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“I certainly do,” Constance said. Despite the execrable French, the elderly lady’s wishes were clear: she wanted to outdo Mrs. Astor, beat her at her own game.
“I’ve chosen a theme: ‘The Red Ball.’ You know, after the story by that ‘Raven’ fellow, what was his name…Poe. I paged through a book of his stories—oh, my dear, mydear!—and was lucky enough to find one that, in fact, described a ball. He only mentioned masks, but I wanted to encourage costumes as well.”
Constance pressed the woman’s hands. “What a fabulous idea! Not only is it au courant, but it builds very cleverly on the novelty of Mrs. Astor’s party.”
“Thank yousomuch. But the fact is…well, we have no secrets from each other, so I can confide in you that I find myself rather short on…particulars, shall we say, to make the evening unique. I wondered if you might perhaps have some thoughts on the matter?”
This was exactly where Constance hoped she was heading. “So many balls fail in the line of decorations. You cannot just hang draperies on the walls: if you wish to make the event truly memorable, the decorations must be intrinsic to the theme. And your theme is the Red Ball: the vanity of human hopes, the Gothic obsession with ruins and death—borrowed tastefully, of course, from the classics.” She paused. “Forgive me if I am taking liberties here; after all, it is your soirée.”
“Not in the least, not in the least!”
“Most kind. In that case, we must look beyond superficial touches. I would be happy to lend you some of the surviving articles from my own collection, just recently arrived from Transylvania and currently in storage, to help set the mood. I can have my workmen bring them over.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace, too kind…oh, what is it?”
Constance had released the woman’s hands and sunk back into her chair, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “It’s only that…”
“Do go on.”
“Were I to host such an event, I would—and I can’t take credit for this idea; it is common in European society—wish to add as manyrealisticeffects as possible.”
“Exactly to my mind, as well.” If the European nobility were doing something, Mrs. Cabot-Flint was only too eager to ape it.
Constance remained silent for another moment. “I find myself hesitant to make recommendations of this sort, because in my limited observations I’ve found American society to be—how can I say this?—rather conservative in entertainment. But if such a masked ball was to be put on in my country, we would strive for realism. We would, for example, quietly invite persons who could lend a certainvéritéto the evening.”
The elder woman leaned forward, not understanding.
“For example, if we were to hold a masked ball celebrating a military victory such as Waterloo, my family would invite—without telling the other guests—several generals and even a few members of the regular army.”
“Why, that’s acapitalidea!” Mrs. Cabot-Flint said. Then she stopped short. “But how would that work with my Red Ball? I can’t very well invite murderers, grave robbers, or ghouls.” She laughed at her witticism.
“Certainly not!” Constance concealed a brief titter with her fan. “The idea is to amuse, not terrify. In this case, I might suggest—in lieu of the murderers and grave robbers you mention—respectable people whose work perhaps brings them in contact with such creatures, and whose conversation at the ball would thus add a certainfrissonfor the listeners.”
“I see!” Mrs. Cabot-Flint’s eyes were shining. “There is a judge of my acquaintance who is known for his zeal in prosecuting offenders.”
“A ‘hanging judge’—excellent. How about…?”
Mrs. Cabot-Flint remained leaning forward expectantly.
“Doctors.”
“Specialists, you mean?” asked Mrs. Cabot-Flint.
“Surgeons, in particular. Men of science who are involved with blood.”
The hostess stared at Constance. “Is that a step too far?”
“That depends on how memorable, and successful, you wish your entertainment to be.” Constance waited.
“One person springs to mind…Dr. Featherstone. He’s made a fortune treating women’s complaints, I believe, but is also known to be a chirurgeon and a specialist in cadavers.” Mrs. Cabot-Flint shuddered in delicious horror. “He still supervises dissections for medical students and all that sort of thing.”
“Excellent,” said Constance. “I’d advise placing him on your private list. But there’s another medical specialty you might consider. Psychiatry.”
“Psychiatry?” The woman’s face wrinkled with puzzlement.
“Mental alienation.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of that. But I don’t know anyone who practices it.”