In turn-of-the-century Charleston, SC, every family had its poor relations. Most were tolerated. Few were loved.
Ours were adored.
My cousin Olivia took after my mother’s side of the family and, like all Drayton women was a copper-haired, green-eyed beauty. I favored the Ravenels on my father’s side, with deep brown hair, my eyes an ever-changing shade of hazel.
Despite being a poor girl with no options, Olivia had been incredibly successful at getting what she wanted. When I was eight and Olivia seven, she took a liking to Janette, the French Jumeau doll Papa brought me from Paris. Janette went with me everywhere, even to bed. One morning I awoke to find dear Janette missing. Still wearing my nightgown, I looked all over for her until John, our manservant, told me, “I done seen Missy Olivia carrying her toward the garden.” Sure enough, I found Olivia sitting on a bench and staring down at what had once been Janette’s face. The doll’s head had been broken into six jagged pieces. Olivia smiled slyly at me. “She slipped and fell.”
Next she set her sights on Donnie, my chestnut Shetland pony. Donnie was well-mannered. He never nipped. He would nuzzle me softly with his velvety black nose. After watching me ride Donnie around the garden, Olivia ran to Mama sobbing her heart out. I watched the scene unfold as I dismounted.
“There, there, darling.” Mama drawled as she wrapped my cousin in a sheltering embrace.
“I want Donnie.” Olivia turned wet eyes on my mother. “He’s so sweet and gentle. Please, Auntie? Please?”
A lump crowded my throat. Donnie was mine; we’d grown up together. I loved him with all my heart. By way of compromise, I offered to let my cousin ride my pony “sometimes.”
“Kate,” My mother scoffed. “You can be so selfish. There are days that I can’t believe you are a child of mine.”
“I want Donnie!” Olivia sobbed. “Donnie!”
“I know, darling. Life has been so unfair to you.” Mama held Olivia at arm’s length and gave her a supportive smile. Then my mother lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, sure signs that she was scheming. “I’ll have to see what I can do. Trust me, dear child.”
That night Mama instructed Cook to prepare my father’s favorite dish, lamb chops with fingerling potatoes and mint jelly. Mama further surprised me by donning an apron and spending time in the kitchen herself. There she whipped up a frothy dessert, a charlotte russe bordered with delicate ladyfingers. That too was a dish that Papa especially enjoyed.
I wondered why this particular meal was so extravagant.
I found out soon enough.
“Anston, I do believe Kate has outgrown her pony. Have you noticed that her feet are dragging the ground? I know you set great store by having a daughter who can ride like a proper lady.” Mama dipped her chin and fluttered her eyelashes at my father.
“Donnie is just fine for me,” I protested.
“Nonsense. You are tall for your age and built like a beanpole. You need a horse, a real horse, and not a child’s pony,” Mama shot back.
Two days later, my father brought home an Arabian for me, a bay aptly named Diablo. The Arabian and I took an immediate dislike to each other. The first time I tried to mount Diablo, he bit my shoulder with such venom that I still bear the scar. My mother watched the whole episode from under her parasol as she stood outside the paddock fence.
“Kate? You saw that horse turn his head. Why didn’t you take that whip to him and give him what for? Goodness sakes alive. You don’t have the sense God gave a goose.”
“Mama, he’s hateful. Pure evil. I don’t want him. Just let me ride Donnie.”
My mother’s mouth puckered into a tight knot of disapproval. “I gave Donnie to your cousin.”
“Mama, you didn’t!”
“Indeed I did. She needed a mount, and it’s time you moved on to a real horse. You’re too big for Donnie.”
“I am not!”
“Kate, I told you that pony belongs to your cousin. Now straighten up and fly right,” Mama said.
With the acquisition of Donnie, Olivia seemed to realize her power. One day after my cousin had taken one of my favorite books and ripped out the pages, I asked Iola, “How come Olivia can do no wrong?” I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes as I struggled to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks.
Iola was John’s wife and had worked for our family since the day Mother was born.
“Where’s yo’ handkerchief? Laws, child. A lady always has her hanky. I know you got ’em. I done washed and ironed a passel for you.”
I dug around in my skirt pocket and retrieved a crumpled square of linen. While I mopped my face, Iola considered my question, her strong brown hands steadily plucking feathers from the hen Cook would make for Sunday supper. “I don’t rightly know, Miss Kate, but I can guess. See, Miss Olivia’s mother—your Aunt Elizabeth—up and died in your mama’s arms. I reckon your mama feels responsible somehow.”
“Why? How did it happen?”
“You don’t remember?” Iola bent to her task, leaving me to stare at the black bandana wrapped around her head.
“Not really.” Bits and pieces floated around in my head. Disjointed. Nonsensical.
“We was having a spell of terrible hot weather, and it done made people quarrelsome. Miss Elizabeth, she was always high-strung, but that morning she got herself in a real tizzy. Next thing I know, she’s taken a hairbrush to a Gullah gal who used to work here. Smacked her right across the face with it.”
