Chapter 5
“You’re fidgeting again.”
Poppy pulled her attention from the carriage window where she’d been watching the hustle and bustle on Broadway and settled it on Reginald. That irritating gentleman was sitting opposite her on the carriage seat, apparently in full instructor mode as they trundled toward the Metropolitan Opera House.
Over the three days since the Family Circle Dancing Class, she’d been forced to spend hours with the gentleman, encouraged by her grandmother to soak in every morsel of information he’d be dispensing through the lessons Viola had somehow cajoled him into teaching her. And even though Poppy admitted he was more than proficient with instructing her on everything proper, his propensity for pointing out the smallest infraction on her part rankled.
She was also, much to her surprise, finding herself not as susceptible to a British accent as she’d once been, especially not when it was paired with reprimands and suggestions every other minute.
“You’re still fidgeting.”
Deliberately wriggling on the seat, which earned her a sigh from Viola, who was sitting directly beside her, Poppy smiled. “You’d be fidgeting as well, Reginald, if you’d been stuffed into a corset that is at least a size too small and then forced to wear a bustle that barely allows my bottom any room on this seat. Why, I’m fortunate I haven’t pitched forward yet and found myself traveling the rest of the way to the opera on the floor of this carriage.”
Reginald turned to Viola. “I’m beginning to reconsider my refusal to allow you to pay me for the instructions you’ve asked me to give your granddaughter.”
Viola didn’t so much as blink. “I had a feeling you’d eventually regret that decision. Do know that I’m perfectly willing to offer you compensation; you only need to tell me how much it’s going to take to get Poppy up to snuff.”
“Even with how large your fortune is rumored to be, I’m not certain that it’ll be enough to accomplish that particular feat.”
“She does seem to be challenging you quite dreadfully.” Viola arched a brow Poppy’s way. “And why are you addressing Mr. Blackburn by his given name?”
“She knows it annoys me,” Reginald said before Poppy could answer, which left her nodding even as she reached into her reticule and pulled out a folded piece of notepaper she’d tucked inside. She handed it to Reginald.
“I’ve taken the liberty of providing you with a list of what I feel are my transgressions thus far, since I’ve yet to be convinced your mind is capable of handling so many of them in such a short period of time. And”—she held up her hand when he opened his mouth to argue with her—“I’ve titled it Reasons Why Poppy Will Never Become a Diamond of the First Water. You’ll notice I’ve included my insistence on using your given name as the number one lapse from proper manners.”
Reginald unfolded the paper, glanced it over, then lifted his head. “You neglected to write down that bit about you spitting out the snail a few nights ago.”
“Because that wasn’t a lapse on my part, but simply a way to avoid tossing up my accounts in the middle of a most formal atmosphere, which you must admit would have been far worse.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Reginald muttered before he tucked the notepaper into his pocket and began studying her far too closely.
Not caring to be considered in such a manner by a gentleman who was turning into one of the most exasperating people she’d ever met, Poppy turned and looked out the window again.
Wiping away the fog her breath was making against the glass, she ignored the immediate admonishment from her grandmother and leaned forward to enjoy the sight of a New York evening.
The road was clogged with gleaming carriages heading to their respective society events, most of those carriages heading toward the Metropolitan Opera House where there was soon to be a performance of Die Königin von Saba, or The Queen of Sheba as Reginald had translated for her, by the esteemed composer Karl Goldmark. As the carriages trundling around her passed beneath the eerie halos of streetlamps that burned against the darkness of the night, Poppy imagined the occupants of those carriages were enjoying frivolous conversations and a great deal of laughter. She certainly would have preferred that over the lectures she’d been experiencing ever since Reginald had arrived at her grandmother’s brownstone to escort her and Viola that evening.
It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the efforts on her grandmother’s part to see her accepted into high society, but spending two hours that afternoon with Reginald as he’d tolled on and on about what wines were expected to be served with what course had sent her into an almost catatonic state.
“I quite enjoyed the opera we’re about to see when it was performed in London,” Reginald said, drawing her attention. “It was held in the Royal Italian Opera house in Covent Garden, and the costumes and scene settings were spectacular.”
“Then I’m certain you’ll enjoy this evening’s entertainment,” Viola said. “The Metropolitan Opera House is most impressive, although it doesn’t boast the history of the Royal Italian Opera house because the Metropolitan has only been open for three years.”
