The Palmer House Ballroom, Chicago-December 1912
The ballroom at the Palmer House at Christmas time was nothing short of a fairy-tale. At least, that's what Mrs. Masen declared with a breathless flutter as they stepped inside, her gloved hand still resting on Edward's shoulder, adjusting his coat sleeve one last time.
"Look at those floors, darling," she whispered. "Like glass."
Edward didn't care much about the floors. They were polished to a shine, yes—slick enough to make him anxious about slipping in front of a hundred people. But it wasn't the floor that rattled him.
It was the girls.
They stood in pastel clusters beneath the chandeliers like little frosted cakes. Vanilla cream dresses with rosebud sashes, baby blue bows tied with such precision it must've taken hours. Ringlets framed their faces in orderly coils, held in place with satin ribbons and pearl pins. Their gloves were snow-white and spotless, not like his—already damp and crinkled at the palms.
They looked like pastries.
They looked like dolls.
And Edward… Edward was just a boy in a tailcoat two years too stiff and shoes he was trying not to squeak.
He tugged at his cravat.
"Don't you dare, darling," his mother whispered, catching his wrist gently before he could fidget it crooked. "You look so handsome, I could cry."
She had cried already. A little. Back at home, when he came down the stairs in his coat and tails for the first time, she had sniffled and held his face in both hands, tilting it side to side. "Oh, Edward," she'd said. "You're not a baby anymore." Then she'd kissed his cheek with all the force of motherhood at full gallop and left a faint, warm print of face powder and perfume behind.
Now, she swept into the room with a kind of practiced social ease that Edward would never understand. The ladies tittered and touched gloves, eyes darting with secrets. The men disappeared behind closed doors toward the billiard room and smoking lounge, where Edward's father soon joined them. He gave Edward a short look before leaving—one of those unreadable expressions he always wore. Edward read it as, Behave yourself. Stand up straight.
He stood very, very straight.
"Go on," his mother urged softly. "It's your first cotillion, darling. It only happens once. Ask someone before the first quadrille begins or they'll all be spoken for!"
Edward glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. That meant asking.
He swallowed. His gloves felt heavier.
He spotted her near the side wall, sipping lemonade from a delicate punch glass with her pinky lifted just-so.
Miss Clarissa Pembroke.
Unfreckled. Auburn curls, arranged perfectly beneath a snowy silk ribbon. Her skin was utterly flawless, the exact hue of the porcelain figurines in his grandmother's cabinet. Her eyes—oh, they were brown, yes, but a kind of rich brown that looked like polished cherrywood, glowing warm under the gaslight.
Edward did not fancy her. Not in the way his friends nudged each other and laughed about girls on the schoolyard. He wasn't thinking about romance, or the way her lashes curled, or the faint locket around her neck. He was thinking about the asking.
He was thinking about the bow.
The hand.
The etiquette.
He made his way across the ballroom like a condemned man, heart thudding beneath his waistcoat. She was surrounded by a small gaggle of girls—other pastries. He stopped a short distance away and waited, remembering the rules.
Wait until she notices you. Then approach.
Miss Pembroke's eyes flicked up. They met his. He took a breath.
Edward stepped forward and bowed—properly—a full, practiced movement from the waist, his right hand at his back, his chin lowered. He hoped he hadn't done it too fast.
"Good evening, Miss Pembroke," he said with quiet precision.
She curtsied, a modest dip of her skirts. "Good evening, Mr. Masen."
He cleared his throat. "Would you do me the honor… of reserving this dance?"
Miss Pembroke blinked, then smiled. Not a giggle, not a smirk—a real, lovely smile. "You ask very nicely, Mr. Masen. I would be delighted."
She extended her gloved hand.
He took it gently, as instructed—only the fingers, not the palm. He lifted it slowly, precisely, and brushed the faintest kiss to the air above her knuckles.
A kiss of intention, not of affection. He didn't know what "intention" really meant, but it was what his etiquette tutor said.
The orchestra began tuning. Edward exhaled.
They took their places on the floor, the waxy sheen of the parquet beneath his shoes like ice. He focused on everything he had practiced: the form of the waltz, the posture, the steps. Clarissa moved lightly, gracefully, her skirts swaying just so. Edward, after a few moments of stiff panic, settled into the rhythm.
"You're doing very well," she whispered kindly. "You've danced before?"
"This is my first," he admitted.
"Well, you're not treading on me. That's quite a success."
He felt his ears burn.
When the music swelled and the final turns began, Edward was flushed, dizzy with relief, but still standing. He turned her gently beneath his hand, led her back to her place with care, and bowed again, lower this time. He didn't stumble. He didn't knock into anyone. He didn't die.
"Thank you for the dance, Miss Pembroke."
She curtsied. "Thank you, Mr. Masen."
He returned to his mother's side as the music faded, barely breathing.
She glanced at him sideways, hiding a smile behind her fan. "Well?"
He straightened his cuffs, cheeks burning. "I think… I didn't step on her."
From across the room, Edward's father emerged from the billiard lounge, smoke trailing behind his coat. Their eyes met. The elder Masen gave the faintest nod.
Edward, chest still heaving, felt it settle inside him like a warm coal. A flicker of pride.
Not just a boy in a starched shirt anymore.
A gentleman.