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“But where did they come from?” Bron finally asked.
“These are just a few of Darcy’s old things—oh, do not fuss; he won’t mind at all. He hasn’t worn them in donkey’s years.”
Bron quickly searched the inside label for his escape route, suppressed an outward sigh of disappointment but felt internal relief. “I’m awfully sorry, sir, but these are just too big for me.”
“Don’t worry at all about the fit. Clarence has already seen to that.”
“She’s taken them in …? All of them?”
“One can never have too many blazers.” Mr. Edwards handed them back in a loop that moved more quickly with each rotation. “Oh! Was that the doorbell?” said Mr. Edwards. “The guests must be arriving.” He backed out of the room slowly, pointing and nodding and mouthing the words “that one” before closing the door.
They were all the same to Bron—blazer, shirt, tie, trousers, blazer, shirt, tie—uninspiring and everything he hated. He might as well slip back into his school uniform; at least there’d be familiarity in that prison. The suits were indeed perfectly tailored, some of the trousers appearing never to have been worn; they clasped about his waist so accurately he wondered how Madame Clarence had guessed his size. The shirt was a pristine white, and the embellished blazer a navy velvet. He panickedwhen it dawned on him that neither of his two pairs of shoes would match the Edwardses’ expensive taste, but sure enough there was another tap on the door, and he opened it to find a pair of black suede loafers at the threshold, crossed as though a ballet dancer’s feet were en pointe. He noticed they had quite a large heel to them, and appreciated Mr. Edwards’s thoughtfulness. Mr. Edwards had only ever been kind to him, and the night wasn’t about what Bron wanted, after all. Dressing the part would be expected of him. A shirt is a shirt is a shirt. A tie is a tie a tie. There was nothing more to it than that. He wanted to be a good “son,” whatever that meant.
When he dressed, the mirror showed his doppelganger, the person he was supposed to be—he was particularly surprised by how handsome his reflection shone, and brushed another hand over the velvet tux, adopting the ballerina’s position when he felt an itch on his ankle.Just for a night,he said to himself.This doesn’t change me.But he would wear at least some items that were his—he swapped the tie for a set of pearls around his neck and finished the look with a metallic-gold headband scraped against his scalp. He liked the sensation—the tightening of the hairline, the comfort of the scrape. It was one of his favorites, with a cute bow on the side. He could at leasttryto feel confident. Then surely he could pass through the party and maybe, just maybe, have a good time? Follow a conversation or two in the hopes of forming an acquaintance. Who knew what could happen if he put himself forward? For as energized as Ada was, she was much too young to be his confidante. And Clarence, well, she hadn’t warmed to his presence quite like he’d imagined, and a confidante, indeed, was necessary to his surviving here.
The manor’s ground floor was almost unrecognizable. When he emerged from his bedroom, he could see from the height of the stairs that a segment of the foyer had been cordoned off and turned into a temporary kitchen of sorts: the chefs, with theirwhite bubble hats atop their heads, shaking their pans and drizzling alcohol onto shish kebabs—the flames erupting, charring the food, and dying at their command. A wonderful performance, magicians skilled in elemental magic. His eyes went bleary from the flames; he jumped when Mr. Edwards bellowed his name from the other end of the hall.
“There you are, dear boy. Almost didn’t recognize you in those clothes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You should dress like this more often, Bron. Really makes you stand out, and for all the right reasons.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said again, holding back a grimace.
“Oh, ‘thank you, sir, thank you sir’—come, come, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”
But they didn’t get very far. With every few steps taken, Mr. Edwards stopped to greet his guests, to laugh at welcoming banter or lob back a joke of his own. Bron would stand and nod, wait to be introduced, but he wasn’t. With Mr. Edwards’s arm still linked with his, he couldn’t make an escape. The guests looked at him, and he would look back, produce an awkward smile. Sometimes he would get one back. After the sixth pit-stop greeting, Ada could be seen rushing toward them, speaking into her headset and announcing there to be “not enough napkins to go round!” She tapped aggressively at her clipboard but soon appeased herself by shouting “Uncle Gio!” to which Mr. Edwards squealed and let Bron loose. They hurried over to the man who hovered by the doorway.
“It’s been too long—far, far too long, my boy.” Mr. Edwards brought the man forward, introduced him as Mr. Vespa—Giovanni, the man corrected—who was a very dear and very beloved friend of the family, before correcting himself. “Friend of the family—why do I use such formalities? Youarefamily, aren’t you, old boy? But we must talk, we must! Thank you so much for coming. There is so much still to discuss. What do you think of my amendments? Of course, you both understand, don’t you? It’s time we fix all this nonsense—life’s too short, it can’t keep on thisway.” Clapping a hand on his back, Mr. Edwards steered Giovanni away through the hall, and Ada returned her attention to the clipboard, hurrying away and muttering into the mouthpiece some concern that the hors d’oeuvres had yet to go out. This left Bron alone with a group of guests who made light conversation of the weather, and commented upon the wonderful food being served, and of course the house is looking better than ever.
Words quickly turned to politics, which wasn’t of any interest to him. Even if he had been interested, his conversational skills were not up to the task. Everyone around him made it look so easy, the art of dipping in and out of streams of dialogue, whereas he just stood there, waiting for his turn, which he never jumped onto, and watching as the moment grew distant the longer he worked himself up. Of course hewantedto talk, but something always stopped him. He’d close in like a flower, tuck himself into a corner of his mind and offer only clipped answers: “I’m fine,” and always “Thank you,” feeling ghostly and invisible, the maidservant of a Victorian novel, involved in life but never recognized. A governess at a party, who stood at the edge of it all.
Sure, life was going on around him, butlivingwas something other people did. Sometimes he imagined another life unfolding nearby, with only a veil of air, as thin as a bubble, separating him from it, where he participated in society and said things like, “Yes, these are quite the times we are living in,” or “No, I don’t agree with the new prime minister.” Because everything he knew about existing around the genteel was a self-taught construction, mimicked gestures learned from award-winning actors enacting their craft, like Keira Knightley’s sprightly spirit: a pure artifice. Why couldn’t he do the same with these people, who took note of his silence, sensed his awkwardness? They made the necessary steps to include him, and he tried to play the part, but when the woman asked him his name, and his one-word answer led her to say, “Oh goodness, like the sisters?” still he came up short.
“And who are you to the Edwardses?”
“Oh, well—”
For fifteen minutes he lingered there; Mr. Edwards continued to chatter away at the end of the hall, and the man called Giovanni cast several glances his way. Standing there with the tingle of eyes on him, Bron felt all the more singled out for it. Only this man’s eyes were not that of confusion or disgust or the familiar burn he was used to feeling. No, these were inquisitive eyes.
Mr. Edwards and Giovanni soon disappeared into one of the house’s many rooms, and Bron had almost forgotten about the woman, who was still awaiting an answer to one of her questions.
“Um … will you excuse me?”
Around the corner at the other end of the stairs, Ada sat with her head wedged between the railings, watching the splendor below. She’d discarded her clipboard and headset. Bron crouched beside her.
“It’s all pretty great, huh?”
“Always the best for my brother, Darcy,” she said, dispirited. “But it’s all gone terribly wrong.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job, Ada. What has possibly gone wrong?”
“The vegetarian platter was incorrectly labeled ‘vegan,’ and I heard poor Mrs. Fortescue exclaim how really like cheese the Emmental tasted! She couldn’t tell the difference. Worst of all, we’ve no gluten-free options, and Daddy forgot to order the ice sculpture!”
“I’m sure an ice sculpture isn’t necessary.”
“It was meant to be the pivotal accent! To make the party memorable.”
