Unrivaled (9 page)

The Veiled Prophet parade that preceded the ball was interminable. I just wanted the whole thing over and done with. I’d been making and packaging my new candy for two weeks now, hiding the cube-shaped, cellophane-wrapped pieces down in the cellar. There were ten thousand people expected at the ball. Tonight, I would finally have the chance to introduce my hazelnut chews to the city!

I smiled and waved along with the other members of the court as the horses drew us down Olive Street. Firecrackers exploded; confetti filled the air.

I caught a glimpse of Sam. I waved and tossed a flower in his direction. He didn’t see me. He seemed taken with the girl who was standing by his side. I might have said she was just a child, she was that short; only she wasn’t looking at him in the way a girl would. And her figure filled out her dress in a way that I could only hope mine would one day do.

“Wave! Smile!” One of the other girls reached over and poked at me with her bouquet.

The wind gusted, blowing the skirts of our matching white dresses about and teasing our hair from our flowered coronets. It made conversation nearly impossible, unless we wanted to scream our words. I didn’t have much to say to them in any case. I contented myself with watching the crowds, and I assumed the others had too . . . until the wind subsided for a moment and I could hear what they had been saying.

“ . . . only reason was because she went abroad . . . or maybe they felt sorry for her father . . .”

“ . . . thinks she’s too good for us . . . gown in Paris . . .”

“Why? Isn’t Vandervoort’s good enough?”

My face flushed as I wove together the snatches of conversation. I’d had nothing to do with being chosen as queen! And I hadn’t gotten my gown in Paris. I’d gotten it at Vandervoort’s, the same as they probably had. Did they think I couldn’t hear them?

One of them looked back over her shoulder at me and smirked.

They knew I could hear them?

Well. Just . . .
well
! My chin began to tremble. I raised my arm and waved it vigorously. Too vigorously, perhaps. After a while I felt perspiration bead up on my brow and when I licked my lips, I could taste salt. But with my arm in front of my head and sweat trickling down my face, at least no one was able to see my tears.

At last the parade ended, and one of the city patrolmen drove me home in an automobile. Glad to be rid of my court, I put their ill-spirited comments aside as I turned my thoughts toward the evening.

If I hurried, I thought I just might have enough time to help Sam with the candy before I had to leave for the ball. By the time I’d washed my face, fixed my hair, and exchanged one white dress for another, more elaborate one, he was already more than half done.

“Remember, Sam, you’re to bring them out—”

“As people are gathering, before the court is presented. I know.”

“Do you think . . . no one should notice you, should they?”

“No. Unless you force them to because you’re so worried about it and they wonder what on earth you keep staring at.” His voice was piqued. His tone, annoyed.

“Do you think a Veiled Prophet Queen has ever fallen away in a dead faint before?”

He slanted a look down at me. “Do you really want me to answer you?”

“No.”

He smiled. “You’ll be the prettiest one up there. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about
that
. I’m worried about
this
.” I gestured toward the boxes of candy that he’d stowed in the delivery wagon.

“Everything will be fine.”

Everything had to be fine. I gave the candy one last look before turning away. It was up to Sam now. I took up his hand in mine. “Thank you for being a true friend.”

The hitch in his brows caused my heart to plummet to my stomach.

“What?” Something must have gone wrong.

“Do you think your hair is supposed to be falling down?”

I put a hand up to my hair only to discover one whole side had slipped its pins and was sliding down the back of my head. “No!” Not after I’d just re-pinned it. “Can you—can you help
me?” I couldn’t ask Mother. She’d want to know how I’d come to be in such a state. Last time she’d seen me, I’d assured her I was almost ready for the ball. Though she’d become used to seeing me in the kitchen, I doubted she would ever expect—let alone condone—what I planned on doing tonight. She would never approve of my using the ball as the venue for my candy’s debut.

Sam scowled for a moment, and then his face suddenly brightened. “Just a minute.” He ducked back into the kitchen, screen door flapping behind him, but soon returned. He fiddled with my hair, poking here and there, before pronouncing it done.

