Young Writers Society

The murmur of the party-goers nearly drowned out the piano music. Soft thud-thud-thuds of dancers’ steps against the polished wooden floors could be heard like up-beat, n off-time drummers. There was a haze in the air from the cigarette smoke which was puffed out so casually from the mouths of most of the men and the most deviant of the women. The ceilings were high, allowing the smoke to rise and exit out though the doorways and explore the grand house in thin wisps. Clanking of crystal dishware as drinks were sipped and h’orderves sampled amongst friends, strangers, and enemies.

“Ugh!” Mrs. Winston uttered, her nose wrinkled. “Look at that little Miss Pennyston. She thinks- yes, Mrs. Rimbaud, I do know what the girl is thinking!- anyway, what was it that I was talking about?” The noise had confused the woman, who, to the joy of her neighbors, quieted and pressed her fingers to her temples in a widely-ignored display of suffering.

Off to the side, leaning idly against a finely-carved wall, was a young man who watched the scene with eyes glazed-over with disinterestedness. The banter of the old ladies was his mother’s passion, not his. He amused himself with stealing glances of the young ladies, who blushed under the implications of his mischievous countenance. The boy, who was a young twenty-one years old, acquiescently pushed himself off the wall as his friend approached him.

“Alexander! ’Tis a wonderful party. The house is grand, quite grand. And it’s a spectacular night, though maybe a little humid,” the boy’s crony said, using his keen sense of observation. “Have you been out on the veranda?”

Alexander shook his head, fixing a crease on his lapel as he spoke, “no, I have not. In fact, I haven’t done a single jolly thing since I’ve arrived. It’s a grand party, you say? It seems to be just like the last party I attended: dull, long, and without a pretty face at my side. Those are the things, Albert, which ruin a party for a man.”

Albert sighed. “You are certainly a strange one. There are pretty faces flooding the room in abundance.”

“That,” Alexander began, tugging at his cuffs, “is of no consequence to me. I don’t wish to see an abundance of pretty faces. I only wish to gaze into one pair of eyes.”

Patting his friends back consolingly, Albert leaned in close to murmur, “you’ll never find that singular pair of eyes leaning against the wall, throwing around lewd looks like an outcast of society. No young lady will be taken with that attitude.”

Alexander blushed. “Lewd looks!”

“Don’t try to deny it, friend! I’ve seen the way you try to charm these young women, and you do nothing but frighten them off.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“I know it. And I try to be sure they know it. But that knowledge does not completely dispel their first impression of you.”

Alexander let out a long, embarrassed breath. “Will I ever find who I’m looking for?”

Just as he asked this question, destiny seemed to answer him. The doors opened and in walked Miss Henrietta Quin, a young lady who had just been introduced into society the summer before, a month following her elder sister’s wedding. The girl was taller than those of her age, with blonde hair that curled naturally around her temples. She was plump, with rosy cheeks and hazel eyes which leapt with winsome excitement from one mundane scene to another.

Her face was exceptionally pretty: she had a thin, concave nose; wide-set, round eyes; and high, proud cheekbones. Her forehead was large, and displayed her widow’s peak like a canvas displays a portrait. Her lips were thin and red with excitement.

Alexander coughed into his fist as a few men watched each other, anxious to be the first the lady would be introduced to that night.

Albert pulled his card from his breast pocket. “If you don’t go and talk to her, then I shall; for if cowardice be your reason for delay, I shan’t feel bad for leaving you behind in her favor.” His friend blushed; Albert’s booming voice easily reached each corner of the large, crowded room.

Alexander knew he was the handsomer of the two. He was tall thin, with brown hair that curled slightly at the edges and thick eyebrows. His beard, underneath his hooked nose, was thin and well-kept, though he stroked it now to be sure not a single hair was astray.

Albert was a few pounds stouter, which showed on his shorter frame. He had small blue eyes, a dramatic Roman nose, and thinning blond hair—a result of stress from the company, he would say-- that he hid with a top hat whenever he was in the company of society or a mirror. In his front pocket he concealed a sweat-stained handkerchief with which he used to clear the perspiration off of his pudgy forehead.

Though Alexander knew himself to be more physically beautiful than his friend, he could not forget that Albert was the more sociable of the two. He was almost constantly surrounded by people who actually enjoyed his company and gave him their loyalty, which was a rare occurrence in society. Alexander was not as inclined to create friends, knowing he would surely be fooled by a faulty acquaintance.

“Well?” Albert asked, his voice reaching Alexander through the loudness of his own thoughts.

“Oh, oh. Yes,” was the answer. Alexander walked over to the young girl, who caught his eye with a blush of excitement.

“Mr. Bamford!” the girl’s mother exclaimed, as if she were shouting out a large sum of money that she had won. The rest of the men awaiting a talk with the fair maiden returned to their old entertainments, knowing they had been outdone. “Congratulations on taking over your father’s business! You must be so excited.” Then she added, as if an afterthought, “your mother is coping with the loss?”

Alexander nodded. “Yes, she is doing quite well. I’ve seen her playing bridge with her girls, and Father’s champagne cellar is slowly being divvied up amongst them all each Sunday night.”

“Ah, good. Your father never was a remarkable man in any way other than his bank book,” the woman said

through the side of her mouth. “Has it been a year since? Only three months?” Her words caused him to flinch inwardly, and momentarily his sight was splashed with red, but his outer composure never changed, and Mrs. Quin was never aware of his feelings. “But, please, meet my youngest daughter, Miss Quin.” The mother wrapped her thick arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her forward. “Say ‘hello’, dear. Say it, go on, now. No time to be shy.”

Miss Quin curtsied, and her mother disappeared after a tray of food. “Hello,” she said, her voice low and throaty, and very pleasant to listen to. He wondered if she would sing for them later that night.

He bowed. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Suddenly, thunder cracked outside. From behind him, he could hear Albert say, “I told you it was humid!”

Just as the party-goers had calmed from the unexpected weather, a great wind blew through the mansion, blowing out all of the candles. Women screamed and grabbed each other; men rushed to their wives and sisters. There were a few electric lights that tried in vain to illuminate the large space, but soon they too went out.

Miss Quin whimpered where she stood. Alexander’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness when Albert came up behind him.

“Are you alright, Miss Quin?” he asked. Under the cover of the darkness, he elbowed his silent friend in the ribs.

“Oh, I- yes, I should be alright,” she replied. Her voice was mousy in its speech, and Alexander could tell she was frightened.

He held out his had just as lightening allowed him to find her exact spot in the darkness. “Here,” he began, “why don’t you sit?”

She took his arm and led her to a couch. There was only space for one, so he stood beside her, keeping a firm hand comfortingly on her shoulder.

“What happened?” she whispered, just in time for another crack of thunder and the horrified scream of a woman.

“He’s dead!” the mysterious voice cried. “It’s blood- blood everywhere! He’s dead! He’s dead!” Followed were other screams and a thump as the woman fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.