Ceasebury: Chapter Twenty-Eight

As I reached the bottom of the staircase, a vast array of ladies and gentlemen caught my eye. They were mostly people I knew; people from the ball, people from the millinery emporium, people who came and went from people and places like moths to a flame – borne ceaselessly towards whatever was or is at that very moment, only to forget it – burying it – moments later. Yes, these ladies and gentlemen were Virginian Society.

They were dressed beautifully, as if they were attending a party. Their words were fluently casual, as if they had been like this all their life, perpetually fluctuating and flitting from place to place – whichever colony had the best whatever it was that their feeble hearts desired at that very moment. Heads turned with a self-congratulatory flourish as I came into their view. All their talk and chatter ceased. Now, I was the topic of their momentary gaze.

“Good Morning, Theodosia.” My mother said in a swimmingly fluctuant tone as she bobbed to the front of the assembly.

“Good morning.” I said, staring around blankly. My face turned quizzical as I gestured broadly around at the ladies and gentlemen, inviting her to tell me why they were present.

“Oh, yes, this is your engagement party, Theodosia.” She said bluntly. My eyes widened in surprise.

“What?” I asked.

“All these fine people are here to wish you and Marquess Ravenswood a wonderful life together in a loving Christian home.”

“Well, he’s not here.” I said bluntly. “He’ll be at Ravens’ Wood. We should do this another day.”

“No, he’s just on his way over.” My mother said.

“Look,” I said, taking a step closer to her “don’t you think you should have told me about this first?”

“Oh, heavens, no. This is just what my mother did for me when I was engaged to your father.” She gestured to the guests to come into the drawing room. I shook my head. “You should dress, Theodosia.” She said “Cheyenne.” She shouted. The tiny patter of footsteps came down the stairs. “Get Theodosia ready.” She said. Cheyenne nodded.

As Cheyenne helped me dress in a champagne gown, I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it’d be at this very moment to be a nameless person. Just for a day. Just as Gabriella had been for a night. Just a few days ago, Gabriella had been afforded a matter of hours as simple Gabriella, a girl who had no house nor claim to anything nor expectations nor rules who – for one singular night – could be her own total immaculately conceived vision of herself. Yes, Gabriella had been afforded a few hours of liminality between finding out she was not truly Gabriella Kingston and becoming Gabriella LeBolt. I would have liked to have been afforded that opportunity. What would it be like – just for a day – to be just Theodosia? Theodosia: a seventeen-year-old girl from Virginia looking forward to wedding Valentine – the love of her life. Yes, that’d be a wonderful headline. Not one that would ever be printed, though.

Once I was dressed, I heard the sharp clanking of the doorbell chiming its usual. I was filled with joy this time, because I knew it’d be Valentine here to see me. Here to be a part of this magnificent party. Cheyenne excused herself and hurried off out of sight to answer it. I took a deep breath and began out of the door after her and down the stairs. Sure enough, Valentine was standing at the door, a wide beam illuminating his face. I came towards him.

“I’m so sorry about this, I told her not to do it.” He said, gesturing towards the room full of people nearby.

“It’s okay, Valentine, I’m just happy to see you again.” I scanned around us and gave me a soft kiss on his lips. A heard a little cough from behind me and switched around. Cheyenne was standing there, blushing slightly.

“Shall I announce your arrival, Marquess?” she asked tentatively.

“If you must.” He smiled. She nodded and started towards the door of the drawing room. After she had announced him, we entered jointly, my hand upon his arm. The vision in the drawing room was one of white and cream everywhere; there was white roses placed delicately in crystalline embossed vases everywhere and light cotton table clothes with beautiful, embroidered patterns upon them which fawned the way across like butterfly wings. It was strange to think that this was all for me. And Valentine, of course. He beamed as he stood imperiously before them. Christ, if I didn’t know he was an abolitionist, I could’ve taken him for a plantation owner at this moment. He wore the part so well.

“You must be so happy, Miss Theodosia.” An older lady dressed in blue with an imperial hooked nose and greying hair chimed.

“I am.” I said.

“Wonderful. You shall be mistress of a plantation much bigger than this one.” She gestured around.

“Yes, I suppose.” I said.

“You should be happy.” She said with jubilance “You have truly risen and so young, too.”

“Yes, well, once my father is dead, I will be offering all his enslaved people employment or the option to go free. Emancipated.” Valentine said, interrupting the older woman.

“What?” she said in a kind of gasped shock (which others partook in). “The Ravenswood Empire will be ruined.”

“No, no it won’t.” Valentine stated. “I’ve covered the arithmetic on it, we’ll be fine. Actually, I think a lot of you would be.” His statements were met with disapproval and disgruntlement from the room. He just shrugged and sat down on a conveniently placed chaise-lounge. People continued to talk and for the first time, someone referred to be as Marchioness Ravenswood, which thoroughly perplexed me.

But it seemed to perplex Valentine too, who had his eyebrows raised in a perpetually skeptical position, as if he were constantly thinking deep thoughts about politics and such. It was unusual to see a man so deep in thought. Once everyone had been informed of the date of the wedding, talk turned to Gabriella. Everyone wanted to know where she was, if she left of her own accord, if we had any idea why she left etc etc. (a topic of conversation I attempted to avoid engaging in for fear I may accidently incriminate myself). Valentine steered it back towards the familiar grounds of slavery and how these primitive revolutionary types had been making a fuss over nothing. They started to talk about how awful it’d be in Washington won, but appeared overjoyed when Valentine pointed out that he wouldn’t end slavery even if he did win. And then I asked what any king or politician proposed to do about the rights of women. And no one but Valentine had anything to say. He said of how he believed that all people had been created equal, how women should be allowed to have the same rights as men but mustn’t be denied their essential femininity in having them, which – in all honesty – I agreed with. The last thing I wanted was a society in which women were pushed into a role of being the same as men.

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