The Gullah are descendants of African slaves who scratch out a meager existence on the barrier islands. Papa says that although all coloreds are superstitious, the Gullah are particularly so. I’d heard whispers that they practice voodoo.
Iola continued, “I expect your auntie was all het up because your grandmama was having a garden party.”
“A garden party?” We never ate in the garden. Ever.
“Oh, your grandmama was a great one for entertaining, Miss Kate. That’s where your mama gets her love of socializing. That party was high class all the way. Singing, dancing, everybody had theyselves a good time. Your uncle, Mr. Monroe, was madder than a wet hen that he had business in Baltimore and couldn’t be here with his wife, your Aunt Elizabeth. Lordy, but that girl could dance. She was plumb wore out by the time I helped her into her nightie. ‘Miss Elizabeth,’ I said, ‘you done tired yo’self out something fierce.’ And she sho’ did. That dress of hers was wet as an old dishrag.”
“But people don’t die from dancing. You said Aunt Elizabeth died in Mama’s arms.”
“Yes’m, that’s ezactly what happened. See, after I got Miss Elizabeth changed, she asked me to go upstairs and check on her little girl for her. That’s ezactly where I was—upstairs with Miss Olivia—when I done heard a thump coming from Miss Elizabeth’s bedroom. Laws, but I ain’t never run down a set of stairs so fast. Your mama got dere afore me. What did we see but Miss Elizabeth having some sort of fit? She sho’ was. Your papa ran to get Doctor Mayhew. But by the time that old doctor got here, Miss Elizabeth done died in your mama’s arms, and that’s the truth.”
“Aunt Elizabeth died of a fit?”
Iola stopped plucking long enough to give me one of her sideways looks. “Nuh-uh. That fit didn’t kill her. No, sir. It was that Gullah gal, I reckon. She done cursed your auntie. Dat’s what them Gullah do. You know it is.”
Of course, I’d been too young to attend the party, but I’d seen my parents dressed up in their finest clothes, and I knew something magical was happening, right outside my bedroom window. Music floated on the same summer breeze that ruffled my curtains. Muffled laughter mingled with giddy voices. Off-key voices sang the slurred words to songs. Silverware tapped crystal and chimed like angel bells. There in my bed, I fought sleep as long as possible, straining to keep my eyes open—and then with a start—I awoke to a thump and an ungodly keening sound from down the hallway. What I heard was the breaking of a human heart.
“Grandmama was angry with that Gullah girl, wasn’t she? I remember a scuffle in the foyer. Shouting. Shrieking. The slamming of a door.”
“That’s right. Your grandmama done sent that Gullah gal packing. Then your grandmama and your mama, they cried and cried and cried. All night and all the next day. Word went out, and people came from far and wide to pay their respects. I ain’t never seen so many sad faces. Seemed like dis whole town of Charleston cried along with us.”
“Everyone wore black didn’t they? There was black crepe on the mirrors?”
“Yes’m. Dis whole house was in mourning. Miss Olivia, little as she was, she wore black, too. She cried and cried. Bless her heart. She kept tugging on your mother’s dress and asking, ‘Where is my Mama? How come I can’t see her?’ Her daddy done take the train down here straightaway from Baltimore. When Mr. Monroe got here, and he seed his wife laid out in the dining room, I thought that man would tear this house apart. Shore I did. He was bellowing like a bull calf caught in barbed wire. That was one broken man who took his baby home with him.”
The remembrance filled me with pity, both for my sorrowful uncle and for my desolate cousin.
Iola added, “It musta broke your grandmama’s heart, ’cause she went on to glory not long after. Broke your mama’s heart, too. I expect that’s why she dotes on Miss Olivia. Why she cain’t tell that girl no, even when she oughta. That’s all I can figure.”
* * * *
Over the years, Olivia spent more and more time at our house. By the time we were in our teens, she lived with us more than with her own father. Mama was quick to explain that a loving papa was no substitute for a mother’s influence. “Besides,” she said with a knowing nod of her head, “Olivia has no future in Mount Pleasant. None, and Charleston has much to offer.”
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise when one night at dinner, Mama folded her hands in her lap and announced, “Anston? It is time for both girls to make their debut into Charleston society.”
“Both girls?” My father croaked. “Don’t girls debut when they are eighteen? Olivia is only seventeen.”
Mama huffed in annoyance. “Eighteen, seventeen, what difference do a few months make? There’s no reason for Olivia to wait. You wouldn’t ask her to stay home while Kate is introduced to society, would you?”
“Isabella, you know I would never question you when it comes to issues of social propriety.” Papa speared a piece of beef tenderloin with his fork.
Mama’s eyes gleamed, as they did whenever she got her way. “I owe it to my sister to see her daughter happily wed.” With a nod toward me, Mama added almost as an afterthought, “And our daughter as well. It’s time for Kate to settle down. She’s not a child anymore.”
