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“Ah, the famous duchess. Is it really so? A title such as Iron Claw, I mean?”
Constance was perturbed by a note of skepticism in the girl’s voice. Her eye strayed back to the entryway as another knot of guests arrived. “Ironclaw is an Americanism. It’s actuallyInowroclaw.”
The expressive eyebrows rose, and the girl’s penetrating brown eyes widened with interest. “The town’s been abuzz about your arrival. How pleasant to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“My apologies—I should be addressing you as Your Grace, of course.”
“It’s America. We might as well dispense with such formalities.”
Edith laughed in relief. “We are a rather primitive bunch. Allow me to offer a collective apology.”
“No need. I actually felt relief when I disembarked from the liner—I’d been told people were still going about in loincloths.”
“That was last season. So tell me—who are you waiting for with such keen interest?”
Now Constance felt another twinge of alarm, mingled with annoyance at this meddlesome, all-too-perceptive girl. “I’m not waiting for anyone in particular. I’m enjoying the spectacle, like your Mr. Huxley.”
“I see. May I be so forward as to ask where in Europe you’re from?”
“Transylvania. But my ancestral home is Galicia. I’m of the House of Piast.”
“Transylvania: home of Vampirismus. Have you read the story?”
“I have,” said Constance.
“So frightfully Gothic! I’d love to go there someday. I had a friend from Transylvania, whom I met while convalescing in the Black Forest. She spoke Romanian. Is that also your native tongue?”
Now the conversation was edging onto dangerous ground. Constance spoke six languages, but none of them was Romanian. She smiled and redirected the subject. “Convalescing in the Black Forest? So you’ve lived abroad, Miss Jones?”
“Oh, yes. My parents trundled me everywhere. France, Italy, Germany, Spain. We’reterriblywell bred.” She made a disrespectful gesture, flicking her fingers as if shooing away a fly. “I find it all quite absurd. Don’t you? I could see it in your face as I walked over.”
Constance felt exasperation and admiration at the same time. Could this callow, pimply-faced girl possibly see through her? She tried to laugh it off. “Are my feelings really so obvious?”
“I suppose you think me very forward.”
“You’ll find it serves you rather well in life.”
“Thank you for saying that. I nevermeanto offend, yet I seem to, again and again. I made a hash of my coming out last year. My mother has spent the last five months in Newport reminding me of the poor impression I made. Newport, so full ofamour proprethey make the milkmen shoe their horses with rubber! She forbade me from reading novels—until I am married.”
“Do you have suitors?”
“Yes, but they’resodull—New York’s dullness is ‘through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.’”
At this quotation from Dryden, Constance had a sudden premonition of the young woman’s future: enduring trivial conversations with superficial men who were attracted only to her money, culminating in a loveless, stifling marriage. She would be lost unless she could find some consuming interest or diversion to occupy herself. “No novels until you’re married?”
Edith flushed. “What do you think?”
“Je pense que c’est stupide!” said Constance with sudden fierceness. “I’ve been reading novels since I was nine.” She lowered her voice. “Steal them from your house library and read them under the covers or in the closet. Hide them under your mattress. If caught, lie, and then steal more. That is my advice to you, Miss Jones. Read, read, and never stop: it’s what will save you.”
Edith laughed again, this time in mixed surprise and relief. Constance was about to join in when she half-glimpsed a man lingering at the mansion’s entrance. Her heart literally stopped for a single, terrible moment.
“I must take my leave,” she said.
The girl’s face fell. “Just as we’d become acquainted!”
But Constance was already slipping away, leaving the girl standing alone near the ballroom entrance, staring after her, a confused and hurt expression on her face.