“I am very grateful for all your father has done for me,” Clara answered stiffly.
“As you should be,” Violet replied. “I advise you to make the most of it, for we don’t know how long this charitable whim of his will last. After all, you are not family.”
Clara lowered her eyes, clearly hurt. Even though Michele knew that Violet couldn’t see her, she couldn’t resist throwing a dirty look her way.
“Clara, please change so we can leave,” Henrietta called in her same chilly tone.
Clara headed back into the dressing room, one of the ladies’ maids trailing her to help her change. When she returned to Henrietta and Violet in her afternoon dress, for a moment she hesitated, as though unsure of whether to follow them or run away.
It was eleven o’clock, and the Windsor Ball was in full swing. Michele sat unseen at the foot of the grand staircase, watching the dazzling ladies and distinguished gentlemen floating through the front doors and into and out of the ballroom. It seemed to Michele that all the guests were striving to outdo each other with their Halloween costumes, each one more spectacular than the last. She ached for her mom to be there alongside her to watch this procession of high society in costume as historical figures, goddesses, kings, queens, and gypsies. Yet no one managed to steal the spotlight from the Windsors.
George Windsor was dressed as Louis XVI, in an embroidered cream satin coat over an ornamented white shirt, with silver satin knee breeches and silk stockings. His costume was complete with a powdered wig under a feathered tricorn hat, and a diamond sword, which he carried proudly with him throughout the house. Michele giggled at how ridiculous her great-great-great-grandfather looked—but somehow, it worked in this setting. Standing proudly on his arm, Henrietta Windsor was costumed as Queen Elizabeth I, complete with a realistic red wig and extravagant neck and wrist ruffs. Her embroidered black velvet gown was set off by a long black velvet train falling from her waist, lined with red satin. She dripped with diamonds: a diamond crown atop her head, long strands of diamonds draped from her shoulders to her waist, a diamond-and-ruby pendant resting against her décolletage, and diamond-and-ruby brooches and bracelets. This is unreal, Michele thought as she watched Henrietta turn to greet a woman referred to as Mrs. Vanderbilt.
George and Henrietta’s eldest son was away at university, and little Frances was too young to attend the ball, but Violet made for a spectacular representative of the Windsor offspring. While Clara’s marchioness costume was a beauty, Violet was a smashing success as a Venetian princess. Her snowy white satin gown, embroidered with pearls, highlighted her striking black hair and violet eyes. A long train of royal blue velvet and satin draped from her shoulders. Ropes of pearls stretched from her neck to her waist, and it was clear from the longing gazes she garnered from the young men, and the envious stares coming from the girls, that Violet was the belle of the ball.
An orchestra in the ballroom played classical pieces, and American Beauty roses wreathed all the main rooms, their sweet smell perfuming the whole first floor of the mansion. Michele left her perch on the stairs to wander into the ballroom and watch the dancers. A colorful swirl of gowns swept across the floor, while debutantes whispered and tittered together in a corner and the elders watched carefully from the balcony above.
And then everything stopped.
A man entered the ballroom, arm in arm with Violet. He was dressed simply compared to the other costumed guests. He wore white tie and tails and held up to his eyes a Venetian mask of black, white, and gold. There was something strangely familiar about him, from his tall, broad-shouldered body to his thick dark hair, to the slow curve of his smile as he looked down at the beauty on his arm. Where had Michele seen him before?
He turned toward her, and that was when Michele saw that behind the mask was a sparkling deep blue. Sapphire eyes. His eyes … the boy from her dream.
Michele felt the blood drain from her face, her heart racing unbearably fast. The music and the sounds of the party became inaudible and everything in her vision blurred—everything except him. Then his eyes flickered in her direction. For a moment he froze, and then he slowly lowered his mask.
“It’s really him,” Michele whispered in astonishment. Her eyes drank in every detail of the achingly handsome face of the boy who had haunted her dreams—now here, in the flesh.