I stifled a sigh. Any young Charleston woman not spoken for by the age of nineteen was an old maid. Either I would be married off within the year or my mother would die of shame. My vision clouded as my world grew smaller. Becoming a wife held no charm for me. Not when there were so many other fascinating avenues to pursue.
“Of course, we shall do right by both girls,” Papa said. “We shall treat Olivia like our own daughter.
From that moment on, Mama gave her affection full rein. Not only was Olivia her new daughter, she quickly became my mother’s favorite daughter. It made perfect sense. Olivia and my mother shared the same interests. They made sly comments about other people and giggled behind their hands. They loved fashion, afternoon social calls, and ladies’ magazines. Above all, they loved to go into Charleston and shop. In many ways, they were more like two sisters than an aunt and her niece. Although I was included in many of their social visits by necessity—because, as my mother kept reminding me, “You need a beau”—you would have thought I was the poor country cousin and not the daughter.
A few nights later, Papa shared exciting news. He had hired a scientist for his fertilizer company, a young man who could help him extract crude phosphorous from the marl beds of the Cooper River. “Stanton Holmes has perfected a method that calls for adding sulfuric acid to crude phosphate to produce super phosphate of lime.”
“Holmes. Of the Charleston Holmeses?” Mama wondered.
“The same. The family has fallen on hard times. Stanton is newly graduated. He is keen to work his way up. I have high hopes for him. Indeed, one day he might make the perfect junior partner. His process, when applied to the new marl field that I recently purchased down in Florida, should prove lucrative.”
In spite of his high social standing, after she heard about the “hard times,” Mama lost all interest in Stanton Holmes, but I wanted to learn more. Marl was a mixture of clay and bone from animals that died centuries ago. When processed, marl yielded phosphorous, a mineral that could dramatically increase crop yields when applied properly to the soil.
“Papa? How do you know whether a marl field has a little phosphorous or a lot?”
“This truly interests you?”
“It certainly does.” I found all aspects of scientific inquiry fascinating. The chance to meet a person trained in such methods seemed wondrous indeed. Much more tantalizing than an evening in a stuffy ballroom.
“Nearly fifty years ago, two scientists discovered that different substances produce different colored flames when burned in a nonluminous flame. One of them, Robert Bunsen, went on to create a special burner to aid in such experiments. This analytical technique is called spectrometry. When raw marl is submitted to this process, the color of the flame tells me what I need to know.”
“I should love to see that!” I said with such gusto that I nearly knocked over my water glass.
“I have my own good news to share.” Mama paused for dramatic effect. “Two invitations arrived in this afternoon’s mail.”
Olivia squealed. “To the St. Cecilia Society Ball?”
Mama smiled.
“Oh, Auntie! How marvelous.”
“Excellent.” My father raised his wineglass in salute.
I did my best to keep a smile on my face, although my spirits took a nosedive. So the hallowed invitations had come. What a disappointment. For weeks, I had kept my fingers crossed that somehow Olivia and I might be overlooked.
The annual St. Cecilia Society Ball was the most anticipated event of Charleston’s social season. The society began in 1766 for the purpose of hosting musical programs. Over time these were preceded by a dance or two. Eventually, dancing became the focal point, especially for young women making their debut into society. Money couldn’t buy you entrance to the St. Cecilia Society. Only male direct descendants, like my father, were allowed membership, and only members could invite unmarried or widowed ladies to attend.
Mama handed each of us an ivory envelope. The paper stock was heavy; the handwriting was graceful with many flourishes. “This year will be a triumph for our family. Olivia and Kate will both be attending the ball.”
* * * *
A few days later, my father called me into his study and handed me a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “This is for you.”
It was a Bunsen burner. We took it to the kitchen where he helped me set it up. Papa and I were in the process of submitting table salt to the flames when Mama arrived to discuss dinner menus with Cook. My mother took one look at the contraption, the flame, and the burning salt, and had a conniption. “Get that out of the house before you burn it down!”
I was crestfallen, but Papa whispered, “Do not fret, my child.”
The next day he instructed John to clear out the garden shed and transform it into what we called “my laboratory.” There I spent countless hours conducting experiments. Fortunately Mama was busy with Olivia. My mother paid my activities no heed until the day I singed my hair while submitting a piece of metal to the flame. I tried to tuck the burned strand behind my ear, but it slipped out while I was cutting my snap beans at the supper table.
“My word! What happened to your hair, Kate?” Mama shrieked.
Olivia stared at me wide-eyed.
Mama turned her fury on my father. “This is what comes of your encouragement, Anston. Let us not work at cross-purposes, I beg you. An opportunity like the St. Cecilia Society Ball won’t do our daughter much good if she shows up with a head full of burnt hair or if she bores potential suitors with prattle about her experiments.”
“I disagree. Kate’s interest in science is more likely to attract an up-and-comer than to repel him.” My father reached over and patted Mama’s hand. “Times have changed, Isabella. Young men are learning from their father’s mistakes. A man might well regret marrying the belle of the ball, but he will never regret marrying a woman who can think for herself.”