“Where did you go for opera before the Metropolitan opened?” Reginald asked.
“The Academy of Music, but it closed earlier this year, forced out of business because of the Metropolitan.” Viola released a breath. “The Academy was an exclusive venture—perhaps too exclusive, if the truth be known. I told Caroline Astor that she should have a care with excluding men such as William H. Vanderbilt from purchasing private boxes there, but she didn’t heed my advice. Because of that, Mr. Vanderbilt, along with a few other industrialists, commissioned to have the Metropolitan built. No expense was spared, and the Academy was doomed from the first day the Metropolitan opened for business, with a performance from Christine Nilsson, singing the role of Marguerite in Charles Gounod’s Faust.”
As the carriage began to slow, Poppy glanced out the window again, frowning when they passed the main entrance to the Metropolitan. “Should we notify the driver that he’s missed the front door?”
“For those fortunate enough to own private boxes,” Viola began, “comes the privilege of having private entrances, located on Thirty-ninth and Fortieth Street.”
“But then you miss seeing the grandeur of what I’m sure must be an impressive entranceway,” Poppy argued.
“Have you not been to the opera since you’ve been in the city?” Reginald asked.
“I’m afraid not, because the wardrobe Viola ordered for me from the House of Worth only got delivered a few weeks ago.” Poppy turned from the window, smoothing a hand over the velvet cloak that covered a blush-colored gown made of the finest silk. “Since I was not able to travel to Paris to have my measurements taken, Mr. Charles Worth was forced to use the measurements we sent him through a transatlantic telegram. Unfortunately, given the tightness of some of the selections he sent, I’ve concluded the ink must have smudged on the telegram, which would explain the less-than-perfect fit of some of my gowns, which, much to Viola’s dismay, had to be altered.” She shook her head again. “I’m sure that after one adds in the cost of the alterations along with the original fortune spent on the gowns, I’m currently in possession of the costliest wardrobe of the Season.”
Reginald retrieved the list she’d given him from his pocket, scanned it, then retrieved a pen from another pocket and scribbled something down.
“What could I possibly have done wrong now?” she demanded as he tucked the pen away. “And because you just wrote down whatever I did do, does that mean you concede defeat in regard to our challenge that you couldn’t possibly commit to memory all of my social missteps?”
He looked up from the list. “I suppose I am conceding defeat with that, but only because I’m determined to succeed with the challenge your grandmother has laid before me, and a list may aid in achieving that success. As for your question about what you did wrong, I’ve mentioned, more than once now, that ladies are never to bring the cost of their clothing into polite conversation.”
“We’re not currently in a polite setting.”
“You should approach every situation as a polite situation.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, ignoring what sounded like a grunt from Reginald right as the carriage pulled to a stop. A moment later, the door opened, and a now-muttering Reginald stepped out. Poppy overheard something about “what was I thinking” before he straightened, helped Viola from the carriage, then extended his hand to her.
Wincing as she stepped to the ground because her corset didn’t seem to want to allow her any movement at all, she sucked in a short breath of air, blowing that breath out when she got her first good look at the Metropolitan.
It was an imposing building, built in a palazzo style, its façade glowing from the bright light streaming out of the many windows. Before Poppy could fully appreciate the sight, though, Reginald took her arm, and with Viola on his other arm, walked with them to a door that was being held open by a formally attired usher.
As she made her way up crimson-carpeted stairs to the first parterre toward the “Diamond Horseshoe,” the prestigious tier of private boxes where the Van Rensselaer box was located, Poppy gazed around, unable to help but gawk at her opulent surroundings.
Following another usher dressed in burgundy livery into the Van Rensselaer box, Poppy found herself in a room papered in green. Beautiful paintings of different landscapes dotted the walls, the colors in those paintings picking up the colors of the settee and matching chairs that were artfully arranged around the small room. A crystal chandelier hung in the very center of the room, its many-faceted crystals showering the room with soft light.
Unbuttoning her cloak, she handed it to the usher with a smile, who returned the smile, although rather discreetly, before he turned and took the overcoat Reginald handed him, bowing himself out of the room a moment later.
“This is the sitting room,” Viola said, gesturing around. “It’s where, if your grandfather were ever in the city for a Season, he could retreat to enjoy a cigar and whiskey if the boredom of watching an opera became too much.”
“Who would ever find an opera boring?” Poppy asked.
