Between Earth and Sky(47)
Sleigh bells sounded from the front yard, pulling her from such weighty thoughts. Alma grabbed her fur-trimmed coat and hurried to the stairs. The younger Indians—those too small to attend the ball—huddled on the landing, peeking between the rungs of the banister. Confusion and awe played across their shadowed faces. Alma knelt among them and admired the spectacle below.
Minowe, Hoga, and several of the older girls waited in the foyer. How beautiful they looked—their skin lustrous against their pale-blue dresses and elbow-length gloves, their sleek hair bound in elegant twists.
Footsteps thundered from the attic dormitory and the boys jostled past, taking the steps two at a time, with seemingly little care for their newly pressed suits. George glanced back at her and smirked.
That rogue. She shooed the younger children to bed and started down the stairs. Why ever had he been allowed to come? Surely he had some antic in mind to disrupt the evening.
The foyer was a jumble: her father and the boys donning overcoats, hats, and gloves; her mother, Alma, and the other girls with their cloaks and tippets. Shoes squeaked atop the floorboards. Petticoats rustled. She found herself pressed uncomfortably close to George. Nothing was amiss in his attire—not his usual open collar, rolled-up pant legs, or wrinkled shirt. The deep green cravat about his neck drew her gaze to his face and carefully parted hair. More shuffling. Someone bumped her from behind and she tottered forward, her hand reaching out for balance and landing squarely on his chest. Their eyes linked for a heartbeat, then, in tandem, flashed to her hand. She pulled back and muttered an apology to her feet. The front door opened for their departure and winter air stole in. Alma welcomed the cold rush over her skin and hurried out into the night.
Light glistened from every window of the Donelson mansion, refracting through the frost-covered glass. The inside was even more magnificent. Garlands of evergreen festooned the walls. A bushy fir tree towered behind the receiving line. Hundreds of tiny candles twinkled from its limbs. Red and gold ribbons wound through its boughs alongside strands of beads and popcorn. Small lace bags filled with candies and nuts hung from the branches.
Beside the great tree sat a wicker basket replete with programs. Alma took one for herself and each of her girlfriends. They flitted down the long, marble-tiled hallway into a grand ballroom. At one end, a string quartet played a gentle prelude. At the other end stood several tables draped in brilliant white linen and laden with sweets. A large crystal punch bowl sat in the center with dozens of tiny cups nestled around it.
A low murmur rippled across the room when they entered. The music sagged. Throats cleared. The Indians shuffled to one corner of the room, but Alma hesitated. Heat flooded her cheeks. She followed the stare of the crowd, their cocked heads and discreetly pointed fingers, and noticed for the first time how simple her friends’ gowns appeared amid the splendor, how sharp the contrast between the pale cloth and their dark skin.
Her slippers felt gummed to the floor. Sweat bled through her satin gloves. Should she follow the Indians or seek out her other friends amid the crowd?
Before she could shake her paralysis, the mayor’s nephew, Mr. Ellis, approached and asked for her dance card. Thank the stars! She would have given him every dance, had he asked.
Conversations rekindled around the room. Another gentleman stepped in behind Mr. Ellis and penciled his name upon her card. In the corner, a small crowd of revelers had formed around the Indians. Dance cards passed to and fro. The squall inside her quieted. She caught Minowe’s eye and smiled. Her friend grinned back with undiminished glee.
When Alma turned around, Edward Steele stood before her, resplendent in his black dress coat and white necktie. His oil-slickened hair shone like spun gold in the twinkling light of the chandelier.
“Don’t you look the part of an angel this evening, Miss Blanchard,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. He took her hand and kissed it, then teased away her dance card. “You’ve already given away the first dance, I see.”
She opened her mouth, desperate that some charming or witty phrase might form on her tongue. “I . . . you . . .”
“I’ll have your second dance, then, and the finale.” He took a step closer and handed her back her card. “You do galop, don’t you?”
The closeness of their bodies, the musky scent of his eau de cologne—Alma could only nod.
“Good. I’ve been told I’m one of the finest dancers in the city. I’m sure we’ll make a handsome pairing.” With that, he spun around, leaving her still searching for words.
By the time the music swelled for the first dance, Alma’s card was full and the abashment she’d felt at their arrival forgotten. One song rolled merrily into the next. The grand chandelier sparkled overhead, casting a brocade of jaunty shadows on the dance floor. Freshly cut evergreen boughs perfumed the air. Alma hoped the night would never end.
As she danced, she stole glances over her partners’ shoulders at her Indian friends. In the blur of movement, they were almost indistinguishable from the other guests, their homespun clothes and brown complexions but a splash of color against the gay backdrop.
The mayor’s nephew arrived for his appointed dance winded from the previous go about. A tinge of purple colored his face and beads of sweat glimmered along his hairline. Dutifully, she took his hand for the polka, breathing through her mouth so as not to gag from the pungent scent that filled the air between them when he raised his arms. Halfway through the dance he was panting, frothy spittle flying from his mouth every time he attempted conversation.