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“Have you honestly never seen lip rouge before? It gives your lips color.” She gives me a look that is a mixture of impatience and pity. “Really, Lydia, don’t you think it’s time you grew up?”
I hesitate. What if Cyrus comes? For some reason the idea of him seeing me dressed up and painted makes me feel ashamed, as if he could see right through my charade and to the plain girl I am at my core.
“Oh, don’t be such a bore,” Catherine says as she liberally applies some to her own lips. She blots off the excess color with a handkerchief, studying her reflection as she dabs. “You can pretend you don’t want to impress Mr. Barrett all you want, but I know deep down you care.”
I hate that she’s right. “Oh, fine, do what you wish.” I let her smear the color over my lips. When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize the girl with the wide dark eyes and the softly parted pink lips.
“All you need now is a smile,” she says. “Looking miserable isn’t doing your complexion any favors.”
* * *
Emeline intercepts me coming down the stairs. She’s dressed in her best muslin, with an old silk sash of Catherine’s. But she didn’t know how to tie it, and it hangs down past her ankles, threatening to trip her. In lieu of ostrich feathers, she’s arranged two tattered bird feathers in her hair that she must have found outside.
I had been hoping that Mother would inform her of her curfew, and I wince as I realize I have to break her heart. Crouching down beside her, I touch my fingers to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You know that by the time the dancing starts it will be well past your bedtime. Mother wants you in bed after the guests arrive.”
I brace myself for tears or desperate pleading, but Emeline doesn’t move. She stands stock-still, glaring at me from suddenly hostile eyes. “You’re mean, Lydia. You’re supposed to be the nice sister, but you’re just as mean as Cath.”
Standing up, I carefully turn my face away so that she can’t see how much her words hurt me. What has gotten into her? She never used to throw tantrums like this in Boston, but since coming here she seems as on edge as I am, her moods souring in the blink of an eye.
“If you’re going to be willfully contrary, then you had better go to bed right now, and forget about watching the guests arrive. Ada has made up the spare chamber for you, and will help you get undressed.”
Emeline gives me a look of lingering reproach. But at last she turns, and she stomps her way up to the spare bedchamber.
I close my eyes and rub at my temple. I hate having to speak to her like that. If only Mother could find it within herself to gently discipline Emeline. But as I duck into the kitchen to sneak a bit of punch, my heart feels suspiciously light, my stomach free of anxiety. It’s hard not to get caught up in the energy that thrums through the house, filling the expectant rooms and for a moment the scandal, the unsettling dreams and occurrences, are in the past. Maybe this is what the house has been waiting for. All those silent accusations, that cold watchfulness, the restless spirits...it was just the house waiting to be filled with love and happiness. Soon I’ve completely forgotten about Emeline’s spat in my excitement.
In a freshly starched cravat and a waistcoat with shiny buttons fit to burst, Father thumbs through his list of local businessmen attending tonight, oblivious to the flurry of preparations around him. Mother, with some help from Catherine, has had her apron taken away and is in a clean, if not somber, dress. Despite Catherine’s best efforts it still hangs off her slender shoulders, and Mother looks lost and tired. But even she manages a smile. “The house looks clean, doesn’t it? No one can say we live in a dirty house now.”
The first guests arrive by foot, and soon a carriage is rumbling up the gravel drive, discharging its passengers. The door was sticking so badly today that Joe had to go and find a big rock to keep it propped open. Mother worried that people would trip over it, so she’s taken it upon herself to stand post by the door and make sure that there are no stubbed toes.
“Do you see them?”
I’m on the second-floor landing, leaning out the window. Catherine comes up behind me and cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the arriving guests. “Who?”
“Oh, don’t be dense, you know who.”
At the thought of Mr. Barrett, the bottom of my stomach drops out and the little vein in my neck starts pulsing. Even the possibility of Cyrus showing his face here tonight can’t dampen my spirits.
“Look! There’s Mr. Barrett.” Catherine points down the road. He’s walking briskly, his dark coat flapping behind him. His hat obscures his face, but the broad shoulders and determined gait give him away. She frowns. “He’s alone.”
“Maybe Mr. Pierce is coming separately.” But we both know that he has no occupation, and that he’s been staying with Mr. Barrett. If he’s not with him now chances are he’s not coming at all.
Catherine slams her fist down on the windowsill, rattling the glass panes and I jump. “He has to come! He has to!” Color rises to her cheeks, and are those tears pricking at my sister’s steely eyes?
“Catherine, I’m sure we’ll be seeing him again soon. I—”
“Shut up! Just please shut up! You don’t understand. He needs to be here. I can’t wait any longer!”
Before I can ask what she’s talking about, she’s running to her room, hand to her eyes. I could go after her, but something tells me Catherine has no interest in confiding in me and it will only make matters worse.
From downstairs Mr. Barrett’s baritone floats up as he greets Mother and asks after her health. She thanks him and then their words are lost because more people are coming in and clomping up the stairs.
The meeting takes all of about twenty minutes, Father’s booming voice convincing Mr. Clarke and the others with land abutting rivers that he and Mr. Barrett have grand plans to put New Oldbury on the map as an industrial center to rival Manchester and Waltham. The end is marked by a polite round of applause.
I go to Catherine’s door and knock. “The dancing is about to start. Are you coming?” There’s no response.
Well, let Catherine sulk in her room. One of us needs to make an appearance, so I take a deep breath and grit my teeth.
The ballroom has transformed from the lonely, echoing sun-filled room into a space bubbling over with the rustle of gowns, chatter and the scent of women’s perfume. As I take up a corner on the far side of the room, I can’t help but feel angry that this was all for Catherine in the first place, and she won’t even show her face.