go on the big coon hunt when the snow melts—and he said I could shoot one too. That’ll be more fun than any old dance!” Then she jumped off the bed and ran to kiss Belle. “I was just funning you! You’re always the prettiest girl at the ball. Beau said so, and so did Vance Wickham.” She smiled at the sudden effect her words had on Belle, and whispered, “I’ll bet they’ll fight over you one of these days—maybe even a duel! ”
Belle shivered with pleasure, but said, “Oh, that would be just dreadful, Pet! You mustn’t even say such things!” She tried to look shocked, but her eyes gleamed. Assuming a prim frown, she picked up her evening bag, saying, “Well—I must go. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” She pecked Pet’s cheek, then dashed out of the room. Pet heard her greet the other young women who had come for the ball. They sound like a bunch of silly chickens! she thought.
Downstairs the men were gathered around a large table set at one end of the ballroom in front of the huge bay window. It was a large room, thirty feet wide and nearly sixty feet long, composing half the first floor of Belle Maison. The other half of the house was across a wide hall—the kitchen, the small dining room, the library, and a parlor. The ballroom was kept closed most of the time, being used only for large groups or for dances such as this one.
As many as a hundred people had attended dances there, though that was too crowded for comfort. Only about half that number were gathered for this night’s celebration—which was an informal New Year’s Watch Party. It had been a tradition at Belle Maison for several years, and the cream of the aristocratic young people of the neighborhood maneuvered for invitations with cut-throat determination.
Around the table, lifting glasses in the first toast of the evening, were three older men—Sky Winslow, the host, and his guest, Seth Barton. Barton was the richest man in the county and looked the part. He was a tall man dressed in a fawn-colored frock coat and a snowy French dress shirt. The single diamond on his finger winked in the lights, and another shone in his dark blue cravat. He had the look of a man so assured of authority and power that it never occurred to him to accept anything less than the most prominent place. The other man was sixty years old, but looked older. He was Oscar Toombs, lieutenant governor of Virginia—a close friend of Barton’s.
All the other men were very young, most of them twenty orless. Mark Winslow stood beside his best friend, Beau Beauchamp. Beauchamp was the largest of the younger set—six feet tall and bull-chested, but swift and fleet of foot, nonetheless. His eyes were light blue and glinted with quick emotion in the lamplight nearby. Vance Wickham stood across from Beauchamp and smiled at the larger man, his dark face in sharp contrast to Beauchamp’s. He lived west of the James River, but was much involved in the affairs of the county. It was rumored that he intended to move to Richmond. Some had even guessed that his frequent visits to Belle Maison were part of a campaign to marry Belle.
The group also included Tom Winslow, Shelby Lee, a nephew of the famous general, and the Hardee twins, Gil and Robert, the best horsemen in the state. Next to the twins stood Will Henry, a pale young man, hopelessly in love with Belle, lost amid six or seven other young men who crowded close to the table.
The musicians had begun tuning their instruments, so as the men raised their glasses of sherry for the first toast, Sky Winslow raised his voice above the noise. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast—here’s to the fine young men of our beloved South; there are no finer on the planet!”
Toombs and Barton added “Hear! Hear!” and they all drank.
“And to you, sir!”—Beau turned to Winslow as they refilled their glasses—“to you and your generation who have made our land an Eden! I give you the South,
Belle shivered with pleasure, but said, “Oh, that would be just dreadful, Pet! You mustn’t even say such things!” She tried to look shocked, but her eyes gleamed. Assuming a prim frown, she picked up her evening bag, saying, “Well—I must go. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” She pecked Pet’s cheek, then dashed out of the room. Pet heard her greet the other young women who had come for the ball. They sound like a bunch of silly chickens! she thought.
Downstairs the men were gathered around a large table set at one end of the ballroom in front of the huge bay window. It was a large room, thirty feet wide and nearly sixty feet long, composing half the first floor of Belle Maison. The other half of the house was across a wide hall—the kitchen, the small dining room, the library, and a parlor. The ballroom was kept closed most of the time, being used only for large groups or for dances such as this one.
As many as a hundred people had attended dances there, though that was too crowded for comfort. Only about half that number were gathered for this night’s celebration—which was an informal New Year’s Watch Party. It had been a tradition at Belle Maison for several years, and the cream of the aristocratic young people of the neighborhood maneuvered for invitations with cut-throat determination.
Around the table, lifting glasses in the first toast of the evening, were three older men—Sky Winslow, the host, and his guest, Seth Barton. Barton was the richest man in the county and looked the part. He was a tall man dressed in a fawn-colored frock coat and a snowy French dress shirt. The single diamond on his finger winked in the lights, and another shone in his dark blue cravat. He had the look of a man so assured of authority and power that it never occurred to him to accept anything less than the most prominent place. The other man was sixty years old, but looked older. He was Oscar Toombs, lieutenant governor of Virginia—a close friend of Barton’s.
All the other men were very young, most of them twenty orless. Mark Winslow stood beside his best friend, Beau Beauchamp. Beauchamp was the largest of the younger set—six feet tall and bull-chested, but swift and fleet of foot, nonetheless. His eyes were light blue and glinted with quick emotion in the lamplight nearby. Vance Wickham stood across from Beauchamp and smiled at the larger man, his dark face in sharp contrast to Beauchamp’s. He lived west of the James River, but was much involved in the affairs of the county. It was rumored that he intended to move to Richmond. Some had even guessed that his frequent visits to Belle Maison were part of a campaign to marry Belle.
The group also included Tom Winslow, Shelby Lee, a nephew of the famous general, and the Hardee twins, Gil and Robert, the best horsemen in the state. Next to the twins stood Will Henry, a pale young man, hopelessly in love with Belle, lost amid six or seven other young men who crowded close to the table.
The musicians had begun tuning their instruments, so as the men raised their glasses of sherry for the first toast, Sky Winslow raised his voice above the noise. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast—here’s to the fine young men of our beloved South; there are no finer on the planet!”
Toombs and Barton added “Hear! Hear!” and they all drank.
“And to you, sir!”—Beau turned to Winslow as they refilled their glasses—“to you and your generation who have made our land an Eden! I give you the South,
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