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Twenty, but only one would be mine.
Also deemed by The Order of the Silver Ghost.
As they entered the room, they stood in a line before us. You could tell by their uneasy movements that though they’d been instructed on what to do, they were still unsure if they were carrying out the steps correctly.
Long flowing ball gowns of a multitude of hues were a burst of color against the white that surrounded them. Tiny, corseted frames, massive amounts of fabrics, hand-sewn beads and diamonds—dresses that were custom made to fit each female. They were crafted princesses with the utmost beauty.
I studied the women, curious as to what they must be thinking. Some of the women would be awful poker players because their fear and nervousness was painted all over their faces. Others were impossible to read because they kept their eyes to the ground, shadowed with their own insecurities.
But there was one belle—the only one dressed in blue—who made brief eye contact with me as she measured the men who stood in front of her. I watched how she studied what we wore and how we stood. She was focused on the men rather than the massive macabre setting of the ballroom that seemed to hold the fascination of her fellow females. It was a smart move and I didn’t miss the intelligence in her bright green eyes.
“Display the belles,” the Elder demanded with a beat of the cane. The deep voice and the way the cane attacked the stillness caused the belles to jump or flinch. The recruits, however, remained steadfast for we were used to the sounding of the canes.
Another Elder began the procession of the belles by leading them single-file line through the ballroom. He walked them in front of the cloaked Elders first, then the members, and then to us.
They repeated the act three times, circling the room as if they were dancing around the ballroom, the only music created from the pitter patter of their shoes and the swoosh of their dresses cutting the thick air. Some smiled with too many teeth as if they were a contestant in a pageant, the lips of others trembled, and a few displayed little to no emotion at all.
The belle in blue surprised me again by making eye contact with me with each pass. Her lips remained parted, her arms by her side, her chin stayed high with a self-confidence the others seemed to lack or, at the very least, faked.
I knew each of the twenty women came from the wrong side of the tracks. The dresses they wore were worth more money than most would acquire in a year.
They were not Southern belles raised with etiquette coaches and groomed with rich Southern charm so coagulated it could strangle the Queen of England in heavy marmalade and sweet tea. This entire cortége was so foreign to them that I didn’t hold it against any who stumbled or seemed to wobble on their heels.
But the belle in blue seemed different.
She appeared regal as she marched before us.
She stood out from the others as if she were just as much a blue blood as the color of her dress. And yet, the way she kept her shoulders back screamed resistance. Pride seemed to be the fragrance wafting from her creamy white skin. I can’t say I blamed her. Who wouldn’t resist this madness?
“Montgomery Kingston,” the Elder called out as the women lined up once again before the recruits who hadn’t moved an inch. “It is time for you to choose the belle.”
The Elder who had been leading the procession of belles walked over to where I stood and opened his fist. Resting on his palm was a black satin ribbon. I needed zero instruction to know what to do next as, once again, this process was clearly laid out in our book that ruled over every breath we took.
Taking the ribbon, I took a deep inhale and stepped out from formation. I then walked up to the line of women and began what was called “the touching of the pearls”. One by one, I approached each female and briefly touched the pearl necklace they all wore.
This was my time to process. To think. I had minutes before I would have to choose, and although I was touching the smoothness of each woman’s pearls, I felt nothing. Going through the motions, steadying my nerves, and focusing on the ceremonial act was all I could do. Focusing on anything else was an impossibility.
A wiser man would have taken this time to study their features, to try to pick the woman whom he had the most sexual chemistry with since in the next 109 days I would be expected to go further sexually with her than I had ever done with another. I should be picking the prettiest girl, but the truth of the matter was that they were all stunning. Again, I focused on the task at hand—following the steps I read about in the book. Just like everything in my life, I would conduct the ceremony perfectly.
