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My mouth goes dry. A ball would mean opening up our home to strangers, openingourselvesup to their curious eyes and all their gossip. Mother will be too tired, too ambivalent to carry it off, and Father will think it a frivolous waste of time. Which means that it would fall to Catherine to plan, and me to help her. “You can’t be serious.”
Catherine scowls at me. “Oh, yes I am. I think I’ll ask Mother.”
“Cath, don’t. You know she doesn’t want to entertain and we’re barely settled as it is, never mind inviting dozens of people to tramp through the place.”
“Mother isn’t some fragile bird to be kept cooped up.” She gives me a pitying look as if I had never even considered what was best for our mother. “A ball would be just the thing to keep her spirits up, give her something to be excited about.”
A ball would also mean Cyrus, who presumably is still lurking about New Oldbury on his father’s behalf, would no doubt come. He might have given up in his half-hearted pursuit of my hand, but I doubt he would give up so easily on his father’s business interests and recouping his family’s fortune the honest way; a ball at Willow Hall would be too tempting with all its local businessmen in attendance.
Catherine’s expression is one of carefully studied boredom, a favorite she uses to antagonize me. “If you weren’t so selfish you would see that it would be doing Mother a favor.”
I scramble to reason with her, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. “You said it yourself, the first night we were here...we could hold all the balls we wanted and no one would come! Don’t you think people already know who we are here? Don’t you think it would just be drawing more attention to ourselves?”
“That was before we met Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce,” she counters. “There might not be much polite society in New Oldbury, but what little there is we have a duty to keep up with.”
“I thought you said this was for Mother’s benefit. Which is it, for Mother, or for keeping up with society?”
“As if there can’t be more than one reason why it’s a good idea!”
Emeline watches us volley insults and arguments. I know I should stop; more than likely Catherine will lose interest and forget about her scheme in a few days. But I’m hot and irritable after my poor night’s sleep, and the prospect of formally entertaining has me on edge. “And there are more reasons why it’s a bad idea!”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being such a bore?”
“Don’tyouever get tired of all your pompous conceit?”
She’s losing her patience. Pushing herself up from her seat, Catherine crosses her arms and stares daggers at me. “Well if we just sit in this house like a bunch of invalids, afraid to step foot outside, then I’ll die of boredom.”
“I wish you would!”
No sooner so my words slip out than I regret them with a biting intensity. I cut too hard and too deep. “Cath, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”
Before I can apologize, Catherine shoots me a barbed look and slips out of the room.
* * *
As soon as Catherine leaves, Mother comes in with her basket and seats herself by the window, so it’s some time before I can escape upstairs to follow her.
I pause in the hall outside Catherine’s room and tap at the door. “Catherine?”
When there’s no answer, I gently turn the knob and open the door a crack. The curtains are drawn. Catherine is lying on her side in her shift, the silhouette of her body softened by the evening glow. She could be sleeping, but then I see the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders. A muffled sound comes from the depths of her pillows.
I shouldn’t be here. Quietly, I close the door, hoping that she doesn’t hear the click of the latch. I’ve never seen Catherine cry before and it strikes me that I don’t know how to be a good sister to anyone besides Emeline.
* * *
Breakfast the next day is a subdued affair, even for us. Mother is tired and withdrawn, and Father hasn’t made his appearance yet. I slip into my chair and help myself to a plate of eggs and bacon, which promptly grows cold in front of me. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep well last night again.
Catherine watches with disinterest. She doesn’t look much better, her face puffy and green. A piece of cold toast lies untouched on her plate. We haven’t spoken since our fight, and I get the impression that she’s feeling just as bad as me.
Emeline is oblivious to the tension, playing with paper dolls in her lap, making them ask each other to dance and then tossing them up in the air and watching them flutter back down. She hasn’t stopped talking about dances and balls since yesterday, trailing behind me everywhere I go, listing off all the dresses she would wear and the dance steps she would debut in our ballroom.
Just as I’m pondering how I might make amends with Catherine, Father barrels through the door in a search of some breakfast to take back to his study. He drops a distracted kiss on the top of Mother’s head before taking a plate and piling it with toast and bacon.
“I’ll be late at the mill today,” he says, surprising exactly nobody. “That Ezra Clarke still won’t be reasonable about the price for his land. Barrett suggested a town meeting where we can address his concerns and hopefully get some more of the townspeople on our side, but of course the church is still undergoing repairs from all the water damage.” He adds an angry spoonful of eggs to his plate with a grunt. “I want this deal done soon,” he says more to himself than to us.
It comes to me in a flash. I clear my throat delicately, putting aside my plate. “Why don’t we hold it here, in the ballroom?”
Father looks up sharply, glancing between Mother and me like he accidentally wandered into the wrong room with the wrong family in it. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything I hurry on.