My mother’s face reddened as if slapped. She pushed back her chair and left the table abruptly. Papa seemed unconcerned. After all, what could she do?
Well, she could take it out on me.
And she did.
* * * *
From then on, my mother kept me at arm’s length, regarding me with the sort of suspicion one casts on a spider dangling from the ceiling. I could do nothing to please her. While she and Olivia made afternoon calls, I spent more and more time alone in my laboratory.
Several nights later, I was engrossed in my experiments and missed the first bell for supper. When the second bell rang, I ran pell-mell into the dining room, without stopping to freshen up. Mama frowned as I took my place at the table. To my great embarrassment, I realized we had been joined by company. A young man tore his focus away from Olivia and rose to greet me.
“Kate? This is my new associate, Stanton Holmes,” Papa said. “Stanton recently graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with a degree in chemistry. He’ll be working with me in my office downtown.”
Stanton Holmes was an earnest-looking fellow in a threadbare suit. He had pleasant, even features, although his ears did stick out a bit too far.
After I was seated, Mr. Holmes took his place at the table and turned his attention back to my cousin. Throughout the meal, Olivia peppered him with questions about Pennsylvania and how he liked Charleston. I found the conversation tedious. I was on the verge of pleading a sick headache and retiring to my room when my father said, “Stanton, my daughter, Kate, is interested in all things scientific. Could you tell her about your experiments with spectrometry?”
Mr. Holmes did exactly that, and we quickly launched into a lively conversation. He expressed interest in seeing my lab; I bemoaned how very crude it was, although I admitted I spent many enjoyable hours doing various tests. “Who would guess that copper produces a lovely tongue of gas as blue as the ocean? Or that calcium could glow as orange as a garden pumpkin?” I gushed.
“I hope you are keeping records of your results.” Mr. Holmes smiled, his blue eyes blazing with interest. “I keep my own such journal documenting a variety of my spectrometry tests,” he continued. “Would you like to see it? I could share it with you.”
“I would be delighted.” If I hadn’t had my dessert spoon in my hand, I would have clapped with joy.
My mother attempted to steer the talk back to other subjects. “Mr. Holmes, I am wondering. Will you be attending the St. Cecilia Society Ball?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am looking forward to it.”
After we had our coffee, Papa invited Mr. Holmes to join him for brandy and a cigar in his study. “We have much to discuss about my upcoming trip to Florida.”
I retired to my room feeling exhilarated. At last I had met a kindred spirit!
* * * *
The next morning, Papa was buttering his toast when he said, “I believe Mr. Holmes enjoyed talking to you, Kate.”
“I enjoyed his company, as well.” I tried not to sound too excited.
Olivia frowned. Mama patted her hand. “I thought that we would go shopping today. You need a new cardigan to wear over your middy blouse. It would look swell with your pleated skirt.”
“Isabella?” My father sounded serious. “Before you go, I should like a word in my study.”
After waiting a suitable interval, I tiptoed to the door outside my father’s study. By pressing my ear against the wood, I could hear my parents’ conversation.
“Of course I realize that both girls will need to dress properly for such an important event,” my father said. “I am only asking that you be frugal. This ball could not have come at a more inopportune time. The new phosphorous field has rather depleted my bank account. It will prove a good investment in the fullness of time, but right now I’m feeling the pinch.”
“You would have me skimp on evening gowns for our daughter and our niece?” Mother’s voice broke. She must have been close to tears. “People will talk. You know they will.”
“That’s what people do, isn’t it?”
* * * *
That afternoon, a parcel arrived for me. Inside was the journal that Mr. Holmes had promised, along with a sweet note asking if he might call upon me with my father’s permission. I wrote a thank-you note for sharing his findings, and added that I’d be pleased to see him again, assuming my father approved. I hid Mr. Holmes’s correspondence in my unmentionables drawer and took the journal to my laboratory.
Mr. Holmes presented himself the very next day. John ushered him into the parlor where the three of us ladies were already seated. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ravenel.”
“Mr. Holmes. How nice to see you.” Mama wore a flummoxed expression.
“Mr. Ravenel has given his permission for me to call on your daughter.”
Olivia’s jaw turned hard.
A muscle twitched in my mother’s forehead as she rang for Iola. “We have a guest for tea.” While we waited, Mama launched into a skillfully manipulated discussion that neatly excluded me while detailing Olivia’s observations regarding our city.
By the time Iola brought the tea tray, I was feeling exasperated. I excused myself, raced upstairs, and came back with my journal. While Mama poured, I asked Mr. Holmes if he would care to see the results of my experiments.
My mother gave me a withering glance, but our guest was interested. Time flew by. Mr. Holmes and I forgot about all else except our exchange of ideas.
“Kate?” My mother’s tone had a knife-sharp edge. “I believe you’ve monopolized enough of Mr. Holmes’s time this afternoon.”
