Chapter 22: A Mazandaran Masquerade
[featuring "Lost in Translation" and "Gustave: Ladies' Man Extraordinaire"]
~ Autumn 1909 ~
After the season's end at Phantasma, Erik kept his promise and organized a grand Halloween masquerade to celebrate his wedding to Christine. Invitations were sent to every member of New York's elite, and all the invitations were accepted. No one wanted to miss the opportunity to meet the elusive Mr. Y and learn if his secluded manor lived up to the whimsical rumours.
"You wanted to see me, Erik?" said Meg as she knocked on the doorway of his study.
"Yes, come in," Erik replied as he invited her into the room and offered her a chair. "I have a favour to ask of you."
"Oh?"
"Yes, as you know, Christine's English is rather...poor," Erik began.
More like nonexistent… Meg grumbled internally. Erik had been working hard to teach Gustave English, but Christine had no reason or desire to learn the language. She spoke French with her family, and while she knew how to say "please" and "thank you" to the servants, she still preferred to say "s'il te plaît" and "merci".
"I was wondering if you could act as her translator for the evening," Erik asked.
"Me?" Meg whined. She'd planned to spend the evening dancing the night away in the arms of a charming young man who just so happened to be the heir to a steel fortune. Now she had to play lady-in-waiting to her ex-best friend.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Meg," said Erik sympathetically. "I'll be talking business with the men, and your mother already refused to do it."
"My own mother!"
"Yes, she claims she'll be too busy making sure things run smoothly," Erik said. "Will you please do it, Meg? I'd really appreciate it."
Meg pursed her lips, but when Erik smiled at her, she sighed and relented.
"Fine. I'll do it."
"Thank you, Meg. I appreciate it," Erik repeated as Meg walked out of his study.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever…"
"Oh and, Meg?"
"Yes?" She paused in the doorway.
"I'm sure this doesn't need to be said, but if you make my wife look like a fool you will pay," Erik said in a commanding tone. He was aware of the brewing rivalry between his wife and her ex-best friend, and he would have none of it under his roof.
"Of course, Erik." Meg rolled her eyes and sulked out of the room.
The foyer of Mazandaran teemed with members of New York high society who marveled at the extravagance of the house. Everyone had heard of the property, but no one had caught a glimpse of the house except for a tall tower rising above the trees.
At the top of the grand bifurcated staircase, a servant announced the arrival of Madame Giry and Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry. Meg cringed at the use of her full name as she descended the stairs. Gustave descended next and snickered when the servant called him "Mr." Gustave Y. The title sounded so grown up.
"Mr. and Mrs Y," the servant announced.
Erik and Christine appeared on opposite sides of the bifurcated staircase and met on the middle landing. He offered her his arm, and she accepted. Erik was rather awkward as he descended the staircase in front of everyone, but Christine was the epitome of confidence and grace that evening. Being a vicomtesse had given her an advantage in learning the social decorum of the upper classes, and the angelic woman was stunning in her shimmering Worth gown with a silver mask to match.
The couple led their guests to the ballroom, where an ensemble of the finest musicians was waiting with instruments poised.
"Let the festivities begin!" Erik shouted gleefully. The music began at his command, and the dashing Mr. Y swept his wife into his arms and twirled her across the dance floor.
The single young women of New York high society were deeply disappointed that the fabulously wealthy and romantically mysterious Mr. Y had finally settled down and gotten married, but the mothers of New York high society were thrilled to learn that the marriage came with a son, and the scheming women wasted no time in making their move on the new heir of Phantasma.
"Why, hello, Gustave!" gushed one such mother as she approached Gustave at the table of sweets. "This is my daughter Elizabeth. She's about your age."
"I'm sixteen," said the daughter Elizabeth as she tried to disguise her side eyed glare toward her mother.
"I'm twelve," Gustave mumbled through a mouthful of pastry as he wiped his sugary hands on his jacket sleeve. "But I'm very mature for my age," he added proudly.
The boy reached for the teenage girl's hand and politely brought it to his lips. The girl clenched her other hand in a fist while the mother calculated how long she'd have to wait before she could reasonably see her daughter settled down with Gustave.
It had been assumed that Gustave was Mr. Y's step-son, but anyone with eyes saw the resemblance between them and knew that was not the case. Luckily no one cared about such things, and Christine fit right in with the wealthy ladies of New York. Erik had been correct in saying they'd be intrigued by her fascinating past and European origins.
Though Meg had been asked to translate, Christine didn't need a translator. All the ladies wanted to practice their French on her. In Paris, Christine's speech had been considered too common among her peers, but the New York women didn't notice the faint traces of her Swedish accent or the gravelly Parisian street French. To the Americans, everything Christine said sounded extraordinarily posh, and when she attempted to babble broken English, they fawned over her adorably thick accent and begged her advice on the latest Parisian fashions.
Meg glared, but refrained from gagging, while Christine basked in the other women's attention. She herself had no desire to converse with the snooty upper class American women, and they were turned off by the ex-dancer's cold manner and permanent grimace.
"Christine, would you mind if I went to dance for a bit?" Meg asked in French.
"Not at all," Christine replied.
Meg muttered a thanks before slinking away to find a partner, much to Christine's delight. She didn't want her sulky ex-best friend hanging around and casting a dark cloud over the other women's animated chatter.
But Christine soon learned she was being overconfident in sending her translator away. The other women grew bored with practicing French and wanted to have a regular English conversation, much to Christine's abject horror.
"Excuse me, please. I want to dance," she mumbled in English, miming a waltz to make sure the women understood.
The other woman giggled as the foreigner hastened away, and Christine blushed beneath her mask, worrying whether she'd said the wrong thing. Hopefully, she hadn't accidentally said something inappropriate.
"Erik, dear, will you dance with me?" Christine asked as she tugged on her husband's arm. He smiled down at her, ignoring the annoyed faces of the other men in his group.
"Of course, I would love to dance with you," Erik said tenderly. He told the other men something in English before whisking his wife back onto the dance floor.
Meg had yet to find a dance partner and rolled her eyes when Christine dragged Erik from the other men. The snake certainly had her husband wrapped around her little finger. Erik had been in the middle of business talk, and Meg was certain she never would've interrupted him if she'd been Erik's wife instead of Christine.
"Are you enjoying the party, my love?" Erik whispered in his wife's ear.
"Yes, very much," she replied as she rested her head against his chest. "I think we should make this a regular affair."
"I wholeheartedly agree."
Erik had never been one for parties and large social gatherings, but he found it impossible to be discontent in the midst of such gaieties. As the music swelled, he brought his hands tighter around Christine's waist and swayed to the beat of the waltz as he led his wife across the dance floor.