Suddenly, his eyes locked with hers—and Michele could have sworn she saw a flash of recognition cross his face. Could he see her? But how? She felt nearly paralyzed with shock as she watched him. Who was he? How could a figment of her dreams just turn up in real life like this?
Michele watched as he murmured something in Violet’s ear, then left her side and started to walk toward Michele. She felt spasms of terror inside her, alternating with thrills of excitement, with every stride he took. When he finally reached her, he stood in front of her, a few steps away, looking at Michele as though he had been waiting years for her. No one had ever looked at her that way before.
“I know you,” he breathed. His voice was low and warm, just as Michele had expected.
Michele could barely speak, her mouth hanging open with shock. “You’re real,” she whispered. “You—you can see me. Then you had the—the dreams too?”
His eyes stayed locked on hers, though he looked puzzled by her words.
“Dreams?” he echoed dazedly. A few guests nearby turned to look at him strangely.
“Um, y-you should probably know that … well, no one else but you and Clara can see me—” Michele stammered. But he continued looking at her with intense concentration, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“I must speak with you,” he interrupted. “Come with me?”
Michele nodded. Though her legs felt like jelly, she managed to follow him as he strode out of the ballroom, leading her toward the back patio. As he made his way through the mansion, Michele could tell that he had been there many times before.
When at last they were alone among the ferns and wicker furniture, he stood gazing at her. “It was you—you were the girl I saw at my summer cottage three years ago,” he said, his eyes bright with amazement. “My father and cousin didn’t believe me about you, but I knew you were real. I never forgot your face.” Michele felt a pang of disappointment as she realized he had mistaken her for someone else.
“No. No, that wasn’t me. I’ve never met you until now. That is, I’ve had … dreams about you.” Michele cringed with embarrassment. “I realize that sounds crazy, but, well, that’s all I know you from.”
He looked at her, shaking his head intently. “I know the face I saw. It was none but yours. I would stake anything on it.”
Michele stared at him, wondering if he was right. She knew now that she was capable of time travel. Was it possible that she could go back further in time and meet him three years earlier? Or had his first meeting with her been a dream, just as she had dreamt of him all these years?
“Who—who are you?” Michele blurted out.
“Call me Philip,” he answered. “And you?”
“Michele.”
“Michele,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables so that her name sounded like music. “You don’t—you don’t look or seem at all like the others.” He glanced down at her ungloved hands.
Michele suddenly remembered how elaborately all the other girls were dressed, how stunning they all looked—especially Violet. Her own dress was like a peasant’s in comparison. Michele felt a stab of envy. Though she knew in the logical part of her mind that it was ridiculous to be jealous of a girl from a hundred years earlier, a girl from another world, she couldn’t help fervently hoping that Philip didn’t think she looked shabby.
“You’re right,” she finally answered. “I am different. Very.” If you only knew!
“I … rather like it,” he said quietly. Michele blushed with surprise. Philip reached out as if to touch her hand, and then he seemed to regain a sense of propriety and drew his hand back.
“Where are you from?” he
asked, studying her as though trying to solve a riddle.
“California,” Michele answered, wishing he had gone through with taking her hand.
Philip stepped closer to her. “And you are a friend of the Windsors’?”
“Mmm … you could say that,” Michele said. His closeness had caused her heart to start beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
The orchestra began playing a new piece—and Michele realized with a gasp that it was none other than Schubert’s Serenade. Philip didn’t seem to notice her reaction though his eyes sparkled as the song began. He offered his arm. “Might I have this dance, Michele?”
Michele linked her arm with his and her whole body seemed to awaken at his touch, even as something tugged at the back of her mind, telling her she shouldn’t do this. She pushed the feeling away as he led her back into the ballroom, and they danced. Michele had never waltzed before, but somehow, in his arms she felt completely at ease. Her body seemed to melt into his as they moved together across the floor, just like in her dream. Each step and glance between them grew more and more heated, and as he danced her across the ballroom floor, she felt like she was floating—
“Philip James Walker!”
