The gown that Mrs Hamilton had designed for me, based on a Paris original circa 1773, was exquisite. Made of heavy white brocade, it had an elaborately quilted petticoat and matching slippers, all trimmed with gold ribbon and Swarovski crystals. I looked like a superannuated ice maiden.
Melody wore a coral gown in a similar design. My descent into the spring house to look after Alex had ruined the blue gown I’d planned to loan Amy, so Melody and I were lacing her into my blue ruffled gown instead.
I extracted one of the birds, a robin, from the aviary I carried on my head and stuck it into Amy’s wig, adjusting it so that it seemed to be peeking out of a curl just over her left ear. ‘There, perfect!’ And indeed she was. In that gown, and with that flawless face, Amy would send any colonial swain into a deep swoon.
I hoped Paul was immune.
I dusted a little more powder around my shoulders and puffed some into my cleavage. ‘Done!’
At four o’clock, the appointed hour, Jeffrey rang a bell summoning us to the entrance hall. All day, I’d been hoping for a message from Founding Father, informing me that Drew Cornell had been found. At first I thought the bell might be heralding a courier, but no. It simply announced that our coach was waiting outside the gate. Amy, Michael and French would have to walk the two short blocks to the State House, but Jack Donovan’s socially-prominent family would be transported in style. The other servants – Karen, Dex and Jeffrey – would not be attending the ball at all. Bonfires had been built on the back campus of nearby St John’s College for all the slaves, indentured servants and other ‘lower classes’ where food and an unlimited supply of punch would be provided both before and after a colorful fireworks display.
Our beautiful coach, Jack Donovan informed me as he escorted me down the walk, had been modeled on one Robert Carter had imported from London for Nomini Hall in 1774. On loan from Colonial Williamsburg, the coach had a black roof, while the doors were painted pea green. It rode on four golden wheels, the rear wheels considerably bigger than the front, and was driven by a liveried groom who sat atop the left hand horse, one of a pair of gorgeous grays. Mist filled my eyes, and I had to blink it away. I was walking into an Arthur Rackham illustration.
As I leaned down to gather up my skirts before climbing into the coach, Jack’s eyes drifted to my cleavage.
I was tempted to smack him once upside the head. Shove those eyes back in your head, buster. These boobs, such as they are, are already spoken for, but I gritted my teeth, forced a smile, slipped my gloved hand into his, and stepped up into the coach.
Melody scooted in beside me, bouncing on the leather seat. ‘This is totally awesome!’
‘Awe-some,’ echoed her brother.
Jack had one foot on the step and was about to launch himself into the coach when he suddenly reversed direction, planting both silver-buckled shoes firmly on the curb. ‘What the hell?’
I stuck my head out the coach window. A rider on horseback was clattering down Prince George Street, heading our way, hell bent for leather. When he reached the coach, the rider pulled his mount up short and leaped from the saddle, leaving the reins to dangle in the dust on the pavement. ‘A message for Mrs Ives,’ he panted.
‘I’ll take that.’ Jack reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a coin. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and handed the coin to the breathless messenger who pocketed it, remounted, and rode away at a more leisurely pace.
I climbed over Melody’s voluminous skirts and scrambled out of the coach. ‘May I have it, sir?’
Jack turned the message over in his hand, studying it curiously. ‘It’s from Founding Father,’ he informed me unnecessarily. I could tell that from the distinctive red seal.
I extended my hand, and Jack laid the message on it. Without hesitation, I tore open the seal and read, ‘Drew Cornell taken into custody outside your home. No harm done.’ The note was signed simply, ‘Jud.’
Hand pressed to my chest to calm my racing heart, I took a deep breath.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ Jack inquired with a look of genuine concern.
I folded the note, tucked it into my pocket and smiled. ‘Everything is fine, Mr Donovan.’ I offered him my hand. ‘Shall we proceed to the ball?’
Back inside the carriage, sitting next to Jack and opposite Melody and Gabe, I relaxed against the cushions as the horses clip-clopped up Prince George Street and turned right on Maryland Avenue, heading straight for the State House. As we approached our destination, I noticed that LynxE had provided coaches for some of the other VIPs, too. One after another, the horses clattered around the circle, drew to a halt at the foot of the State House’s steep stone staircase, and disgorged their opulently attired passengers. Shortly after we alighted, a golden chariot pulled up carrying the superintendant of the Naval Academy. While the uniformed driver controlled the horses, a footman hopped off the rear to assist the Admiral and his wife. An open landau arrived next, then a small, two-seater chaise. It was a regular Who’s Who of eighteenth-century modes of transportation, including guests arriving on horseback and on foot.
‘Did all the carriages come from Colonial Williamsburg?’ I asked Jack as I rested my hand on his forearm and we climbed the staircase that led into the building.
‘So they tell me.’
I’d been to the State House on several occasions, but for my companions, who had come to Annapolis from out of town, it was a revelation. ‘Ooooh,’ said Melody when we stepped into the great hall. Tall columns lined both sides of the shotgun-style hall, and the geometric arrangement of black and white tiles accentuated its length.
‘We’re in the rotunda,’ I told her. ‘Look up.’
Steadying our wigs, we gazed up into the dome, still brightly lit by the sun, where a replica of the flag of the Continental Congress was draped.
‘Madam?’ A liveried slave held his hand out for my cloak. I untied it, and while Jack was lifting it off my shoulders, I moved further into the hall.
The music had already begun, but I couldn’t see the musicians. ‘Harpsichord, violin and flute, I think, don’t you, Jack?’ But he had already taken off with Gabe, joining a group of gentleman standing on the side of the hall near the grand staircase over which hung, I knew, the famous portrait of George Washington resigning his commission as commander-in-chief of the Contenental Army, back when Annapolis had actually been the capitol of the United States of America.
Melody executed a pirouette, taking in the view. She pointed. ‘Oh, look! The musicians are sitting up in the balcony.’ Gliding, as if on wheels, she drifted toward the room immediately on our right where a sumptuous banquet had been prepared.
Formerly the Old Senate Chamber where George Washington had actually resigned that December day in 1783, the room – painted a violent shade of blue – had been undergoing restoration. For the event, construction had been temporarily halted and the room furnished with three long tables, covered with white linen, literally sagging under the weight of an enormous variety of ‘cold collations,’ including oysters on the half shell, sliced meats of every variety, whole fish, pickled eggs, breads, dumplings, cakes and pies, as well as several dozen dishes that I didn’t recognize, at least not from a distance.
Taking pride of place on a raised platform on the other side of the room sat something much more recognizable: a punch bowl, nestled amid a sea of short, squat glasses.
Candelabra stood everywhere: some illuminating the tables; others, tall as coat trees, lined both walls of the hall that would serve as the ballroom for the evening. As we wandered down its length, nodding and smiling at other guests, two slaves appeared with long-necked candle lighters, touching the flame to each of the wicks, even though sunset was well over an hour away.