Chapter 11: A Night to Remember

“How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!

Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.”

— Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla. First published in The Dark Blue magazine, 1871–1872. Later collected in In a Glass Darkly, 1872. Copyright © public domain.

The manor had come to life in a way it had never before.

Candles flickered against velvet draperies in the hundreds. No expense was spared in lighting, bodies for servants, cleaned and polished surfaces, and the food and drink were the definition of exquisite.

Wolcott Manor had been seen as the biggest house in the county for over a century. So long had it possessed of a stern and ecclesiastical dignity that many of the citizenry of the area forgot that the appearance of such a domicile could be altered. On this night, it had the feel of theatrical gaiety, and those that were there would speak of this sudden shift to any and all that would listen.

The guests had come in waves. Some, at first, appeared in modest pairs and then in elaborate clusters. Men of commerce in stiff cravats and satin waistcoats and beside them were their wives (or mistresses in some cases) wrapped in tulle and imitation virtue.

These men were confident with their laughter and the scent of paper and ink were about them to signify their occupations and proximity to wealth. The small English contingent was no more than twenty five people in total. However, their titled bloodlines carried invisible laurels that the people of affluence in these United States craved. Though the shackles of royal rule were thrown off, to be a rich man was not the same as being royal.

One could recreate the sensation with enough capital like Silas Wolcott was doing, but to be royal was truly something you must be born into. There were inbred failures and those who could not handle the weight of a crown, which was a demonstration of how difficult it truly was to have the necessary grace and competent aptitude to be called a king, queen, prince, or princess.

There was an indescribable and intangible aura to the station. The lesser could not obtain it. One could not work towards it. It was something truly bestowed upon these different beings since either birth or very early in childhood. It would be nurtured in their castles, raised up in care, and when they came to bloom, it was nearly perfection made flesh.

This stole the attention of many of the influential and affluent men in the room. They stared in hunger at wanting what they could never have. Their covetous eyes never left those that walked among them in the beautiful stage of a home that Silas Wolcott had dressed up.

From the taproom to the conservatory, laughter rang, glasses clinked, and polished shoes scuffed gently against waxed oak.

Outside the windows, the fog was thickening. The layer of misty water crept over the lawns like a shroud dragged from the earth, muffling the world in a dreamlike hush. Though none remarked upon it directly, there were a few who felt a curious chill that did not come from the weather. Yet it passed quickly, as such sensations do when wrapped in warmth and wine and the flattering murmur of admiration.

A waltz was called for by some overzealous guest. The couples formed obediently and a jovial dance was had.

Above the crowd, Silas enjoyed what he had seen. It was everything that he could have wanted. Finally, it was time for him to join the celebration that he had helped organize and design.

His joining of the festivities began with a polite partition of the company that had come to his house. The miser portion of his brain was upset that they had come to eat his food and drink his liquor.

However, Silas understood well enough that this was the point of a party and polite company.

Jonathan Pellham, in his usual manner of confidence that bordered on gallantry, had seized upon the opportunity to draw his host aside when Silas had joined the mass of the celebration.

Silas flinched in reluctance. He had not seen the point to depart the edge of the throng of people, but again, he yielded to the moment and to his friend’s exuberance.

Simultaneously, across the mirrored span of the ballroom, Lady Honoria had assumed the role of guide to her royal companion.

To which, the princess had begrudgingly accepted while also being annoyed to be pulled into. Princess Sophia moved patiently, but she loathed being corralled like an animal under any circumstances. That this lady touched her and pulled her anywhere was an affront to this princess’s sensibilities.

Her face never showed any of her distaste and only reflected her natural beauty most were commenting on as if she were an ethereal being made flesh. Thankfully as a princess, and not the king or queen of a nation, when they moved, she enjoyed that it was done out of seeing her personage, not blindly for her title.

In another place and time, these pair might have gone the whole night and not interacted once, but on this night, Honoria was endlessly curious about the notorious Jonathan Pellham of Dreibruch University and New York City. As such, it was not long before the two pairs collided in the center of the room.

This was when the soul of this party had fulfilled a need of destiny.

Silas turned, and in doing so, saw her.

There was no question in his mind that she was the princess that everyone was enamored with. He saw her with her hair of brown, soft white cheeks, piercing hazel eyes, thinner yet curvy form, and for the first time that night, he found himself no longer bored with the festivities.

He did not bow immediately, nor did he speak; however, his never left her and betrayed the arrest of his breath. A sudden stillness that gripped his frame and threatened never to let go.

As for her, the princess stood with one gloved hand delicately positioned over the other. Her posture never faltered, and her eyes examined the men before her.

Jonathan noticed the silence but did not allow it to influence his path forward. He was a man who knew when he saw what he wanted, and he would have it for as long as he wanted it before discarding that very desire.

“Silas,” Jon said with a smile, “allow me the honor of presenting with Her Royal Highness, the Princess Sophia of the House of Hanover, I believe.”

When the princess offered no correction, the lawyer went on.

“Ma’am, our host, the illustrious Silas Wolcott.”

Silas found his voice, though it arrived tempered with reverence. He found himself questioning where his father’s skills or pride from Silas’s upbringing had disappeared to in her presence.

“Your Royal Highness,” he murmured, bowing. “My home seems to pale beside such lovely company as yourself”

Sophia gave the faintest curtsy in more acknowledgment than courtesy. Her eyes never quite left Silas. From what he could see, she seemed to be looking him over like a piece of meat.

“Mr. Wolcott,” she murmured. “It seems that America has not yet surrendered all its refinements.”

Honoria beamed in amusement at the princess.

“Mr. Wolcott has hosted us with the utmost elegance,” Honoria said. She went on, trying to be flattering. “He is a most eligible gentleman by every measure, in my opinion.”

“And Mr. Pellham is a most entertaining gentleman—by any measure, if the rumors are to be believed,” Sophia remarked simply.

Jonathan placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“Your Royal Highness you should not believe everything you hear,” he admonished with a smile.

Silas never allowed his eyes to leave Sophia. He wished to say so many words. However, none came, and he found himself far more taken in simply looking at her.