapes—it was without question the most food I’d ever seen assembled in one place.
As if the war did not exist. As if rationing did not exist; as if hungry children stuck in foundling homes did not exist.
I might have remained as I was for hours, stunned and starving,