“I’ll be fine,” she assures him. “Watch.”
She slides out of the car, counts the wide boards in the fence that encloses the back garden. When she finds the right one, she pulls on the top with all of her might, causing it to swing up, revealing a space barely large enough for her to wriggle through. She pushes her bag through first, using it to fend off the thorns on the other side, then carefully squeezes behind it.
“Goodbye,” she calls to Robert, who is watching from the car. “See you next term.” At least she hopes so. Too late, she realizes she has no idea how to reach him. She doesn’t even know his last name. She’s tempted to go back, but he’s already turning the car around and she won’t make herself ridiculous by chasing after it. She lets the board swing shut.
The garden is a dark space, empty and cold, quite unlike its summer self, when she’s usually escaping out, not sneaking in. There’s a statue of Peter Pan in the center—her mother’s latest tribute to their ridiculous family story—and as she reaches it, the wind picks up, sharp and cruel, a faint sound like laughter beneath. She shivers and Robert drifts from her mind as she rushes to the kitchen’s back steps, and from there up the servants’ stairs to her room. A new dress of white and silver silk is laid out on her bed, silver shoes on the floor.
There’s no time to shower, so she strips off her clothes and shimmies into the dress, holding her breath as she yanks the zipper up. It pours over her skin like liquid. She steps into the shoes, grabs the first pair of earrings she finds in her jewelry box, and wraps her hair into a messy bun. A quick glance in the mirror, a swipe of lipstick, and she’s done.
When her father was alive, these parties were, if not fun, bearable. His eyes would meet hers from across the room with a spark of mischief, and ten minutes later they’d be taking a clandestine hot chocolate break in the library, doing impressions of the guests. Her mother would roll her eyes at their disappearance. “Really, Alfred,” she’d chide, when they’d been gone long enough for her to notice and come find them. “These are your guests as well.” And then she would take his arm and sail from the room and back into the party, but not before whispering, “I do believe Lady Iveness looks rather like a parrot in that green silk. Unfortunate woman certainly sounds like one,” just loud enough for Holly, trailing behind them, to hear.
But Jane’s sense of humor died when Holly’s father did, fourteen years ago. So Holly hurries down the hall to the main staircase. At the top, she takes a deep breath to steady herself. Three, maybe four hours to endure before she can escape. Not so bad. She rolls her head from side to side, trying to release the tension that’s returned to her shoulders and neck. Robert’s face pops into her brain. What would the party be like with him here? She’d have someone to make her smile, at least. Someone to remind her to breathe, to eat. Someone enjoyable to dance with.
But the idea is ludicrous. She barely knows him. And even if she did, bringing him home to meet her mother . . . Holly shudders. No man deserves that. She pushes the thought away and descends the stairs, one careful step at a time.
“Holly,” her mother hisses from her place at the foot of the landing. “Where have you been?” Up close, Jane’s dress is even more beautiful, glinting under the lights as if it’s been spun from ice and snow. Her hair, shot through with silver, is pulled back into a sleek dancer’s chignon, not a strand out of place, and her posture is as perfect and graceful as if she were still a prima donna onstage. She casts a withering look at Holly’s own hair and opens her mouth to speak.
And then, impossibly, he is there. Standing between Holly and her mother like her own personal champion, blue eyes twinkling. He’s so handsome in a tuxedo that Holly catches her breath.
“Lady Darling,” he interjects before Jane can say a word. “As ravishing as ever.” He gives a courtly bow.
“Why, thank you, Robert,” Jane says. She turns to Holly, all traces of pique forgotten. “Holly, you do remember Robert Wightwick, don’t you? Robert, this is my daughter, Holly. I believe you attend the same school?”
“Indeed we do. In fact, I must apologize for both our tardiness. I was your daughter’s ride home and I lost track of time.”
He reaches out a hand toward Holly but smiles so winningly at her mother Holly can’t be sure who his next words are directed at. “Forgive me?”
The band is striking up a new number, and before Jane can say a word, Holly is in Robert’s arms and he’s whisking her away. This close, his cologne is the best thing she has ever smelled in her life.