Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
But Cornelia never lets me stand there long enough to answer any of their probing questions. I don’t have an alma mater because I barely graduated high school! Good talking to you though!
Eventually, we make our way to the ballroom, where a string quartet is stationed in the corner, playing music for all the guests. No one is dancing yet, though it looks like it might take place later. Why else would they have set up the tables only on the perimeter of the room?
Collins is standing at the threshold of the grand space. When he sees us, Cornelia nods, and suddenly he’s announcing our entry to everyone there.
“Mrs. Cornelia Cromwell and her guest, Ms. Maren Mitchell.”
I feel flustered by the amount of attention aimed at us. Curious stares follow us as we walk through the center of the room. I glance over to Cornelia and see her chin lifted in confidence, so I try to mimic the same posture, hoping it’ll have the same effect on my appearance. Doubtful.
We reach a small table in the back corner of the ballroom and Bruce rushes forward to pull Cornelia’s seat out for her.
“Maren, I’m parched. Would you mind grabbing us some refreshments from the table over there? Bring something sweet with you as well. I skipped dinner.”
She points me in the direction of a table marked by a tower constructed out of hundreds of champagne glasses rising toward the ceiling. It has to be at least six feet tall. I study it as I approach, confused about how it will stay standing through the night if guests retrieve glasses to drink. It’s a catastrophe waiting to happen, but the mystery is solved when I spot another batch of pre-filled glasses sitting around an ice sculpture and realize the tower is just for show.
I grab two then slowly peruse the selection of food surrounding the champagne tower. There are layers upon layers of options served in small bite-size portions, each with little placards perched in front bearing the names of the dishes: pork rillettes, Provençal vegetable tarts, tartes flambées, cheddar gougères, zucchini-tomato verrines, and chicken liver pâté. I have no idea what Cornelia would want, so when I see another guest pick up one of the trays off the table and walk off with it, I do the same, adding the glasses of champagne on top so I don’t drop them. It’s not until I’m halfway across the ballroom and drawing not just curious stares but obvious laughter as well that I realize I might not have done the right thing.
Cornelia’s eyes widen when she sees me approaching.
“Bruce, take that from Maren, would you, please?”
He rushes forward and takes the tray, handing it off to a man who dashes over, apologizing for the misunderstanding. He’s dressed just like the guest I saw back at the table and I now realize, with reddening cheeks, that they’re dressed in uniform. They’re working the event, hence why they’re carrying the trays.
My blush deepens when I see Cornelia is now sitting with two guests who’ve had front-row seats to my mistake.
The woman on Cornelia’s left is older and impeccably dressed, and the girl sitting beside her is closer to my age, tilting her head and studying me like I’m an animal in a zoo.
“I admire your method, child,” the older woman says. “There’ve been plenty of times I’ve been at parties like this, practically starved because no one has made it around to my table with some tasty morsel for me to eat. Maybe next time I’ll take a tray for myself too.”
I try to force a smile. She’s being nice, after all, trying to make me feel better, but I can still hear the people laughing behind me and I have the sudden urge to walk right out the door to my right and never return.
“Don’t worry about that silliness, Maren. I’ve seen people do far worse at parties like this,” Cornelia assures me. “And anyway, I have introductions to make. This is Lydia Pruitt, my dearest friend, and her granddaughter, Victoria.”
Lydia extends her hand for me, palm down, and I know now, from Cornelia’s instruction, that I’m supposed to delicately shake it without gripping it too hard. Her granddaughter, Victoria, bows her head in greeting without extending her hand then pats the chair beside her.
“Sit down by me?”
I do, instantly, if only to escape the stares at my back.
Victoria smiles and leans closer. “You have nothing to worry about. At my coming out ball, I tripped going down the stairs after my introduction. My mother was so horrified, she stormed out of the room crying. It was a sight to behold, and much worse than what you just did, I promise.”
I force a smile, more than a little bit intimidated by her.
Victoria belongs in this ballroom. Everything about her is refined and cultivated. She has the fine bone features of a bird. Even sitting down, I can tell she’s tall and impossibly thin, with dark brown hair and brows that stand out against pale ivory skin. Her loose-fitting beaded gown looks vintage, and so does her hairstyle.