Viola and Reginald exchanged a glance before Reginald took a step closer to her. “Have you not had the opportunity to attend many operas?”
“By the question, I’m going to assume you’re asking me that because operas can apparently turn tedious, but no, I’ve never been to an opera.” She smiled. “We don’t have an opera house in the small town where I grew up. We do, however, enjoy plays and the like in a barn that Mr. Walter Lewis, the gentleman who owns the large farm directly adjacent to Garrison Farms, allows us to use for entertainment purposes.”
Reginald blinked. “You really grew up on a farm?”
“I did, although Garrison Farms isn’t a true farm these days. We raise horses, but my paternal great-grandparents did start off as farmers, until my great-grandfather decided to pursue his love of horses.”
“May I dare hope you traveled to New York often to see your maternal grandparents?”
“I’m afraid not. Viola and my mother are estranged, which made coming to New York a bit tricky.”
“There’s no need to disclose personal matters to Mr. Blackburn,” Viola said with a flick of her wrist. “As I’m sure he’ll agree, sharing such information is frowned upon and will only draw censure.”
“It’s not as if all of New York doesn’t know you and Mother had a falling-out years ago,” Poppy argued before she nodded to Reginald. “My mother ran off with my father, turning her back on what I’ve been told was a splendid start to her debut season.”
“Again, not information Mr. Blackburn needs to know.”
Reginald exchanged another telling look with Viola before he took a step toward red velvet curtains that were currently drawn. “May I assume the loge is to be found behind these?”
“The loge is behind the curtain,” Viola said, hurrying to join him, clearly relieved at the change of topic. “But it’s a little early yet to be taking our seats.” She turned to Poppy. “The general audience will be seated by eight thirty, but members of society never take their seats until the middle of the first act.”
“Why would anyone want to miss the beginning of the first act?”
“Because no one comes to the opera for the opera,” Viola said. “We come to be seen, which is why all the ladies of society will be dressed in Parisian splendor, wearing jewels that are meant to impress.” She nodded to Poppy’s head. “That’s why I chose one of my favorite tiaras for you to wear tonight, because the rubies in that tiara look lovely under the lights between acts.”
Poppy didn’t bother to mention that the tiara in question felt like she had a bushel of apples on her head because it was so heavy. Moving across the sitting room, she opened the red velvet curtain the slightest bit, finding most of the general audience seats filled, while the curtains on all the private boxes remained staunchly shut. Turning back to her grandmother, she squared her shoulders.
“I would like to watch the opera from the very beginning.”
Viola lifted her chin. “It isn’t done.”
“But how will I keep up with the story of the Queen of Sheba if I don’t see it from the beginning?”
“It’s in Italian. There’s every chance you won’t be able to keep up even if you do see it from the beginning.”
Poppy crossed her arms over her chest. “But you’re one of the most esteemed matrons of society. Surely your influence is enough to stave off any outrage if I went out and took my seat right now. I’ve never seen an opera before and would like to experience the full event.”
Viola considered her for a very long moment, and then, to Poppy’s surprise, her grandmother was gliding across the room, taking hold of the gilded rope that was attached to the curtains, and pulling it.
The loud gasp from the audience that accompanied the action left Poppy questioning her desire to see everything, especially when she followed her grandmother through the open curtains and realized they’d drawn everyone’s attention.
People were gawking at her, some even going so far as to train their opera glasses on her. Poppy smoothed her hands down the front of her gown and then took the arm Reginald suddenly thrust her way, thankful for his support as he led her to her seat because her legs felt decidedly unsteady.
After helping her into one of the two front chairs, he stepped back, taking a seat on one of the four chairs that were in the second row.
“Wouldn’t it be more pleasant if you were to pull your chair up next to us?” she asked.
“Gentlemen often prefer to take a seat in the second row.”
“So you can catch a nap without drawing as much notice?”
His lips twitched. “Indeed, although I doubt I’ll feel inclined to nap this evening since I’m here to watch how you comport yourself, which will allow me to structure future lessons in areas where you may be somewhat deficient.”
“You do know how to put a damper on an event, don’t you?” Poppy said, earning another surprising twitch of Reginald’s lips right as the lights dimmed. Turning to the stage, Poppy felt a shiver of excitement slide over her as the first note sounded.
