Marcia Talley: The Last Refuge

His fingers found mine. ‘I guess. See you at the ball?’

‘At the ball, then.’

‘And Hannah?’

‘What?’

‘I’m bringing back-up.’

I smiled. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say.’

Back in my bedroom, I lit the candle on my bedside table, then fished the little bottle out of my pocket. Using the tweezers that Amy had managed to scrounge up for me, I teased Paul’s note out of the narrow mouth, dropped the note onto the table, then smoothed it out and read, not the silly poem I expected but this:

Can’t wait to see you at the ball, Mrs Ives. Something tells me you’ll be needing a date. It wasn’t Paul’s handwriting.

That night, I crept out to the summer house, let myself in, and gave the diary cam a piece of my mind.

Jud! Listen up. This is important. Amy’s husband isn’t dead. You hear me? Drew Cornell is alive, he wants Amy all to himself, and he’s not going to let anything stand in his way. I’m convinced he murdered Alex Mueller. Did you get that? He murdered Alex! Now he’s sent me a note saying he’s planning to crash the ball. It’s a long story, but I’m worried that he’s going to harm my husband. You’ve got to get your security team on Drew right away. If anything happens to my husband, I swear to God, money or no money, I’m going to walk. Got it?

‘I’ve got this recipe for battalia pie, and it calls for… hold on a minute while I find the page… sheep’s tongues and shivered palates, two pair of lamb’s stones, twenty to thirty cockscombs, with savory balls and oysters. Lay on butter, it says, and close the pie with a lear. Jesus, where’s Wikipedia when I need it?’

Karen Gibbs, cook

Dressing for the ball would have been exciting in any case, but in anticipation of what might happen if Drew made his promised appearance kept my nerves – and Amy’s – on edge.

I wanted to get a message out to Paul, but leaving it in the bottle was out – Drew would be on the lookout for that – and with preparations for the ball occupying all our time, I had no opportunity (or good excuse!) to sneak out to the Market House.

‘Relax, Hannah,’ Amy said as she handed me my petticoat. ‘Jud’s security people will take care of everything. Nothing bad is going to happen to Paul.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ I said, stepping into the garment and tying it securely around my waist.

‘Of course I’m right. In a few hours you’ll be dancing the night away, your husband on your arm.’

I was still fretting when Melody entered the room, but for the young teen’s benefit, Amy and I pretended everything was normal. Amy helped us both dress and we, in turn, assisted her. After I’d donned my gown and all its associated paraphernalia, only one thing remained – my wig. It had been professionally dressed for the occasion with ribbons and papier-mâché birds. ‘It looks like the birds have nested in my wig,’ I giggled as I settled it on my head, tucked stray strands of my own hair in with my fingers.

‘Cool beans, Mrs Ives. Mine just has flowers,’ Melody complained as she sidled up close to me so we could both share the mirror.

‘As befits a maiden,’ I said, adjusting one of my birds, a canary, that seemed to be perched on one leg. ‘It’s birds in my belfry, at least, and not bats, although my husband might beg to differ.’

The gown that Mrs Hamilton had designed for me, based on a Paris original circa 1773, was exquisite. Made of heavy white brocade, it had an elaborately quilted petticoat and matching slippers, all trimmed with gold ribbon and Swarovski crystals. I looked like a superannuated ice maiden.

Melody wore a coral gown in a similar design. My descent into the spring house to look after Alex had ruined the blue gown I’d planned to loan Amy, so Melody and I were lacing her into my blue ruffled gown instead.

I extracted one of the birds, a robin, from the aviary I carried on my head and stuck it into Amy’s wig, adjusting it so that it seemed to be peeking out of a curl just over her left ear. ‘There, perfect!’ And indeed she was. In that gown, and with that flawless face, Amy would send any colonial swain into a deep swoon.

I hoped Paul was immune.

I dusted a little more powder around my shoulders and puffed some into my cleavage. ‘Done!’

At four o’clock, the appointed hour, Jeffrey rang a bell summoning us to the entrance hall. All day, I’d been hoping for a message from Founding Father, informing me that Drew Cornell had been found. At first I thought the bell might be heralding a courier, but no. It simply announced that our coach was waiting outside the gate. Amy, Michael and French would have to walk the two short blocks to the State House, but Jack Donovan’s socially-prominent family would be transported in style. The other servants – Karen, Dex and Jeffrey – would not be attending the ball at all. Bonfires had been built on the back campus of nearby St John’s College for all the slaves, indentured servants and other ‘lower classes’ where food and an unlimited supply of punch would be provided both before and after a colorful fireworks display.

Our beautiful coach, Jack Donovan informed me as he escorted me down the walk, had been modeled on one Robert Carter had imported from London for Nomini Hall in 1774. On loan from Colonial Williamsburg, the coach had a black roof, while the doors were painted pea green. It rode on four golden wheels, the rear wheels considerably bigger than the front, and was driven by a liveried groom who sat atop the left hand horse, one of a pair of gorgeous grays. Mist filled my eyes, and I had to blink it away. I was walking into an Arthur Rackham illustration.

As I leaned down to gather up my skirts before climbing into the coach, Jack’s eyes drifted to my cleavage.

I was tempted to smack him once upside the head. Shove those eyes back in your head , buster. These boobs , such as they are , are already spoken for , but I gritted my teeth, forced a smile, slipped my gloved hand into his, and stepped up into the coach.

Melody scooted in beside me, bouncing on the leather seat. ‘This is totally awesome!’

‘Awe-some,’ echoed her brother.

Jack had one foot on the step and was about to launch himself into the coach when he suddenly reversed direction, planting both silver-buckled shoes firmly on the curb. ‘What the hell?’

I stuck my head out the coach window. A rider on horseback was clattering down Prince George Street, heading our way, hell bent for leather. When he reached the coach, the rider pulled his mount up short and leaped from the saddle, leaving the reins to dangle in the dust on the pavement. ‘A message for Mrs Ives,’ he panted.

‘I’ll take that.’ Jack reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a coin. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and handed the coin to the breathless messenger who pocketed it, remounted, and rode away at a more leisurely pace.

I climbed over Melody’s voluminous skirts and scrambled out of the coach. ‘May I have it, sir?’

Jack turned the message over in his hand, studying it curiously. ‘It’s from Founding Father,’ he informed me unnecessarily. I could tell that from the distinctive red seal.

I extended my hand, and Jack laid the message on it. Without hesitation, I tore open the seal and read, ‘Drew Cornell taken into custody outside your home. No harm done.’ The note was signed simply, ‘Jud.’

Hand pressed to my chest to calm my racing heart, I took a deep breath.

‘Is everything all right, madam?’ Jack inquired with a look of genuine concern.

I folded the note, tucked it into my pocket and smiled. ‘Everything is fine, Mr Donovan.’ I offered him my hand. ‘Shall we proceed to the ball?’