Between Earth and Sky(48)

“Mightn’t we rest a moment, Mr. Ellis,” she said at last. “I . . . um . . . am feeling rather faint.”

His face sagged with relief. He accompanied her to a line of chairs at the edge of the dance floor and hovered over her, chest heaving, chewing his lip as he scoured the ceiling.

She saved them both by asking, “Would you be so kind as to get me a glass of punch?” When he retreated to the refreshment table, Alma sucked in a full, deep breath of unsoured air.

“I think it’s despicable,” she heard a man say from the alcove behind her.

“Despicable?” another voice echoed with a trill of amusement. “What do you think, Miss Downey?”

At this, Alma glanced over her shoulder. Her friend Annabelle sat on a velvet tuffet with a plate of cookies on her lap. Karl Dressler stood beside her and Paul Van Steenwyk leaned against a nearby wall, swirling the punch in his glass.

“I . . . um . . . it is rather shocking, I suppose,” Annabelle said.

Paul gave an impatient frown. Everything about him oozed languor—his sloppy posture, his crooked, but expensive tie—as if he found the privilege that came with being heir to La Crosse’s biggest bank tedious. “Yes, but shocking in a good way or a bad way?”

“A bad way.” Her tone was hesitant, more like a question than a statement.

Karl tugged on the sleeves of his ill-fitting suit and turned to Paul. “You think it’s all right that they’re here? Dancing about as if they’re the same as us?”

“They certainly don’t dress like us,” Annabelle said with a coquettish giggle. “Just look at those homespun dresses.”

Alma cringed and turned away. Hadn’t she had the same ugly thought when they first arrived tonight? She hid behind her fan, hoping the passing dancers wouldn’t notice the blotchy coloring creeping up from her bosom or the sudden moistness infecting her eyes.

“Beneath such triflings, though,” Paul said. “Are they not the same as us?”

“Certainly not,” Karl said.

Paul laughed as blithely as if they were speaking about a game of horseshoes. “Here, let’s have Edward settle this. Edward!”

Alma heard his confident footfalls and took cheer.

“What do you think of the mayor’s red guests?” Paul asked.

Of course he would defend her friends, and do so gallantly. His charm, his wit, why, any who listened would— “Well, I certainly wouldn’t deign to dance with one,” Edward said.

Alma’s fan slipped from her grasp. It tumbled to her lap and then flapped to the floor like a lame bird. Had she heard right? He’d never maligned Indians before.

“Nor me,” Karl said, and she could hear the vindication in his voice. “Lice, fleas—who knows what sort of miasma they carry.”

“Oh, me neither,” Annabelle said quickly.

“Well, I for one enjoy the spectacle,” Paul said. “These parties can be so drab.”

Alma reached down with a shaky hand and groped for her fan. Spectacle? Is that what this was?

Annabelle spoke again. “You don’t think they’re . . . dangerous?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“I’m not so sure,” Karl said.

“You needn’t worry, Miss Downey,” Edward said in the same solicitous tone he’d addressed Alma. “These Indians are civilized. At least that’s what old Mr. Blanchard would have us believe.”

Above their ensuing laughter, Alma heard a soft crack. She looked down to see the ribs of her fan snapped, its delicate silk leaves crumpled in her hand. Their words demanded censure. But even when she’d settled on what to say, she found her frozen vocal cords a traitor to the cause. As much as she hated Edward in this moment, some part of her still craved his approval and affection.

“Your punch, Miss Blanchard.”

She jumped a little at Mr. Ellis’s voice. “Oh . . . ah . . . thank you.”

She drank in silence, the sweetness hardly touching her tongue. The song ended and dancers shuffled about, looking for their next partner. Mr. Ellis had signed for her next dance as well, but she silently rejoiced when he’d begged off and slipped out to the veranda. Perhaps she’d take some fresh air, too, or try another glass of punch in the hopes of settling her roiling stomach.

As she stood, she recognized a new voice behind her. “Miss Downey? I believe this is our dance.”

“I . . . I . . . you must be mistaken.”

“My name is right there on your card,” George said.

Annabelle’s voice quavered. “No. I . . . er . . . promised this dance to . . .”

“Me,” Edward said. “I’m in line for this dance.”

Noise filled the ballroom—clanking glasses, boisterous footfalls, the whine of strings as a musician quickly retuned his instrument—but Alma could hear nothing but the silence behind her. She turned.

“There you are, George.” The sound of her own voice—loud and steady—came as a shock to Alma’s ears. “You promised me this schottische, remember? Surely Miss Downey here wasn’t trying to cut in.”

The rosy color in Annabelle’s cheeks ripened to scarlet. She looked from George to Alma to Edward with a befuddled expression. “What? No. I . . .”