It took a mere five minutes for her to become completely enthralled with opera. There was something mesmerizing about the scene unfolding below her, what with the splendid costumes the cast was wearing and the incredible pureness of the voices raised in song. She didn’t even allow the entrance of Mrs. Astor and her entourage during the middle of the first act to distract her from the story unfolding on the stage, nor did she turn when people entered her box, not until the last note rang out on the first act and the lights came up.
“Come greet everyone, Poppy,” Viola said from behind her, her grandmother’s request having her rising from her chair and turning from the now curtained stage.
Summoning up a smile, she soon found her hand taken by Lord Lonsdale, who’d stepped up directly beside her and was sending her a charming smile.
“You’re looking lovely this evening, Miss Garrison,” Lord Lonsdale said after he’d kissed her hand, his eyes traveling the length of her. “What a beautiful frock you’re wearing. Worth, is it?”
“Yes, and I thank you for your compliment.” She turned to Miss Adele Tooker, who’d suddenly materialized beside Lord Lonsdale, looking lovely in a gown of palest pink, the intricate lacework suggesting her gown was from Worth as well. “Miss Tooker.”
“Miss Garrison,” Miss Tooker returned. “Enjoying the opera?”
“It’s a wonderful production, but were you not afraid you’d miss something of importance regarding the plot by joining us before the first act ended?”
Miss Tooker gave an airy wave of her gloved hand. “I’m afraid I missed all of the first act. We arrived halfway through it, and then, well, Lord Lonsdale and I were enjoying a game of bean bags in my parents’ box.”
Poppy frowned. “You’d rather play bean bags than watch the opera?”
“I find opera to be very boring indeed, as does Lord Lonsdale,” Miss Tooker said, sharing a smile with Lord Lonsdale. “How charming, though, and a touch provincial, that you actually seem to be enjoying the production.”
Catching the pointed look Reginald was sending her, Poppy swallowed the retort that was on the very tip of her tongue and forced a smile. “I imagine I must seem provincial to you, Miss Tooker. After all, I did spend most of my twenty-two years residing in what you would certainly consider the country.”
Miss Tooker’s eyes widened. “You’re twenty-two?”
Inclining her head, Poppy smiled. “Positively ancient, I know, but I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about my age.”
Miss Tooker stepped closer to her and lowered her voice. “You should have a care, Miss Garrison, about such disclosures. Twenty-two almost has you firmly on the spinster shelf. You should own to only twenty.”
“Being almost a spinster doesn’t concern me in the least.”
“That’s what most spinsters say,” Miss Tooker shot back. “But everyone knows they’re trying to save face over the notion they’ve never secured the interest of a gentleman.”
“I’ve secured the interest of a gentleman before, although—”
“The second act is about to begin,” Reginald said, scaring her half to death when he appeared directly at her side. “Shall I see you back to your seat?”
“I was hoping Miss Garrison would agree to join Miss Tooker and me in a game of bean bags,” Lord Lonsdale said.
Glancing to Viola, Poppy found her grandmother sending her a discreet nod, but because she didn’t want to miss the second act, she ignored it and shook her head. “Perhaps another time, Lord Lonsdale. I’m anxious to see how the rest of the opera unfolds.”
“Perhaps during intermission, then,” he said right as the lights flickered. Sending Lord Lonsdale the barest hint of a curtsy because the musicians were already beginning to play, Poppy practically dragged Reginald back to her chair, surprised when he took the seat next to her.
“Your grandmother asked me to sit beside you during the second act. She is chatting with Mrs. Augustus Newbold,” Reginald said.
“She doesn’t trust me to behave myself if I sit here on my own?”
She couldn’t be certain, but she thought Reginald might have grinned, his grin hidden because the lights had dimmed again. “I’m sure that was one of her reasons, but she also didn’t want you to sit by yourself.”
Allowing herself the luxury of rolling her eyes since Reginald couldn’t see her, Poppy soon found herself pulled back into the opera.
Before she knew it, the second act came to an end, and when the lights came back on, she found that Lord Lonsdale and Miss Tooker had rejoined them, along with Mr. Nigel Flaherty and his dear friend, Mrs. Ridgeway.
“Miss Garrison,” Nigel exclaimed as he headed her way, coming to a stop directly in front of her as she got to her feet. “How delightful you look this evening.”
“Ah, she does look delightful,” Mrs. Ridgeway exclaimed before she could respond, surprising Poppy when she took hold of her arm and beamed a bright smile. “Why, you quite put all the other young ladies to shame, and . . .”
