The Saloon glows in the flicker of the candelabras and the low light of ornate wall sconces. Colorful heraldic shields dotting the base of the peaked gallery above enliven the honey-colored limestone walls and columns. The crimson, sapphire, and emerald of the shields are echoed in the ladies' gowns and the jewels on their necks, ears, and wrists. If I allow it to work its magic, the Highclere Castle ball casts a glorious spell on me, banishing the pall of the Great War that lingers in this otherwise jubilant space, and that is precisely what has happened to the other revelers. But I would never allow that alchemy to blind me to the all-important past. History has always been my chosen companion.
The orchestra strikes up a Chopin waltz, and I permit the next gentleman on my dance card to sweep me up in its three-quarter-time rhythm. The hem of the fussy tulle ultramarine gown Mama insisted upon because, she claimed, it brought out the blue in my eyes, twirls as I spin around the dance floor under the expert hands of Lord Stockton. Surrendering to his lead, I swoop across the floor like the high-flying stone-curlew birds that nest on the estate. Lord Stockton may be in his fifties, but he’s still nimble and energetic, and there aren’t many young men here tonight in any event. Most of the boys I’d dreamed about as a girl didn’t come home from the war, and I won’t forget about those men and their sacrifice tonight—even if everyone else seems determined to do so.
The heels of my blue silk T-strap shoes skim across a floor upon which generations of my family have danced. The first Earl of Carnarvon in 1793, whose investiture was made by King George III himself. The third earl, who worked hand in hand with Sir Charles Barry and Capability Brown in the mid-1800s to fashion the current castle and gardens out of its earlier iterations. The fourth earl, who helped create the Dominion of Canada in 1867 within the castle walls, by drafting countless letters about constitutional provisions as part of his presentation of the British North America Act to Parliament. Oh yes, this was all widely known, but what about the women? The ladies Carnarvon, their daughters, and their guests—not to mention the governesses, maids, and cooks? Growing up amidst the unspoken legacy of all these women—past and present—I’ve wondered about them since childhood. But theirs aren’t the stories that my family usually tells. It’s as if the women never walked these corridors or inhabited the rooms, or as if they’ve simply been erased. Like so many others.
Did my companion say something? It might be the first or the hundredth time he’s spoken for all I’ve paid attention to him. But for my momentary surrender to the orchestra and the rhythm of the waltz, my thoughts have been elsewhere.
“Lady Evelyn?”
This time I know I can’t ignore conversation in the face of such a plaintive query. Not to mention the politesse of the ball requires these small exchanges. The world may have been upended by the war and the ink has barely dried on the Treaty of Versailles, but the society doyennes are doing their darnedest to return to the rituals and rites that used to govern our days. It seems a pointless, even disrespectful, folly to me.
“Pardon me, Lord Stockton,” I reply. “My head seems to be in the clouds.”