After returning from the walk, I found myself being sewn into a brand-new suit while Mrs. Sutherland instructed the tailor on where to pin and prod me. I knew I had to leave, but I also couldn't tear myself away from Mrs. Sutherland quite yet. We spent the entire afternoon chatting about my mother and her French relatives, along with my wish to one day travel to Italy to see the Sistine Chapel.
Before I knew it, the tailor had made his final stitch, and night had arrived. Even I had to admit that my suit was fantastic. I looked like an urbane prince of industry in my pleated white shirtfront, silk top hat, and cravat. Winfield loaned me one of his pocket watches on a fob covered with a tasteful number of gold charms and gems, and I wore matching gold studs. I looked the very picture of humanity and was ashamed to be enjoying the part so thoroughly.
Bridget simpered when I offered her a hand getting up into the carriage. Her skirts were full and cumbersome, an apricot version of the white gown she wore just the night before. Cream-colored silk netting floated over everything, giving her a look somewhere between a dancer in a European painting and a giant pastry. She giggled and tripped and pretended to fall, throwing an arm around my neck.
"Save me again, kind sir," she laughed, and I reminded myself that I had only to entertain her for another couple hours. Then, no matter the affection I felt for Mrs. Sutherland, I vowed I would make good on my promise to leave the family to their lives, disappearing into the crowd of the dance and returning to my home in the park.
After a short ride, we approached another mansion of considerable size. It was solid stone, like a castle, but filled with windows. I helped Bridget from the coach and we took our places in the receiving line.
In my human life I had been to many dances, yet I was not prepared for a New York City ball.
There was someone to take my coat and hat - and because this wasn't Mystic Falls, where everyone of renown knew one another, I was given a ticket with a number on it to retrieve my things at the end of the evening. We approached the ballroom through a seemingly endless hallway of silver mirrors lit with candles and chandeliers, sparkling as I imagined it must have been like in Versailles. A thousand silvered reflections of Bridget and myself filled the space behind the glass.
A full orchestra of violins, cellos, horns, and flutes played in the corner, the musicians dressed in black suits. The room was filled, wall-to-wall, with dancers in the most amazing array of dress I had ever seen. The young women lifted delicate gloved hands with sparkling diamond bracelets, then twirled in gowns that ranged in color from bloodred to dusty gold. Gauzy skirts swished in time with the high-paced mazurka the orchestra played, netting, tulle, lace, and the finest silk petticoats floating like petals strewn across a lake.
If my eyes were dazzled by the sight of the dancers, the scents of the room almost overpowered the rest of my senses: expensive perfumes, huge vases of exotic flowers, sweat, and punch, and somewhere someone was bleeding from a pin left in her dress by a careless maid.
"You're supposed to fetch your lady a dance card," Lydia murmured into my ear as I stood there, stunned by the opulent and overwhelming scene before me.
"Is that . . . is that Adelina Patti?" I stuttered, pointing at a demure-looking woman standing in the corner and surrounded by admirers. "The opera singer?"
I had seen photographs of her. My father had wanted his sons to have working knowledge of their Italian culture and heritage.
"Yes," Bridget said, rolling her eyes and stamping a pretty, satin-covered foot. "And over there is Mayor Gunther, and over there is John D. Rockefeller, and . . . can you take me to my seat now? I want to see who asks me to dance."
Lydia let out a polite cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"In the South," I whispered to her out of the corner of my mouth, "it's considered impolite to dance with your escort overmuch."
Lydia put a gloved hand to her own mouth, covering her smile. "I've heard that they still actually dance the quadrille in the South and have no parlor games at their functions. Good luck, Mr. Salvatore."
And she glided off into the crowd. Margaret gave me a tiny smirk. She was on the arm of her husband, Wally, a short fellow with a pince-nez and a serious bent. But when she whispered to him, a smile broke out and he was radiant. I felt an odd jab of jealousy. I would never know what that was like, the simple rituals of a close-knit couple.