“Do you think it will stay?’

“It should. I used caramel sauce.”

“What!”

“Mrs. Hughes was making some, and it hadn’t cooled yet. Should hold like glue.”

“The Queen of Love and Beauty can’t go around with candy on her head!”

“It’s the same color as your hair. I don’t see why anyone should notice.”

Why anyone should notice? Why wouldn’t they! I took a deep breath. There was nothing I could do about it now. Even if I washed it out, my hair would take too long to dry. “Forget about my hair. Think about tonight. Let’s rehearse it again. Once people start exclaiming over how good the chews are, you’re going to say . . . ?”

He threw back his shoulders and pushed out his chest. “I’ll say, ‘I’ve heard it’s City Confectionery’s new premium candy.’”

“Right. And you have the recipe?”

He patted his coat pocket. “I’ve got it here. The minute I get home, I’ll hand it to my father.”

“And . . . ?”

“And tell him to start production first thing tomorrow morning.”

People would go home from the ball talking about the candy. With luck, maybe the newspaper would even mention it. By tomorrow evening, people across the city would be clamoring for my chews. The company’s future was all but assured!

“There’s no need to be nervous.”

I wouldn’t have been if my mother hadn’t kept telling me there was no need to be nervous. And if the car we were riding in wasn’t being escorted down Olive Street by a pair of policemen on motorcycles who kept tooting their horns at every person they happened to see.

Mother smoothed the train of the gown that was looped over my arm, then stroked the ermine that lined my cape. “I don’t think you’ve seen him since your return, but the Minard boy has quite improved since you left.”

Not so much, I expected, as to overcome his unfortunate tendency to bray like a donkey. Though if he liked my candy, he could certainly proclaim its virtues to everyone with that piercingly loud voice of his.

At the Coliseum, we were escorted up the steps by the policemen. I didn’t know what they thought might happen to me on the way from the car to the building, but I arrived quite safely. Inside, my old dancing school instructor, Mr. Mahler, met us. His hair was slick with oil, and he was in his accustomed knee breeches, although this night he was not wearing his black velvet ballet slippers. And in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, chaos reigned.

The girls in the court crowded close, exclaiming over my dress and paying compliments I now knew they could not mean. One
of them commented on the scent of my delicious perfume. I resisted the temptation to check if my hair was still holding and told her it had come from an exclusive shop in Paris.

Mr. Mahler made us all bow and curtsy several times before finally approving of our efforts. Then he drilled us on the steps to the Veiled Prophet lanciers and to his own dance, the Ostend. I hadn’t performed the steps in months, but my schoolgirl training took charge of my feet. Thankfully, the intricacies of the dance were hidden by my trailing skirts. By the time he sent me up to the box of honor to wait for the ceremony, I was more than ready.

Up there, I had a bird’s-eye view of floor. As the attendees began to appear, some of them gave a surreptitious look around the room and then edged toward the table filled with refreshments. I could see Sam down there. He was standing behind the tables and—oh! He’d already put my candies on display. They were mounded on a silver tray, their cellophane wrappers gleaming in the electric lights.

I held my breath as a man, resplendent in full dress with a swallowtail coat, snuck two chews from the tray. He placed one into his mouth and handed the other to the woman standing beside him. I could have clapped my hands in delight. Perhaps by the time I was crowned queen, word of my candies would already have spread through the room. Tonight could be nothing but a triumph!

Tuesday, October fourth, marked my entrance into St. Louis society. I’d spent the week before pasting posters onto telegraph poles outside schools. My neck still had a crick in it from all the time I’d spent peering up at walls and telegraph poles. My hand had callouses where I’d gripped the handle of a pail of paste. But I’d coaxed streetcar operators into letting me put posters on the outside and inside of their cars, and convinced my father that several dozen posters placed in prominent locations around South St. Louis weren’t a waste of my time or his posters. If Royal Taffy were a treat, then even the newsies and factory workers should be allowed to dream of them. One thousand posters were now up across the city.

