Free The Secrets of Lizzie Borden by Brandy Purdy Page B

golden laurel leaves with a stuffed yellow bird in a gilded nest with blue crystal eggs perched at the pinnacle of her root-straining pompadour of butter-gold hair; Anna in amethyst and mauve satin garnished with silver-veined diamond-dusted dusky-blue lace with a stole of silver foxes lined in lilac satin about her bare shoulders, silver-gilt hair piled high in a pompadour Marie Antoinette would have envied agleam with blue and purple gems and pale pink and mauve plumes and silk roses; Nellie in sunset orange encrusted with gold and silver embroidery and gold lace swags and flounces; and me, trailing behind, looking like an exotic redheaded peacock. But they said it was all in fun, like going to a masquerade ball, and no one back home need ever know unless we chose to tell them about it.
    I found it unexpectedly thrilling, watching the dice roll across the green felt, the cards being shuffled and dealt and played out, to win or lose, the stacks of multicolored chips that grew higher or lower or disappeared altogether, and the little silver ball going clackety-clack-clack as the red and black roulette wheel spun around, making or breaking fortunes.
    None of us, except Anna, were brave enough to make a wager, but we all watched, entranced by the games of chance.
    And the men! There were a few Americans and Englishmen, many older men, some accompanied by fawning, clinging women young enough to be their granddaughters, but most of them seemed an altogether different breed. Tall and dapper in immaculately tailored evening clothes, with black hair slicked back and shiny as patent leather reflecting the electric lights, they clicked their heels and bowed suavely over our hands. They were very bold in approaching us. Every one of them was a count, a duke, or an exiled prince, all impoverished, alas, each with a tale of woe they were eager to tell about family fortunes lost, castles burned to the ground by invading armies, and so forth.
    Some of them hung on the arms of much older women, holding their fluffy little dogs while they played roulette, fetching them glasses of champagne, draping a fur wrap about their shoulders, leaning in close to nuzzle and kiss their ludicrously rouged withered apple cheeks or sagging necks and whisper in their bejeweled ears. Those who were not already attached to someone were very attentive to us all—even Miss Mowbry in her funereal black velvet and snowy needlepoint lace was approached by a “prince” young enough to have been her grandson!—asking us a myriad of questions about ourselves and our lives in America and who our fathers were and what they did for a living. One of them, a duke with hungry eyes, actually proposed to Nellie when he found out her father was the major shareholder in the Crystal Springs Bleach Company! My father sat on the board of directors too, but I didn’t deem it worth mentioning; I just stood there gaping with all the rest as the duke dropped to his knees, grasping Nellie’s hand like a lifeline, and began serenading her with “My Nelly’s Blue Eyes.” I supposed it could still be accounted a great compliment even though her eyes were in fact hazel.
    I understood then that more games were being played here than cards or roulette. These impoverished “noblemen” were shopping for rich American wives. It was a game of barter— my title to impress your American relatives and friends in exchange for access to your fortune . This was a game of titles and bank accounts, not love.
    I let the other girls chatter away and play what games they would and wandered out alone onto the terrace.
    How eerily white the marbled terrace glowed in the silvery-blue moonlight, lined with Grecian nudes of hard men and soft women, standing there like frozen, vacant-eyed ghosts. I stood between the two, one hand resting upon each heart, and felt myself desperately, hopelessly torn, longing for a man’s strong arms and hardness tempered by