Mr. Holmes shot to his feet while glancing at his pocket watch. “I beg your pardon, ladies. I have lost all track of time. I must get back to the office.”
That evening over supper, my father mentioned that Mr. Holmes had been very impressed with my work. Mama and Olivia endured the meal in stony silence.
* * * *
The next morning, Papa must have gone into his office early, because I found Mama sitting alone at the breakfast table. Olivia joined us soon after I took my seat. My cousin’s presence seemed to help Mama recover her good humor. “I know you’re both wondering about your gowns for the ball.” Mama smiled directly at my cousin.
I raised my napkin to my mouth and covered my grimace. As a matter of fact, I had not been wondering about what I’d wear. On the contrary, I’d been hoping that Mama might postpone our debut out of concern for Papa’s finances.
“Regrettably, circumstances force me to economize.” My mother’s pleasant expression flickered briefly. “There is nothing I can do to reduce the dressmaker’s charges. Mrs. Talley is the best in town, and unfortunately, she knows it. However, I think I’ve found a solution. Iola was instructed to store old garments in a steamer trunk in the attic. If memory serves me, there are a number of gowns up there. If we can find colors to suit you, I have no doubt that Mrs. Talley can rework the gowns so they look au courant.”
Olivia pouted. “But I was so looking forward to going into downtown Charleston today.”
“We can still do that.” Mama beamed. “You will need new gloves, won’t you? And a new pair of silk stockings?”
Mama rang for John and instructed him to bring the steamer trunk down from the attic before he pulled up the car. “I’ll want to go through the garments after supper tonight. Please tell Iola to clean off the trunk thoroughly. I don’t want a house full of dust.”
I wasn’t invited to join my mother and cousin, but I didn’t care. After they left, I lingered over my coffee. The compliment Mr. Holmes had paid me, and that my father shared, was a boost to my self-esteem. What would it be like to be married to Mr. Holmes? Perhaps marriage did not have to be boring. Especially if I found a husband who shared my interests.
“Heavens to Betsy!” Iola’s complaints from the parlor interrupted my daydreams. I poked my head through the doorway to see her vigorously attacking the trunk with a feather duster. “I told the missus to forget about these old rags. But would she listen? No, sirree.”
With my interest in Mr. Holmes piqued and knowing he would be attending the St. Cecilia Society Ball, I decided it might not hurt to look at the dresses.
“What are you so cross about, Iola?” I asked as I tugged at the trunk lid until it creaked open on rusty hinges. Iola remained quiet as I peered inside, then hauled out one gown after another. One was pink, one lavender, another a dull blue, one yellow with tiny embroidered flowers, and at the very bottom, I found a dress that was an unusual shade of green. I shook off the tissue paper and held it in front of me.
“Give me that.” Iola swooped in.
But I was faster than she was. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think? It reminds me of the salt marshes in the springtime.”
“I’m warning you, put that nasty thing away. I done buried that frock deep for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“That’s the dress that done killed Miss Elizabeth. The one that old Gullah gal went and cursed.” Iola made another grab for the ball gown.
I tucked the frock behind my back, out of her reach. “Don’t be ridiculous, Iola. You don’t believe that for one minute, do you? Perhaps Aunt Elizabeth caught a chill. Maybe she was quarrelsome because she was taking sick.”
Iola rolled her eyes at me. “That’s ezactly what I’m saying. Your auntie was right as rain, dancing and laughing and having a good old time. I helped her out of that dress, and that’s the very last time I seen her alive. “
“Just let me look at it, please. I’ll give it back right back.” Turning the garment over in my hands, I examined the gown carefully. The style was old-fashioned with long sleeves and a full skirt, but that was nothing special. The fabric was a tartalane, very like a tulle, and again, rather common. Only the color seemed unique. I’d never seen a green remotely that vibrant.
Iola huffed impatiently. Her hands were fisted on her hips, but her stance was posed for action, and her dark eyes followed my every move. “That’s enough. Give it here.”
“I will after I cut a piece off.”
“Now why would you want to do a thing like that, Miss Kate?”
“I do not believe in Gullah curses, Iola. I am a woman of science, and this dress…is interesting.”
Iola drew herself up to her full height of five feet and stared at me. “Don’ you go messing with what you don’ understand, Miz Kate. I done seen the misery that dress caused with my own two eyes. You can sass me all you want, but I knows what I knows.”
“Then let me put your mind to rest, Iola. I’m simply going to test the material. No one will see the scrap I take.” Using my fingers, I framed an imaginary square the size of a postage stamp. “It’ll come from the hem. Just a tiny piece, yea big.”
“And you gives me your word, you won’t wear that old rag?”
“I promise.” While I cut the scrap of tartalane, Iola continued to glare at me. “Curiosity done killed the cat, Miss Kate. I done raised you from a babe in arms, and I don’t want to lose you.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight.
I hugged her back, breathing in the clean scent of her starched white collar. “I promise you, Iola. I shall be exceedingly careful.”