That night after supper I dressed in my new swallowtail coat. I took extra care with my razor, guiding it over the scar on my jaw, and I buffed my shoes to a first-class shine. It took three tries to get my white bow tie to sit straight, and by then it was already eight o’clock.

I spat into my hand and then pressed it to the cowlick at my temple. It lay flat for a moment, then sprang back into place. I frowned at Charles-in-the-mirror, wondering if he were in danger of becoming as dull and stuffy as he looked.

After taking my top hat from its box, I left my bedroom. I did a quick two-step before pulling my gloves on and walking down the stairs in what I hoped was a respectable manner. Someday, when no one was around, I planned to slide down the long curving banister.

But not tonight.

Not with my father and Augusta watching.

My father clamped his cigar between his teeth, then grinned and nodded. I shoved down the pride that began to warm my chest at my father’s approval. Pretending I belonged, I followed them out the door.

We were driven downtown to the Coliseum by Nelson. The buildings were still draped with bunting from the parade that had passed through town earlier in the day, and confetti still littered the streets. We’d watched, the three of us, from the safety of a private room at a hotel. But there were no processions now. No floats or dirigibles. We were one of many in a long line of cars waiting to pull up at the front steps of the building. As we sat there breathing in fumes, Augusta leaned around my father to look at me.

“All the best families will be here, so we need to make sure you meet them. It’s best to just make the introductions now and get them over with. I wouldn’t want anyone to think we have anything to hide.”

She’d already said that twice this evening.

“The Veiled Prophet Ball is one of the most important events of the year.”

I knew that too. “Who is he, by the way?”

She frowned. “Whom do you mean?”

“The Veiled . . . person.”

“Prophet. And no one knows. It’s a secret.” She put a hand to her head and adjusted the feathers that swirled out from her hair. “You do know how to dance a lanciers . . . ?”

I assured her that I did. Dancing was as good a way as any to stay warm during long winter nights. So was drinking. I forced my thoughts away from saloons. I needed to figure out how to be more like Charles, to become the person I looked like. And fast.

We walked into a room that evening that was even larger than the Standard factory buildings. Up around the ceiling it was ringed with a bunting-draped balcony. At the far end of the room was a platform. It was covered with fancy carpets. Potted plants and clusters of tall feathers surrounded a throne that had been placed in the middle. As I stood there, feeling as far from home as I’d ever felt, my father began introducing me around as his son who had finally come home to live with them. As if my absence had been my doing instead of his.

“This is Mr. Gray, Mr. Campbell, and Mr. Perry.”

They were Important People. I could tell by the way they carried themselves, as if dressing up in swallowtail coats and attending balls were things they did every night of their lives. As I shook hands with them, another man, younger and taller, joined them.

“And this is Mr. Alfred Arthur.”

I smiled and shook his hand too.

Mr. Perry shot Father a look from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “Your son? I’d heard something about that.” He looked at me, lips pursed. “You should bring him out to the club, Warren.”

Mr. Gray turned to me. “You can play a round of golf, can’t you?”

Golf? I’d never done it before. Never had the chance to. “Sure. Sure, I can. I can swing a . . .” What did they call those things? “ . . . a bat along with the best of them.”

They broke into laughter. All but the Arthur fellow. He sent me a wink. “Clarke’s got the right idea. Who hasn’t wished he could take a bat to one of those balls and hit a home run right down the fairway?” He clapped a hand to my shoulder, then nodded and walked away.

I stood there for a while with my hands behind my back, listening to them talk about taxes and telephones and gas works. Eventually, when my collar began to itch and my feet had swelled, I excused myself and left the room. Out near the entrance, I found a staircase. It was quiet and it was dark, so I decided to see where it led. Soon I found myself stepping into the balcony.