As Mrs. Ridgeway began prattling off exactly how Poppy was putting the other ladies to shame, something that left Poppy decidedly uncomfortable, she took a moment to study the woman who was standing far too close for comfort.
Mrs. Ridgeway’s gown was an interesting choice, what with it being a deep shade of crimson and adorned with flounces and numerous bows. She wore an enormous necklace set with numerous rubies, clearly chosen because the rubies matched the crimson of her gown. Her hair was the deepest black Poppy had ever seen and appeared to be dyed, but besides the color, the style was an interesting choice for a lady of a certain age to wear, pulled to the top of her head with ringlets cascading around a tiara that sparkled in the light cast from the chandeliers, that light . . .
“But my goodness, would you listen to me going on and on and with us not having been formally introduced yet,” Mrs. Ridgeway said as she batted Nigel with a gloved hand. “You must rectify that situation immediately, my darling boy.”
Nigel smiled and hurried to perform the expected introductions, which left Mrs. Ridgeway returning his smile before she turned to Poppy. “I feel, what with how Nigel’s spoken so glowingly about you, Miss Garrison, that you and I are meant to become fast friends. And with that said, allow me to suggest that we abandon this air of formality between us. I insist you call me Lena, and I’d be honored if you’d permit me to call you Poppy—a marvelous name if I’ve ever heard one.”
Having no idea what etiquette rule she was supposed to follow in such an unusual situation, Poppy glanced to Reginald, who’d stepped back and was simply observing her interaction with Nigel and Lena. He shrugged and sent her a small smile. That smile, she knew full well, meant he wanted to leave the decision about the abandonment of formality completely up to her, even though she knew that whatever decision she made was certainly going to earn her another notation on the list he was keeping regarding her many transgressions.
She resisted the urge to send Reginald a scowl and returned her attention to Lena. “It would be an honor for me to use your given name, Lena, and by all means, feel free to call me Poppy.”
Lena clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, you are charming, Poppy, and may I say you’re the spitting image of your mother when she was younger. Elizabeth made quite the impression during her debut Season, which I’m certain you’re doing as well. You must be making your grandmother very proud.”
“Are you friends with my grandmother?”
Lena’s smile faltered for the briefest of seconds. “I wouldn’t claim a close friendship with her, dear, but I’m certain that’s only because I’ve been somewhat removed from society for the past few . . . decades.” She smiled widely again. “However, as you can see, I’ve recently reentered society and have my darling Nigel to thank for that.”
Nigel inclined his head. “Happy to have been of assistance, Lena.”
“Miss Garrison, come join us,” Lord Lonsdale suddenly called from the sitting room. “We’ve had an usher bring the bean bag game here, and you did promise to join in a game.”
Excusing herself from Lena and Nigel after assuring Lena that they’d talk more later, Poppy began striding across the loge to join Lord Lonsdale. She was forced to slow her pace a few seconds later, though, because the tightness of her corset was making air difficult to come by.
Placing a hand on her side, while taking quick, short breaths as she moved at a snail’s pace toward the sitting room, she jumped just a touch when Reginald appeared beside her.
“Are you all right?”
“This corset is going to be the death of me,” she whispered, earning a telling arch of a brow in return.
“You did ask,” she muttered before she hitched a smile into place, moving to join Lord Lonsdale and Miss Tooker in a game of bean bags.
She was not disappointed when the lights began flickering, relieved to have a reason to discontinue the game because the exertion of tossing a bean bag had begun to make her light-headed as well as queasy.
“You’re very pale,” Reginald said, taking her arm and walking her slowly back to her seat.
“I wouldn’t mind some lemonade,” she managed to get out, picking up the program an usher had left on her seat and using it to fan herself.
“I’ll be right back.”
As Reginald strode away, she moved closer to the balcony, hoping the sight of all the guests below her would distract her from the discomfort she was currently experiencing.
“Ah, Miss Garrison, there you are,” Miss Tooker called out, waltzing through the open curtains with four of her friends and Lena. “We were looking for you because Lord Lonsdale wants to assemble a riding party sometime this week . . .”
As Miss Tooker and her friends advanced closer, Poppy began waving the program faster than ever because peculiar black dots were beginning to form in front of her eyes, making everything appear blurry and distorted.
Turning to face the stage, she struggled for air as the black dots increased. Her knees began to buckle, and then gave out, sending her surging forward and tumbling straight over the balcony.