With the speck of fabric clutched in my hand, I headed for my laboratory.
* * * *
That evening, Olivia and Mama were in high spirits. They swapped gleeful looks as they took their seats at the dinner table. Even my father noticed their good cheer. I had my own news; I intended to share the result of my experiments, but Papa was the first to speak.
“I trust your visit with Stanton went well?” Papa directed the question to Olivia.
“Yes, Uncle Anston. He was ever so happy to see me—us.”
A slow burn crawled up my neck and heated my face. So they had tricked me! Mama and Olivia had gone shopping all right, shopping for a beau for my cousin.
“Such a nice young man,” my mother added smugly.
Olivia shot a triumphant smirk my way. “He was delighted to show us around the office. You’ve made many improvements since my last visit, Uncle Anston.”
“Kate, I understand you were too busy to come?” Papa reached for my hand and gently took it in his.
“Yes, sadly I was.” I burned with anger at their scheming, but it would do no good to call them out. That would only give them encouragement.
“Cousin Kate? Did you know that Mr. Holmes enjoys museums? Just like I do. He told me so himself. We have so much in common.” Olivia smiled, her face an innocent mask except for a glint in her eyes. What an actress she could be.
“How lucky that he’s agreed to accompany our girls to the St. Cecilia Society Ball. Won’t that be splendid?” Mama actually preened.
So, that was their grand scheme. As our escort for the evening, Mr. Holmes would be obliged to dance with both my cousin and me. My hands shook as I cut slices of pork roast into smaller and smaller pieces. I didn’t trust myself to talk.
Usually, an unmarried girl counts her mother as her most ardent supporter. My mother had formed other alliances. In fact, she was actively plotting against me—and now stood between me and something I wanted: Mr. Stanton Holmes.
In Mr. Holmes, I’d found a bachelor of proper social standing with a bright future. We shared similar interests, and he was moderately good-looking as well. He’d even returned my interest by asking permission to call on me. None of this had escaped my cousin. Usually I stepped aside and let her have her way.
But not this time.
While Iola served dessert, Mama instructed John to bring the cheval glass from the master bedroom and set it up in the parlor. After we concluded our meal, Mama and Olivia hurried into the parlor, where they fell upon the steamer trunk like thieves on the jewels in Ali Baba’s cave. They snatched one dress after another, quickly assessing the merits of each. At my mother’s urging, Olivia positioned herself in front of the mirror to catch her full-length reflection. Mama draped the gowns over her, one at a time. A yellow moiré silk was quickly cast aside because the color turned Olivia’s skin sallow. A pale pink chiffon was lovely, but it clashed with Olivia’s copper-colored curls. A dull blue silk might work, but Olivia complained the shade was rather boring. It wasn’t my favorite color either, but Mama quickly set it aside. “That’ll do nicely for Kate, I think.”
That did it. I’d had a belly full—and I’d come to a realization.
The basis of all scientific exploration is the hypothesis. I’d formed one: Whatever I wanted, Olivia sought to have. There was a corollary: She would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Nothing. Therefore, for me to succeed, I would need to be as ruthless as she was and trick her into thinking I wanted something that I actually didn’t.
“Blue is so boring,” I exclaimed. Digging deeply into the trunk, I “discovered” the bright-green dress. “Now this dress, I love.” Holding the gown tightly, I waltzed over to the mirror and gently nudged Olivia out of the way. “This shade is so unusual.”
Olivia looked the dress up and down.
Mama’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh, oh, oh! I’d forgotten about that dress. It was your mother’s favorite, Olivia. How well she looked in it, too. Oh, try it on Olivia. Do! You look so much like your mother. I know it will be perfect for your coloring.”
My cousin seemed unimpressed. “Certainly, I shall, Aunt Isabella.” She turned her attention to the pile of clothing on the floor. “I’ll look at that one later. Here, what about this lavender one?”
Now was the moment to make my move. Holding the green gown to my shoulders, I did a slow pirouette while admiring myself in the cheval mirror. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, this is perfect for me. I must have it. The color is divine. This green is so unusual. Everyone will notice me!”
Olivia pounced on the gown, prying it out of my grip. “Aunt Isabella wants me to try it on. Not you, Kate.”
My mother even joined the tug-of-war. “Hand it over, Kate. This will be perfect on you, Olivia, darling. Here take a look.” Pushing me to one side, Mama draped the dress over Olivia’s bust and tucked it into her collar. The green brought out the emerald color of my cousin’s eyes and highlighted the glint of her red hair the way a setting sun reflects fire onto a body of still water.
Olivia laughed as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. “I will look beautiful in it, Aunt Isabella.” Then she glanced my way and sneered. “Cheer up, Kate. You look green with envy. The color doesn’t suit you.”
Mama snickered at the silly word play. Turning to my cousin, she said, “Olivia, you are a vision in that color. Now we must find a suitable style. Trust me. You are going to be the most beautiful girl at the ball—just like your mother was so many years ago.”
