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She kissed her father on the cheek and left to dress for dinner, heading up the stairs. Ronan had always been fond of the grand staircase, with its oiled and shiny balustrade, treads that neither creaked nor wobbled, and rails solid as stone. When she was a child, she had turned it into a coliseum full of dolls, placing row after row of silk-garbed figurines on each of the steps. The stairs held her audience, while Ronan performed a dance at the base. Ronan remembered nervously descending these steps on Christmas mornings, her nightdress gleaming against the dark of the wood as she tiptoed toward the dazzling tree festooned with tinsel and presents. She’d miss these old boards when she went off to England. Not that they’d had much of a Christmas last year, anyway…and the ancient but beautiful brass chandelier that used to hang in the center of the room was gone now—sold, like all the rest of the most valuable décor.
Rounding the corner, past the now-empty corridors with the scraped-away wallpaper and more missing paintings, she stopped for a moment to stare at the pendant lights, whose candle mounts had been recently retrofitted for Edison bulbs. It looked as if strands of lightning were
trapped within their tiny globes. Was this not magic? Wasn’t this power just as grand and unknowable as the Merlin’s? Her father believed so. Sometimes, looking at those incandescent lights, Ronan thought he might just have a point.
“Is that you, Ronan?” her mother’s voice called. She turned toward the sound, knowing it was more of an order than a question.
Ronan entered her mother’s bedroom, the only room in the house that still had all of its original furniture. It was the best room as well, with a view of the park and gardens. Outside, the first street lamps had popped to life as the sun hung low near the horizon. Inside, a single Edison bulb lit her mother’s room with a strong, consistent glow. The white paneled walls amplified the light, making her mother’s chamber not only the largest bedroom, but the brightest one as well. Her father had insisted the house be paneled in walnut, but her mother had disagreed. Against her husband’s will she’d had her room paneled in silk sateen, a finish as bright as newly fallen snow.
The bed was done in the English style, tall and canopied, dressed up like a queen’s with bunting stuck between four tall poles. The plush white rug beneath her mother’s bed abutted a second one that stretched underneath an armoire, a dressing screen, and a powder table. Each of these pieces was framed by a pair of gilded chairs, their backs pressed against the wall. Vera told her that the backs of chairs in great houses like theirs remained unpainted, because no one ever moved the chairs or used them. Ronan had never checked to see if it was true, if the chairs were indeed nailed to the walls, but it made sense. Everything in the room was meant to be admired. Every piece—from the exquisite French clock on the mantel, to the row of perfume decanters on the vanity, to her own mother.
At thirty-five years of age, Elizabeth Astor was still extraordinarily lovely, if a little haunted-looking. Her hollow cheeks and red eyes were the result of many sleepless nights. She came from the provinces—she was from nowhere, her parents nobody. Her only treasure was her arresting beauty, which had won over her husband, the third son of the then-richest man in New York. The youngest boy was traditionally not meant to inherit, or expected to come to much; but when the elder and middle sons of Jackson Pierce Astor were both lost during the War Between the Americans thirty years before, the youngest had inherited the governorship, and little Sue-Beth Morley (the horror of that name—so common—it held the stink of dusty towns and tumbleweed)—suddenly found herself the reigning doyenne of New York. Upon her arrival in the city, her mother had had the good sense to adopt the name Elizabeth, and went by the name “Bits.”
“Show me your court bow,” Bits Astor demanded now. “When your father and I were presented at court to meet the queen, they all said I had the most beautiful one.”
Ronan rolled her eyes. Her mother was forever waxing nostalgic about the glories of her season. Knowing the ingrained snobbishness of the Franco-Brits, Ronan was sure that was not all they said about the social-climbing young American.
“Yes, Mother,” she said, and dutifully displayed what Vera had taught her. The deepest curtsy, almost to the floor. Her head was bowed demurely, lashes against her cheeks, eyes downcast. Not once must she turn her back on the monarch. It was said that Queen Eleanor had her Merlin destroy those who dared to disrespect her, and Ronan did not want to suffer such a fate. She respected the power of magic; it was why she found her dear father so misguided.
“I sense a hint of rebellion in the curve of your cheek, my dear; and we must show utmost deference to the Crown. Again.”
Ronan nodded and curtsied again, deeper this time—so low that she felt the backs of her thighs burn with the effort.
When her mother was satisfied with her performance, she crossed the room to stand next to her daughter. She turned Ronan’s face toward the Venetian gold gilt mirror, one of the last antiques left. Bits’s hands were as delicate as a child’s, but her grip on Ronan’s chin was like steel. She turned it to the right, then the left, examining her daughter’s profile, and finally brought it straight back to face the mirror.
“My lovely girl.” Bits smiled.
Ronan looked at what her mother saw. Her otherworldly, celebrated beauty: the porcelain skin, luminescent and pearly; the high sweep of her forehead; a thin, sculpted nose; sharp cheekbones; her pink pout, a proper rosebud, ripe for the plucking. Her long golden tresses, finer than silk, fell on her shoulders loose and wanton; she had been impatient with her governess that morning, and had pulled away when Vera had tried to braid her hair and put it up properly.
“You look exactly like me at your age; thank goodness for that. A consummate New York blonde, as they like to say,” her mother said with satisfaction. “This is your fate. These are your riches. This face will win you a prince; take my word for it. You are an Astor of New York. You should do no worse, as you have much more than I started with.”
Ronan flushed. She looked at her face and her mother’s closely in the mirror. They were like twin images, except for the very faint lines around her mother’s eyes, the faded color in her thinner cheeks.
She knew all of this already, of course. She would choose one of those awful boys from the photographs and make him fall in love with her. And then she would find a way to make this estate matter again. The port town was booming, and New York City was being compared to the great capitals. If the Astors managed to get some enchanters at their service, they might be able to shape their fortunes and their future.
Her mother’s face, and her father’s name—her parents thought that was all there was to her, and maybe they were right. She would be married at the end of the London Season—and she determined right then and there that she would make not just a good match, but the best match; perhaps even catch the eye of the Kronprinz of Prussia himself. She had studied his portrait in the book with the greatest care, and had found much to admire in his noble profile. It was said that the Prussians had used a Pandora’s Box during the final battle, which had brought the queen’s army to its knees and ended the war. With a weapon of such magnitude, one could rule the world.
Ronan was nothing if not ambitious.
