"And in a shocking coincidence, my friend here, Stefan Salvatore, rescued her sister, the equally beautiful and charming Bridget Sutherland, just last night. I can't speak for him," he said, drawing close to Lydia, his glass still raised, his attention still on the crowd, "but for me, it was love at first sight. I've already spoken to her father, and so before anyone else can grab her away from me, I, Count Damon DeSangue, beg Lydia for the honor of her hand in marriage, though I have nothing to offer her beyond my good name and lifelong devotion. "
He got down on one knee and whispered, "Lydia?"
Lydia's face flushed prettily. She was taken off guard. Though she was not the sort of girl who really looked forward to being asked to wed in front of a large crowd, she beamed.
"Of course, Damon, with all my heart!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.
The Sutherland family stood together at the front of the crowd. The look on Margaret's face wasn't so much a scowl as disgusted shock and sheer confusion. I knew how she felt, but wondered at her response. Wasn't she under Damon's compulsion to accept him - and me - completely?
Bridget's reaction was equally human, and far more horrible. Her eyes burned with pure, searing jealousy. Maybe there was a tiny bit of relief that her older sister was getting married, which meant that now in turn she could. But it was obvious that the youngest Sutherland had been dreaming her whole life of exactly how her perfect suitor would propose, and that it involved being done in public, in front of all her friends and an admiring audience.
The admiring crowd clapped and then Damon's eyes flicked back toward me. Just once. Like he had the power to compel me. And in a manner of speaking, he did. I knew exactly what he wanted me to do.
I drained my second champagne before stepping forward, turning toward Bridget.
Here I went again. It seemed only yesterday that I was in Mystic Falls, yearning to go to school in Charlottesville, waiting out the war in the lazy, endless summer, and being forced to court Rosalyn. Each time I called upon her it was with a leaden ball in my stomach, and each visit was an exercise in frustration and despair. I never wanted to marry her - our parents wished us to marry. My father expected us to marry. And so I was forced into an engagement I didn't want, anticipating a marriage I didn't desire.
Once again I was being being forced into a marriage. But perhaps this was all part of the punishment I deserved. And if it meant saving lives. . .
"Bridget. " I turned to her, bent at my waist and holding my drink out, toasting her. I was the very form of romantic etiquette, exuding Southern charm the like of which these Yankees rarely saw. "From the very moment I. . . " Saw your near-lifeless body covered in blood in Central Park and almost finished you off. ". . . had the fortune to come to you in the hour of your direst need, I just knew you had to be mine. And thanks to the generosity of your parents, I already feel like family. Bridget, will you make this the happiest night of my life?"
With a porcine squeal Bridget threw her arms around me - after first carefully handing her glass of punch to Hilda.
"Good show," Bram clapped, his cheeks flushing even redder. "I knew you were a decent chap! I could tell right away!"
The crowd exploded with cheers and thunderous applause; buckets of champagne were ordered all around. Winfield Sutherland looked so puffed up with pride and joy I feared he would explode. Mrs. Sutherland looked quietly pleased now that the last of her daughters were matched. Only Margaret shook her head angrily before freezing her face into a good show of sisterly pride.
The leader of the dance had a Nebuchadnezzar of champagne brought forth, a giant glass bottle that held the equivalent of twenty bottles' worth of champagne. In an elegant display of sabrage, he took a sword from his butler and dramatically sliced along the bottle, causing the neck to fly off in a beautiful explosion of sparkling golden liquid.
"Let's have the weddings this weekend!" Damon cried out, as if caught up in the general excitement. "We've waited our whole lives to find these ladies - why wait now?"
Yes, why wait? I thought. Let Damon's games begin.
Chapter 10
November 6, 1864
Damon is back, though it seems he was never actually gone. He has been watching me, baiting me, controlling me. He is the puppet master and I am his hapless marionette, forced to do his bidding.
Until I saw Damon, I had not realized just how fond I had become of the Sutherlands, of how they eased my loneliness and gave me hope that I might not have to live in exile. Though I knew I had to leave them, I had dared to hope that by proving I could stay in control around them, my journey through this world might ultimately be less solitary.
But Damon knows me all too well. He might have compelled the Sutherlands to accept me, but he didn't compel me to stay in their presence. I could have slipped out this morning, could have run off in the park, could have disappeared into the crowd at the ball. And yet I stayed, because, as Damon no doubt predicted, I liked being part of a family again, even if just for a few fleeting days.
Damon's plan terrifies me - precisely because I don't understand it. Why New York? Why the Sutherlands? Why involve me? If Damon was able to orchestrate everything, to so seamlessly weave his way into the Sutherlands' lives and pave the way for my arrival, why stage such a spectacle? Why bother with a marriage? Why not just take Winfield to the bank and compel him and the teller to empty his vast accounts? Does he intend to live as a human? Does he need the marriage for legitimacy in New York society? Is he simply intent upon torturing me?
Or is there something I'm missing? Some secret aim I can't possibly begin to imagine. . .
All I have are questions. And I fear that the answers won't come until the first dead body shows up.
Later that Monday afternoon, I stood on the roof deck of one of the most amazing Federal-style houses ever built. Slim columns supported a soaring porch over a formal entrance, to which a grand, curved driveway rolled up as royally as a red carpet. From casement to cornice every detail was thoughtfully considered and never overdone. The dining room, large and oval, was (as near as I could tell) exactly the same as the one in the White House. The White House. In our new capital. That's the sort of place the Commandant's House was, as befitted the man who looked after the Brooklyn Naval Yards.
What it lacked in size and modern touches (such as the Sutherlands' residence), it more than made up for in perfectly manicured lawns, a fine orchard, and a spectacular view of Manhattan. The property was perched almost on a cliff surveying the East River and the city that was under the Navy's protection. Commodore Matthew Perry himself had lived there earlier. I sighed at its magnificence.
"No," Bridget said, shaking her head decisively and heading back downstairs, picking up the train of her skirts in a very businesslike way.
Her little entourage followed, laughing good-naturedly.
"It's too white," joked Bram.