* * * *
A dress fitting was scheduled for the following day. John drove us to Mrs. Talley’s shop.
“The blue will do for Kate, and the green is for Olivia,” my mother instructed the dressmaker. “Start with Olivia, as her dress is much more complicated.”
Olivia and my mother had found a style they liked in Harper’s Bazar. Mama showed it to Mrs. Talley, who was confident she could produce a reasonable facsimile. The three women argued over details, but in the end, Mama and Olivia agreed with the seamstress’s suggestion to add a high belt and a sprinkle of pink silk roses along the bodice.
At last it was my turn. Compared to the vivid green, the blue fabric looked pale and drab. I tried to keep my chin up, but my spirits were low. I surely wouldn’t turn Mr. Holmes’s head in this. While Mama and Olivia were picking silk ribbon for the roses, Mrs. Talley whispered, “Don’t fret, Miss Kate. I am good at what I do. You will look lovely in this dress. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll see.”
* * * *
The rest of the week ground along slowly. Papa and Mr. Holmes were preoccupied preparing for my father’s first visit to his new marl field in Florida. On Friday, Mr. Holmes joined us for supper. Afterward he would drive my father to the train station.
The men were so engrossed in their conversation that there was little time for pleasantries, but I had expected as much. The more I learned about the science of marl fields, the more I realized the gravity of the decisions the men were making. While Papa gathered his papers in his study in preparation for his trip, the rest of us waited in the parlor.
“I was wondering,” Mr. Holmes asked, “how are your experiments coming, Miss Ravenel?”
“Very well. Your journal has been most instructive. I’ve been taking page after page of notes, and I’ve been exploring various materials.”
“Indeed?” He raised an eyebrow. “I should like to see what you’ve done.”
“Then I shall loan you my journal when I return yours. There isn’t much you haven’t already submitted to the flame, so it shouldn’t take you long to look my work over.”
Olivia had been fidgeting in her chair, obviously desperate for his attention. “I am so, so disappointed, Mr. Holmes. You said you would take me to the Charleston Museum. Have you forgotten?”
“No, of course not.”
“Next week perhaps?”
He blushed. “I should like that very much, but I cannot make a commitment. With Mr. Ravenel out of the office, my presence will be required.”
“But surely you can spare me one afternoon.”
“I wish I could. However, I owe Mr. Ravenel my undivided attention. He knows I am ambitious. Now I must prove myself worthy.”
Papa hurried in. He kissed Olivia and me on the forehead. “I doubt that I’ll be back in time to see my girls dressed and ready for the ball. I’m sure you both will be beautiful.”
Thus we said our goodbyes.
* * * *
Finally, the day of the ball arrived. When it was time to get ready, Mama and Olivia disappeared into the guest bedroom. Even though the door was closed, their high-pitched excitement rang loudly through the house. The longer it continued, the angrier I became. I hated how they plotted against me. They made no secret of their plans to turn Mr. Holmes’s head. How they schemed together! Any concerns I had about my plans for that night disappeared.
Soon Iola showed up to help me dress. Then she used hot tongs to add soft curls around my face. When she finished, she grabbed my shoulders and hauled me to my feet. “Take a good look at yourself in that mirror on your dresser. Go on. Do it.”
My reflection surprised me. Mrs. Talley had been true to her word, working magic on that dull blue dress. She had added a v-shaped gusset in ivory silk to the bodice before edging the neckline with matching Chantilly lace so soft that it formed a shawl-like collar that cleverly covered up the scar from my horse’s bite. The creamy hues in the lace and the silk brought out the healthy glow of my complexion. It contrasted well with my dark hair, as did my grandmother’s pearl earrings.
After a nod of approval, Iola gave me a good scolding. “Don’t you let your Mama and that cousin of yours bother you. Your daddy got money. You are as pretty as any girl I ever did see. Smart as a whip, too. There ain’t nothing in this big wide world stopping you from getting anything you want. Nothing. Don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t, Iola. Not ever.”
When I went down to the parlor, Olivia and my mother were already there. They took scant notice of my arrival. Mama clucked and fussed over my cousin, praising her looks to high heaven. We heard the tap of the doorknocker, and John ushered Mr. Holmes into the room. He looked dashing in his formal wear and white gloves.
“You both look lovely,” he said with a small bow.
“Doesn’t she just?” Mama ignored me completely. “Olivia, darling, you’ll have to tell me everything. Don’t forget to bring home your dance program. I want to see who takes an interest.” With a sly grin, she added, “Besides Mr. Holmes, of course.”
* * * *
Since the early 1800s, the St. Cecilia Society has held its annual ball in the Hibernian Hall on Meeting Street. With its enormous white columns and broad sweeping stairs, the stately building could double as a Grecian temple. The ballroom is every bit as awe-inspiring with soaring high ceilings, fireplaces, a polished wooden dance floor, and crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow. Except for a few uniformed cadets from the Citadel, the men were dressed in top hats and tails. The women wore long white gloves and ball gowns in various shades of garden flowers.