Philip stopped suddenly. Michele dropped his hand, her mouth falling open in shock. Philip was a Walker?
A ferocious-looking man in yet another Louis XVI costume grabbed Philip’s arm and yanked him roughly away from Michele. “What do you think you are doing? Trying to make a scene?”
“Do relax, Uncle. I was only dancing,” Philip argued, pulling his arm free.
“You may find it amusing to dance with yourself, but mind you, everyone here thinks my nephew has gone mad,” Philip’s uncle spat.
Oh, God. In the heat of the moment, Michele had forgotten how it would look to everyone else at the party—like Philip was dancing alone.
“Dancing with myself? Whatever do you mean? I was simply dancing with a friend of the Windsors’, her name is Michele, she’s right there—”
“Enough of this foolishness!” Mr. Walker hissed. “No other man of eighteen years and good breeding would dare act this way. You are far too old for imaginary friends.”
Dumbfounded, Philip turned around to stare at Michele as it dawned on him that she was invisible to all but him. As Philip’s uncle dragged him away from Michele, Clara raced over, casually lifting her fingers to her lips so nobody would see her speaking.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “How can Philip see you?”
“I have no idea,” Michele replied weakly.
“He’s engaged to Violet,” Clara said, glancing at her new older sister, who was now glowering at Philip.
Michele gaped at Clara, feeling as though she had just been punched in the gut. The boy from her dreams was engaged? And to the snotty, devastatingly gorgeous Violet? It couldn’t be.
The rest of the ball was agony. Michele wished she could just get back to her own time, away from this confusing scene and all the feelings it was stirring up inside her. But although she clutched the skeleton key and whispered a pleading request to Time to send her home, she remained at the ball. It hit her that she knew of no surefire way to get back to 2010, and the thought sent a streak of terror through her.
From the ballroom to the dining room, where a gluttonous buffet supper was served, Philip’s uncle kept him planted firmly at his side. A woman costumed as a French courtesan stood with them, and though she didn’t seem very maternal with her cold and detached expression, Michele could tell she was Philip’s mother. Michele wondered where his dad was, why this uncle was acting so authoritative.
Philip seemed unable to take his eyes off Michele, his expression a mixture of distress and intrigue. As she gazed back at him, a part of her knew that she should stay away after what she had just discovered. Yet she still felt drawn to him.
After supper, Henrietta clapped her hands and happily announced that the quadrilles would commence in the ballroom. Michele noticed that the icy woman from that afternoon seemed to come to life in the party setting.
“What are quadrilles?” Michele asked Clara.
“Formal French square dances,” Clara explained, again discreetly shielding her mouth with her hand. “They’re performed at all the high-society balls. Mr. Windsor hired a private instructor to teach them to me, so I’ll be dancing for my first time tonight. Oh, do wish me luck!”
“Good luck,” Michele said with a grin, trying not to chuckle at Clara’s earnestness over a square dance. While the guests returned to the ballroom, Michele noticed Violet and George Windsor hanging back from the crowd, looking like they were in the middle of a tense discussion. They made a funny pair, Louis XVI and a Venetian princess, arguing under their breath. George abruptly stalked out of the dining room, away from the ballroom, with Violet on his heels. Curious, Michele followed them into the morning room, which was closed to the party. Being invisible to all but two people had its disadvantages … but it happened to be great for eavesdropping.
“Is now really the time for this, Violet?” George asked impatiently.
“It’s just that I cannot stand pretending Clara is our ward, or foster daughter—however you choose to conceal it—when we know full well what she really is, Father,” Violet said frostily.
“Violet,” George warned, his face getting red.
Michele was suddenly alert. What was George hiding?
“In fact, I’m sure the sudden inclusion of Clara in our family has finally given Mother proof of your infidelities,” Violet snapped. “Do you endeavor to cause the greatest scandal New York society has ever seen?”
