CHAPTER TEN
“Greta, I love that dress. Is it original sixties?” I asked, touching the soft pink floral gown.
“Yes, it’s one I’ve held onto. Not that I’m on a budget. But I do like that era.”
“Me too,” I said, bubbling over. “I can’t get enough of the sixties. I still wear my late mother’s clothes whenever possible.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said with a wry grin. “It looks wonderful out here, Clarissa. I’m sure Aidan will be pleased with the quartet. It’s an inspired choice.”
I had to agree. The quartet musicians, as per my request, were dressed in the style of Louis XIV. The men wore satin breeches, white ruffled shirts, and high-heeled buckled shoes that I would’ve walked over hot embers to own. The women, dressed in low-cut bodices, hooped gowns, and an effervescence of curls sculpted up high, looked like they just stepped out of the Palace of Versailles.
As a backdrop, and looking surreal in the dusk, the sculptures on the grounds were lit up. Strangled by creepers, they appeared animated.
The damp air— a heady mix of flower, sea and earth—filtered through, adding to the intoxicating allure of the setting. My eyes traveled over to the colored lanterns set up throughout the grounds, and I noticed how, almost like magic, the trees had metamorphosed into a kaleidoscope of color.
A satisfied breath escaped my lips. My flesh puckered with pride as I feasted on the result of my imagination. Mindful of my professional make-up job, I had to fight to suppress tears.
Earlier, in my cottage, while twirling and delighting in the floaty silk layers of my dress, I studied myself in the mirror. I saw my late mother. The transformation was so extraordinary that I took a selfie and sent it to Tabitha and my father.
Tabitha gushed, “Clarissa, you look beautiful.”
While my father, finding it hard to speak, muttered something about how much I resembled my mother.
“Do you mind if I film this for our records, Greta?” I asked.
She nodded slowly. “I can’t see why not.”
“I thought I could create a collage of images from the night. I could upload it onto the Thornhill website.”
She knitted her brows, mulling over my suggestion. “Mm, I like that idea.” She added, “I will have to run it by Aidan first.”
“Oh yes, of course. Will he be joining us this evening?” I asked.
Greta studied me closely. “He should be down soon.”
The guests arrived as the plaintive strains of Pachelbel’s Canon caressed the air. Although not French, it was still a fitting choice and so moving that goose-bumps kept prickling my arms.
As I watched the waiters offer champagne to the guests, I craved a glass but wasn’t sure if I was allowed, so I held back.
“This is working very well, Clarissa,” said Greta, praising me yet again.
“Thanks. I’ve loved doing it. And now that it’s in full swing, I’m over the moon,” I said.
Designer gowns floated by. Flesh was out in abundance—low-cut backs, necklines that plunged almost to the naval, and slits up to the thighs. The style seemed to be the less fabric, the better. Apart from Greta and a handful of older guests, I had the most fabric on my body. Not that it worried me. My main concern had become balancing on my stilt-like shoes. I did not need gaping, out-of-control cleavage.
“There are so many women,” I said to Greta, who stood by my side as the parade of guests flowed in.
“They’ve all come for Aidan,” she said soberly.
“I see. It must be gratifying to have so many striking women around, I suppose.”
“No. For Aidan, it’s a nuisance. But they pay. This event is to raise money, not to socialize.”
“He doesn’t enjoy that part?” I asked.
“No. He’s a private man.”
The garden had filled quickly with people. Although most were young, beautiful women, a few attractive young men had come along as well. But it was the older, more distinguished guests who really stood out.
As I studied them, Greta said, “They’re regulars. Old money. They bring class to these events.”
A parting of bodies occurred as the crowd’s focus moved to the portico. And to the uplifting strains of Boccherini’s Minuet, my boss made his entrance.
My heart raced with anticipation. Finally, I would see this mysterious man. I reminded myself that I had nothing to worry about and that everything was going smoothly. But nothing, except champagne, would quell my nerves. I must have had longing etched into my eyes for the waiter came straight over to me with a glistening tray of glasses.
I looked over at Greta, who had just taken one. There was no mention of not being allowed to drink champagne in my contract, so I took one.
I’d never had champagne of that caliber before—crisp and cool on the tongue. As it slid down my parched throat, I reminded myself to take little feminine sips, especially since I had a propensity to gulp when nervous.
Although he was far away, I recognized Aidan Thornhill from the celebrity pictures that Tabitha had shown me. Dressed in a black tuxedo, bow tie, and white shirt, even from far back he cut a strikingly handsome figure. His light-brown hair, sitting on his collar, was pomaded stylishly. He carried himself with a graceful and easy stride.
As I observed my boss gliding along, greeting the guests, there was something familiar about him. I was thinking about that when a deep voice from behind, so close I felt his breath on my neck, uttered, “Miss Moone.”
I turned and discovered Bryce Beaumont sporting a greasy grin.
Dressed in a tuxedo, he scrubbed up well. But those undressing eyes pausing on my breasts made me squirm.
“You look stunning, just like a goddess,” he said loudly. Such was his boom that guests looked in my direction.
“Thanks,” I said, shrinking from the sudden attention. He stood closer than I cared for. All the while, I plotted an escape, and forgetting to sip, I quaffed my champagne.
Greta came to my rescue. “Bryce, how are you this evening?”
“Well, thanks. This looks sensational.”
“Yes, Clarissa has done well,” said Greta stretching out her arm. “Come and sample the canapés.”
As he followed her, he turned and flashed me a creepy smile. Ick!
Mingling amongst strangers was not my thing, so I sat on a bench under a tree. The waiter, nevertheless, noticed me. And making the journey with tray in hand, he offered me another glass of champagne. I gratefully accepted.
Bryce was joking with a trio of blondes. What a relief he’d lost interest in me. I imagined most of the willowy, attractive women there were eligible, if not husband seeking. And putting aside Bryce’s unpleasant attributes, I imagined he could be seen as a potential partner.