None were dressed in green until Olivia walked in.
As Mama had predicted, my cousin caused a sensation. Her dance program filled up quickly. Some were familiar names, the sons of my father’s friends, but there were others I’d never heard of. I turned out to be a popular partner as well, although only one name mattered to me. All that really counted was the last dance, and when Mr. Holmes claimed mine, a surge of happiness coursed through me.
All evening I was forced to chat with other gentlemen, but none were as interesting as Mr. Holmes. I tried to keep an eye out for my cousin, especially when I took a break long enough to sip the traditional St. Cecilia Society punch. Slices of lemon and chunks of pineapple floated in a fizzy mix of rum, champagne, and club soda. Once in a while, Olivia would whirl past me. She seemed to be having the time of her life.
I was too, and by the time Mr. Holmes came to claim me for the last dance, I was ready. I’d rehearsed the words in my head. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
The delicate strains of a waltz by Strauss made it easy to talk, and I felt surprisingly comfortable in his arms. “Mr. Holmes, I have a proposition for you.”
He chuckled a little and looked at me expectantly. “Is that so? Pray tell, what is it?”
“You are desirous of a long-term partnership with my father. I am desirous of a husband. I think that you should marry me. That way we’ll both get what we want.” And then I waited for what seemed like a lifetime or two.
“Kate? May I call you that?” He smiled and gave my fingers a tiny squeeze. “That sounds like a perfectly splendid idea. I accept.”
A shout came from the other side of the ballroom. “Is there a doctor in the house?”
Mr. Holmes tightened his grip on my hand. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, Kate? You do.”
I felt my face flush. “Thank you…Stanton.”
“Dr. Mayhew,” a man bellowed. “We need Dr. Mayhew!”
Perhaps the punch had gone to my head or maybe it was the sparkle in Stanton’s eyes. As the band played, the ballroom seemed to spin around us. I’d never been so happy.
“Kate? Kate Ravenel?”
Stanton and I stopped twirling; the romantic spell was broken. Other voices joined the chorus shouting, “Where is she? Miss Ravenel?”
With great reluctance, Stanton dropped his hand from my waist, but he didn’t release my fingers. Instead, he wove them between his. His eyes never strayed from mine. Around us, people were shifting to the far end of the ballroom. “Someone is calling for you,” Stanton said.
“I don’t care,” and I didn’t. But the music had stopped, and more voices called out, “Kate? Kate Ravenel?”
“Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Leading the way, Stanton began parting a thick wall of partygoers, frozen in place with their backs to us.
“Cousin Kate?” A shrill wobble distorted my name, but I recognized the source. It could only be Olivia. With renewed vigor, Stanton used his free arm to clear a pathway for us. Then he stopped short.
“My word,” he said, before turning and grabbing me by the shoulders. “Don’t look.”
But I had to. I tore free from him and saw a man hunched over a spill of green on the dark dance floor. It was Olivia. At her head was Dr. Mayhew.
“Cousin!” I flew past Stanton and knelt by Olivia’s quivering body. A fleck of spittle rested on her lower lip.
“I’ve seen this only once before.” Dr. Mayhew folded his jacket and slipped it under my cousin’s head. “Seizures. Convulsions. It’s hopeless.”
As if on command, Olivia’s back arched like an angry cat. Her feet pummeled the floor. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Do something,” I ordered him, although I very much suspected he was helpless.
“I wish I could,” Dr. Mayhew said. “Gads, just like her mother.”
Shuffling closer on my knees, I lifted Olivia’s head and cradled it in my arms.
“Poor, dear Olivia!” I said loudly enough that all could hear. “Oh no!”
Then I lowered my face to hers and let my shoulders slump, looking for all the world as if my heart was breaking. My lips nearly touched her ear as I whispered, “Olivia? I wanted you to be the first to know. Mr. Holmes and I plan to marry.”
Her eyes flew open, and a gurgle came from deep inside her throat.
“Shhh.” I made a great show of stroking her forehead tenderly. Then I dipped low again and said, “I would’ve told you what I’d learned in my laboratory, but you and Mama never care about what I think. Only what I want, so you could take it for yourself. Well, I’ve gotten what I want. I shall be marrying Mr. Holmes, and you will be dying—in a dress dyed with arsenic.”
Joanna Campbell Slan is a USA Today bestselling author of three mystery series. Her essays appear in five of the New York Times bestselling Chicken Soup for the Soul books. RT Reviews has called her one of mystery’s “rising stars.” Joanna’s nonfiction has been endorsed by Toastmasters International, her first novel was shortlisted for the Agatha Award, and her historical fiction has won the Daphne du Maurier Award. Joanna writes two contemporary mystery series (Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series and Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series) and one historical mystery series (the Jane Eyre Chronicles). Visit her at www.JoannaSlan.com.