Michele clapped her hand over her mouth. Did Violet mean what Michele thought she meant—that George Windsor had fathered Clara?
George’s expression turned furious. “You have no right to talk to your father like that—”
Michele backed away but bumped into someone as she turned around. Clara. From the look on Clara’s face, it was clear to Michele that she had heard everything.
Violet and George looked up, George’s face turning pale when he saw that Clara had overheard them. Clara raced away from the morning room, Michele following closely. Suddenly, a family departing the ball got between the two girls, and Michele lost Clara in the crowd.
There was no sign of her among those dancing quadrilles in the ballroom, mingling in the Grand Hall, or downing iced lemonade and pastries in the drawing room. Figuring that Clara might have escaped to her bedroom, Michele hurried up to the third floor. And sure enough, as she neared the bedroom door, Michele heard quiet sobs coming from inside. She felt a pang of protective worry for Clara. She entered the room to find Clara kneeling on her bed, clutching a battered black-and-white photograph.
“Hi,” Michele said tentatively. She sat beside Clara and glanced down at the photo. It was faded with age, but Michele could make out the form of a couple: a mustached man dressed in a suit and a bowler hat standing hand in hand with a young woman in a long dark coat over a plain floor-length skirt and blouse, her hair knotted atop her head. The photo was stamped with the date April 9, 1897.
“Are those your parents?”
Clara nodded. “They died when I was four. This picture was all I had of them to bring with me to the orphanage.” She looked at Michele with wide, watery eyes. “Michele, do you think my mother was George Windsor’s mistress? And that he … he’s my father?”
Michele bit her lip uncomfortably. How do I answer this one?
“Yes. It seems like it,” she finally admitted.
“I won’t believe it,” Clara said in a low voice. “These horrible rich men, they think just because they have money, they have the right to any woman, all women. I won’t believe that my mother was someone who would have bedded another man. I know George Windsor forced himself on her. But how, how can I be the daughter of a sordid tryst like that?”
Michele didn’t know what to say. So she wrapped her arm around Clara’s shoulder and held her as she cried, just
as Marion used to soothe Michele. There were two knocks at the door—one from Mr. Windsor and another from the housekeeper, both checking on her—but Clara refused to see them.
When her tears subsided, Clara asked Michele, “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? I don’t want to be alone with these thoughts.”
“Of course,” Michele agreed gently.
Once Clara had been asleep for a good fifteen minutes, Michele pulled the skeleton key out from under the neckline of her dress. She held it tightly, squeezing her eyes shut as she repeated a silent prayer: Please send me back. Please send me to my own time. But she opened her eyes to find herself still in 1910. She gulped nervously, her palms clammy. What if she couldn’t get home this time? What if she was stuck in the past, forced to live this ghostlike existence forever?
Just then, the mantel clock struck four a.m. The house was eerily quiet now, the ball over and the Windsors and their staff all in bed. Michele felt desperate to get out. She hopped off Clara’s bed and approached the bedroom door. So far, she’d followed Clara everywhere; she hadn’t had to use her physical form at all. Taking a deep breath, she gently turned the doorknob and smiled when the door silently swung open. I guess I can get around on my own, Michele thought with relief.
She tiptoed out of the room and crept down the stairs, then reached the front door of the Windsor Mansion. She stood in the front garden for a moment and then pushed open the gate, stepping onto Fifth Avenue.
Michele found old New York to be dark, quiet, and deserted, a stark contrast to the action-packed and bright late nights of the city in her time. The only illumination came from the faint glow of streetlamps. Michele shivered, frightened by the thought that she was alone in the wee hours of one hundred years earlier.
Suddenly, she saw a figure approaching—coming from the Walker mansion. Michele froze. Was it Philip? He was walking with his head down and was still dressed in his tux from the ball. As he came closer and saw her, he stopped short. They stood a few yards apart, looking at each other. Michele felt her breath catch in her throat. Even the dark couldn’t hide his extraordinary good looks.