sister fiddled with a broad band of green satin ribbon that circled the skirt of her day dress. Though she studied her fingers, the two bright patches of pink in Carolyn’s cheeks betrayed the girl’s feelings.
Julia silently reread the words written in elegant copperplate script:
The pleasure of your company is requested at a Masked Ball upon the evening of the thirty-first of December at nine o’clock, given at the home of Mr. George Winstead for the pleasure of his family and friends.
She breathed deeply to calm the butterflies that skittered in her stomach.
“I did not realize that we had resumed our friendship with the Winsteads,” she continued aloud in a feigned arch tone. “I am sure that it has not slipped Mrs. Winstead’s mind that our family is still very much in sympathy with the Confederate cause.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Carolyn scraped her slipper over the polished floorboards of the girls’ upstairs bedroom. A sly smile crept across her lips. “Wouldn’t it just make that old Melinda Winstead itch if she knew we attended her grand party?”
Julia could picture the pique of the disagreeable Winstead daughter. Such boldness on the Chandlers’ part would definitely twist the nose of that jumped-up Yankee chit. Melinda deserved a tweaking after all the hateful things she had said about the Chandlers, especially after Frank Shaffer’s death at Manassas. Clearing her throat, Julia fanned herself with the invitation to the premier social event of the Christmas season.
“Tell me, Carolyn. How did you come by this? I don’t believe for a minute that it was delivered to our doorstep.”
Carolyn’s grin broadened. “Found it,” she replied. Her hazel eyes sparkled with unsuppressed mischief.
Julia sighed. Carolyn was notorious for “finding” all sorts of opportune items. “Where exactly?”
Her sister smoothed the dress ribbon that she had worried into a wrinkle. “On the paving stones by Dr. Brown’s carriage step. A big ole envelope was just lying there in the mud. I had to save it, you know. It could have been something very important,” she added with the innocent air of a canary-fed cat.
Julia narrowed her green eyes at her little sister. “And how is it that you happened to be walking past the Browns’ when their home isn’t anywhere near Market Square, where you were supposed to be shopping?”
Licking her lower lip, Carolyn finally looked directly at Julia. “’Cause I saw the Winsteads’ butler drive by in the family carriage holding a basketful of these envelopes.”
“And you followed him like a common beggar,” Julia concluded, picturing the shameless scene in her mind.
Carolyn nodded without an ounce of regret. “It didn’t take the brain of a jaybird to know what he had under his arm. He sat on that carriage box with such an important look on his face. Lordy, Julia, no one in Alexandria can think of anything else except that party.”
Julia hated to agree. Northern-born George Winstead, part owner of the new railroad line into the Federal City, had become very rich during the past two years. He demonstrated his Yankee-bred manners in the lavish way he spent his war-fed wealth. His New Year’s Ball had been the talk of the town both in the streets and behind fans at Sunday church services, even among the most secessionist of families like the Chandlers. Julia admitted to herself that she would love to attend, but since the Winsteads were firmly Yankees, her parents had not spoken to them since April 1861. She looked down at the card again.
“You know we can’t possibly go.” Julia sighed with honest regret. After mourning for her sweetheart for the past two years, she was ready to wear a pretty silken gown again and to dance until dawn as she had done briefly in those far-off days before the wretched war had ended all gaiety and laughter—at least in the Chandler household.
Carolyn pursed her lips. “Speak for yourself, Julia. You can stay at home and think of Frank Shaffer, but I do not intend to miss this chance—not when I have an invitation in my hand. I’ve never been to a ball like you have. And the way that horrid Mr. Lincoln is going on and on with this war, I highly doubt that I shall ever go to a party before I am old and gray. Sit by the fire, if you want, but I intend to waltz till I die.” She stuck out her chin.
Julia lifted one of her auburn brows. “You know there will be nothing but Unionists at the Winsteads’ party. I thought you would sooner die than be caught near a Yankee.”
Yankees! The very word was bitter on Julia’s tongue. She couldn’t imagine herself dancing with one of those people who had killed so many fine young Southern boys—like Frank, who had kissed Julia once on the cheek and quickened her heart to love.
Carolyn wiggled her nose. “I don’t intend to talk with them—just dance with them.” She giggled. “And I do intend to stuff myself silly with sweets. See if I don’t. Mmm! Think of it! The Winsteads are bound to serve jelly cake and macaroons from Shuman’s Bakery. And there will be nougats, frozen charlottes, gingerbread—and caramels.” She rolled the delicious word around in her mouth. “Don’t you miss eating caramels?”
Julia’s mouth watered. Caramels were her special downfall. Ever since the Federal Army had marched into Alexandria in 1861, Mother refused to allow her daughters to patronize Randolph’s Confectionery Shop just because of a political disagreement with the owner. As if eating a simple caramel was a treasonous act against the Confederacy!
Julia gave herself a shake. She must remain firm on the side of propriety for Carolyn’s sake, as well as loyal to Frank’s hallowed memory. “You’ll be caught before you’ve put both feet inside the Winsteads’ door. Think of the scandal,” she added, though she knew that her sister didn’t give a fig for any commotion she might stir up.
“Pooh!” Carolyn blew a blond wisp of a curl out of her face. “Has your eyesight grown so dim?” She pointed to the invitation. “It says it’s a masked ball. We could go in disguise. We’ll wear hoods and look divinely mysterious. No one will recognize us, and all the handsomest boys will want to dance with us. They won’t resist!” She hugged herself at the prospect.
The more Carolyn talked, the more Julia’s resolve weakened. The lively music of a Virginia reel played in her mind. Her toes tapped inside her slippers. She could almost taste those caramels. And laughter! When was the last time she had really laughed out loud? Not for two years, since she received word that Frank had died in a Virginia farmer’s field.
“You’ve read too many of Mr. Dickens’s novels, Carolyn. Your logic is chopped like turnips.”
Instead of being repentant for her flighty taste in literature, Carolyn slid off her footstool and knelt at Julia’s feet. She gave her sister a triumphant smile. “You know you want to go, too. I can see it in your eyes, Julia. Don’t you want to have at least one adventure in your life, instead of just reading about them? No one will ever know.”
Julia fired her last desperate argument for common sense. “That’s where you are wrong. We’ll have to tell Perkins,” she said, referring to the Chandlers’ serving man, who acted as the family’s butler, coachman and occasional gardener. “We cannot possibly go gallivanting around Alexandria in the dark without an escort. The streets aren’t safe, even with the provost guards out. Perkins won’t approve at all, and he’ll tell Papa, sure as you’re born.”
Carolyn twirled one of her side curls around her fore-finger. “Leave Perkins to me. I’ll promise him a bagful of macaroons, or something just as nice.
