Free Rumors by Anna Godbersen Page A

black dress made especially for her, and her hair set high and back without a silly curlicue anywhere in sight, had known Henry much more than she had. Not better, perhaps, but for longer, and more physically. Down on the stage Roméo had espied Juliette; the tenor was singing of his instantaneous enchantment. Diana’s eyes drifted to the stage for only a moment, but when they returned to Penelope, an entirely different look had come over her face. The boredom was gone, and there was a confidence and purposefulness in every aspect of her pose. Just then a barely audible murmuring rose amongst the people in the boxes. The collective gaze had shifted to Diana’s left; she looked too, and that was when she saw him.
    Henry was taking the seat directly behind his sister. His father moved, at a heavier and slower gait, to the seat beside him, a lumbering performance that was given little notice by the son.
    “He does still look sad, I’ll give him that,” said Mrs. Gore, who had somehow restrained herself from using her glasses for a more privileged view. “But it does nothing to obscure his handsomeness, I’m sure you’d agree, even if he was nearly your brother.”
    Diana could not find the breath to answer. Nor was she particularly cognizant of the movement in the back of the Newburgs’ box, where Webster Youngham, favored architectof New York’s nouveau riche, had appeared, diverting, for a moment at least, the attentions of Mrs. Gore.
    “May I present Miss Holland,” Diana heard her hostess say. This meant that she must, reluctantly, look away from Henry, whose stiff white collar contrasted against his gold-touched skin. “The younger daughter of Mrs. Edward Holland.”
    “Miss Holland,” Mr. Youngham said, kissing her hand. “My condolences for your sister. What a surprise to see you out and about. But I will have to send my compliments to your mother—you are just as lovely as I have always heard.”
    Diana smiled and lowered her eyes. Back in September she had kissed his assistant in the coatroom during a ball at the new Hayes mansion—a fact she was pretty sure he was unaware of, given his consumption of wine that evening. Of course, that had been before her whole world changed. She peeked in the direction of the Hayeses’ box, and found to her dismay that Penelope was gazing across the opera house with the same imperturbable erectness as before.
    The murmuring in the boxes had either died down or been buried by the music, which was now loud again. Diana turned, nodding to their visitor as she did. “You must excuse me for a moment—the music is a little much for me,” she lied.
    As she moved away from her seat, she looked back once,and saw that Henry’s face was turned in her direction. She went faster now, up into the inner box—where Mr. Newburg’s eyes fluttered open long enough to give her a reproachful look—and then up into the curving corridor. It was dark, illuminated occasionally by dim wall sconces, and she passed only one or two men making their little visits to their friends’ boxes. The corridor brought her around quickly to Box 23, which she knew from the program was the one occupied by the Schoonmakers that season. She paused there to smooth herself over, but already the crimson curtain was being drawn back from the other side.
    The shadows fell across his fine, sculptured features, and she could scarcely see his eyes or what was in them. Her chest was as loud as a steam train in her ears. In her imaginings she and Henry had been as intimate as two people had ever been, and so she whispered the line that she had practiced for the last two months:
    “I was wondering, Mr. Schoonmaker, when I might again have the pleasure of visiting your greenhouse.” Her voice was as faint and delicate as she had ever heard it; the word greenhouse was lush in her pronunciation. It had been a word with magical connotations for her ever since she had spent the night in his.
    “Di…” Henry began