But my hair was done, my dress almost so, the poor little French seamstress still on her knees at my feet, frantically stitching. There had been no time for complicated tucks and flounces, so Mrs. Hardcastle had suggested we rely on simplicity and the beauty of the material instead. I was enveloped in layers of rich velvet in an emerald green, yards of it, heavy and hot where it was not too breezy. There were places that were much too breezy. Mary stood behind me, fumbling with the buttons.
“Good heavens, Miss!” she fussed, giving me a light whack on the exposed skin of my back. “Will you stop your moving about?”
The seamstress looked up from her last line of stitches, scandalized. I managed to stand still for three more buttons before surrendering again to my nervousness. It was just like the night before my eighteenth birthday, another night when I had wholeheartedly regretted my choice of clothing, mostly because the girl looking back at me had not resembled Katharine Tulman. Then I had been remarkably pretty. For me. Tonight I was all eyes and pale skin — too much pale skin — and cascading curls made red by the color of the velvet. I was not remotely pretty; I was exotic, and I wished I could stay home, for more reasons than just my wardrobe. The seamstress pulled the final stitch, Mary did up the last button, and we all stared at my reflection in the mirror. My stomach squeezed.
“Fine,” I said to the alien creature in the mirror. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
I soon discovered the difficulties of getting through a door while wearing an enormous hoopskirt, and then the dangers of negotiating stairs when one could not catch a glimpse of her own feet. I took the steps slowly, feeling for each solid surface beneath my slippers, which must have made my entrance downstairs rather dramatic, because Henri Marchand, who was waiting in the foyer, nearly dropped his cigarette. Mrs. Hardcastle was there as well, ogling the scene through her pince-nez, gathering some juicy bits of news for the girls next door, no doubt. I breathed out my relief when I made it safely to the bottom of the stairs.
“My!” said Mrs. Hardcastle, patting my arm fondly. “I wish Alice Tulman could have been here to see that, I daresay. What a face she would be making! Have a lovely time, my dear.”
I tried to say something in reply, but nerves had made me mute. Henri did not smile, either, insolent or otherwise. He had a white rose in the buttonhole of his black coat. He said nothing, just offered his arm. I took it.
In the carriage, Henri was quiet, looking thoughtfully out the open window as he smoked. It was a cool evening, but I had decided the smoke was a greater evil than the cold.
“This invitation,” he said, breaking the silence, “it comes from the emperor himself, or from the empress, or someone high in their circle of friends, yes? Do you know why this is?” I was thinking how best to answer, but before I could he turned his face to me and said, “And if you did know, Miss Tulman, would you tell me?”
I sighed. “No. I probably wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”
He laughed, but there was no humor it. I could see the lack of it in the light of passing streetlamps. I truly was sorry. I felt guilty, putting him to so much trouble without explanation.
“There is a purpose to the evening,” I said, “of that I am certain.” It was what I found so frightening. “My thought is to just remain as unobtrusive as possible, and see where the night leads us. I’m sure all will become clear.”
He laughed again. “Miss Tulman, in case you do not know, you will not remain ‘unobtrusive,’ as you say, in that dress.”
“Don’t be impertinent,” I said, holding back a smile.
“Just stay close to me,” he said, not impertinent at all.
Light blazed at the Tuileries, eclipsing the stars. From every door and window, and from the dozens of bonfires set along the drive, showing the way for the carriages. We drove through an enormous stone arch, life-sized statues of horses on its top, through a gate, and followed the line of fires to the doors. I had elected not to wear a wrap even with the slight chill, not having anything near fine enough, and when we were shown inside, I was glad. The crowd was dense, the heat of so many bodies sweltering even with so much of my upper half exposed. We ascended a very grand staircase, one with the crowd, moving with them through a columned gallery, past guards standing motionless in their finery, and then from room to ornate room, deeper and deeper into the palace, not speaking to each other or to anyone else, but eliciting stares nonetheless.
I’d been wrong, I realized, that first night at Mrs. Reynolds’s, about what people wore to a ball. The extravagance of satin, lace, curls, and glittering gems was beyond anything I could have imagined. But it was the heads I was watching again — I could not help it — eyes searching for one that was tall and dark. There was no reason in the world for Lane to be here, I knew that; it made no sense for him to be. But that one partial word written in his hand had me looking all the same.
We entered a large, open hall, even more crowded, two stories high with a balcony, and after a quick count, exactly one dozen arched windows. The hall was all marble and statues, candelabras and gilt, so much gilding that the entire domed ceiling was covered with it, dully reflecting the crystal chandeliers. The walls were thick with portraits and flowers, the scents mixing with the many different perfumes in the air. It was dazzling, the noise of French voices and skirts and shoe heels and laughter and the clinking of glass all too much to listen to. But everywhere I did listen, I could hear the same name, and everywhere I looked, in brocade, on the tapestries, emblazoned in pieces of silver, there was the large letter N. Napoléon. Everything was Napoléon.
I clutched Henri’s arm and whispered, “If you see the emperor, you will point him out?”
“I do not think I shall have to, he will …”
The man in front of me stepped back, treading on my skirt, and I realized that the front of the room was clearing, the crowd pressing backward. Violins began to play, and the noise subsided. Over the shoulders and heads I saw four large contraptions being wheeled into the now open end of the room, each tall, light brown, and with the same fat, cylindrical shape. Black-and-yellow papier-mâché insects were attached to them by thin wires, floating and bobbing as they came to a stop. They were supposed to be beehives, I decided, one giant bloom of a purple violet set between them.
The music swelled and I jumped as women burst from the beehives, breaking through the brown paper, dressed in stiff, short, black-and-yellow skirts showing all their legs and wearing bodices that looked like nothing more than corsets. I was a bit shocked by this, though no one else seemed to be. Wire antennae were attached to the ladies’ hair knots, and they immediately began to prance about, spinning on their toes, little skirts bouncing, stretching arms and kicking legs. But always they circled the enormous violet, adoringly, as if it were the sun of their universe, or a god they were compelled to worship.
“The bee,” Henri whispered, “it is the symbol of the Bonapartes, and the violet their chosen flower. The emperor, he is very superstitious about such things. Did you hear the ladies behind us, speaking of the spiritualist in the palace? He …” Henri must have taken a moment to look at my face because he paused his story. “Have you never been to the ballet, Miss Tulman?”