From up there, the ball was manageable. The air wasn’t as stuffy, and I didn’t have to worry so much about being Charles.

I slipped a finger between my bow tie and my collar and gave a good tug. Turning my head from side to side, I cracked my neck.

I wondered if this was how I was going to feel for the rest of my life: desperate to fit in with all these rich people and scared to death that I wouldn’t. When my mother had told me I had a gift, it wasn’t new information. I’d always been able to get people to like me. But that was back on the South Side.

I didn’t know if it would work here.

The crowd swelled and the rumble of conversation began to rival the noise at the factory. But then the band played the kind of music that signaled a change in events, and everyone fell silent. Someone stepped onto the stage and announced the Veiled Prophet himself. I propped my elbows against the railing and folded my hands atop it as I watched. I just needed a
couple more minutes, and then I was sure I’d would feel like . . . my new self again.

Charles Clarke. Son of Standard Manufacturing’s Warren Clarke.

If only Manny White could see me now!

I smiled at the thought.

A man walked out onto the platform. His head was wrapped in a cloth, and a veil had been draped over it. He was dressed in a long robe that had all kinds of tassels and things dangling from it. He marched around the room, up and down, back and forth. Three girls dressed in white gowns followed him. Eventually, he led them back to the platform. The girls were escorted up onto it, then they turned to face the crowd as a fourth girl began walking toward them down the center of the room.

The Queen of Love and Beauty.

It had to be her. The long trailing end of her gown was carried by a pair of boys, and she held herself stiffly. But as I looked at her, it seemed to me she didn’t want to be there.

She looked the way I felt.

But who could blame her? Who could blame me? It was a silly business, dressing up in turbans and robes.

She was given a crown, and then the veiled man said something I couldn’t hear. The queen was presented with a sash. And then she smiled.

Was that . . . ? I squinted, trying to get a good look at her as she stood beneath the bright electric lights. Was she the girl who’d walked into me on Olive Street? Before I had a chance to decide, the band began to play again and the Veiled Prophet swept her into a dance.

A lanciers.

If she were my partner, I would have asked for a waltz. A waltz allowed you to take a girl into your arms and let her know
you liked her being there. A lanciers meant a whole lot of bowing and shuffling and trading partners. It was for people who couldn’t decide who they wanted to dance with and were too dull to have a good time. It was probably impolite to think so, but I didn’t care.

I went back to the ballroom after the ceremony. There were people to meet, and as Augusta had said, this was
Important
. I put on my best Charles face: that slightly bored, impatient look that all those rich fellows seemed to wear. I shook hands for a while as she made introductions, signing the dance cards of the girls she told me to.

“I’d like you to meet Winnie Compton, Charles.” She indicated a girl with a mass of straw-colored hair and a very large smile. “She’s from the Compton Consolidated Company Comptons. You ought to try to get on her card.”

I let Augusta make the introduction and then tried to use the words
pleasure, delighted,
and
happy
in the same sentence as I asked if she had a dance available.

She took a look at her card. “I do. I have a two-step left if you’d like it.”

I didn’t really. I didn’t want to dance with anyone, but I figured I shouldn’t say that. I smiled instead as she handed me her pencil.

“It must be very trying to be the talk of the ballroom.”

I glanced over and saw that she was smiling. I smiled back; I didn’t know what else to do. “I . . . didn’t realize that I was.”

“Everyone’s talking about you! But don’t worry. When they ask, I’ll tell them all that you were a perfect gentleman.”

Was she implying that I wasn’t? Was I supposed to thank her?

Eventually, people started to come up and introduce themselves to me. “I hear you’re Warren’s boy.” They said it as if
they didn’t quite know what to think of me. I’d smile, they’d smile. “It’s a good thing, what your father’s done for you.” That was one way of looking at it. I knew they were only trying to be polite, but I was starting to feel the same way I had when I’d been Manny’s message boy. As if I owed my father a debt for something I wasn’t quite sure I wanted . . . and that I could never hope to repay.