Teagan's Books

Saturday, April 19, 2025

 Welcome back to our new serial story, The Dance of Discord.  We’re at episode-2.  (You can read the beginning of this early 1900s spy story here.)  Once again, I had in-depth research, although that was the fault of my own stubbornness.  Because I’ve loved jewelry and gemstones ever since I was a small child, I couldn’t resist adding this non-fiction topic today — Edwardian Era jewelry.     

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In the early 1900s white stones, pearls, and diamonds went along with a general fondness for white clothing, especially for ladies. Some wore strands of pearls so long that they reached below the knees.  Platinum was the favored metal, and it was most often made into delicate lacy designs.  If you look closely at the 1908 magazine cover below, you can see that most of the ladies have some sort of ornament at their collars.

“Monocle,” one of John W. Howell‘s three random reader things (also hatbox and collar pin) helped me see a character who will be introduced today.  A monocle draws so much attention that it’s the next thing to jewelry, but “collar pin” was the one that started a new round of research. 

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There are many different names for most things, so collar pin could have gone a number of ways.  The kind I imagined (a bar pin that goes through the knot of a necktie for men) was not invented until 1920.  However, for women of the early 1900s certain brooches were worn at the collar.  Then there were the jewel-encrusted collars (sometimes called dog collars) that were fashionable for wealthy women.  Also, I found pictures of a sort of complicated brooch for women that has lovely bits that attach to each side of the collar with chains connecting the two sides, which were worn before and during that timeframe. 

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At the collar or cuffs, women and men of that time loved their jewelry.  They wore it from elegant buckles at their shoes, to filigree and gemstone combs in the women’s hair, or sometimes a silver bobble pinned to a man’s hat.  I enjoyed this short article (among many). 

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 Now to the new serial story.  John W. Howell‘s random reader things are hatbox,  collar pin, and monocle. 

Dance of Discord

2.  A Note

In wide-eyed dismay, I watched as a veritable troop of people whirled and turned in a different type of discordant dance.  Their strange ballet transformed my home into something suitable to host dignitaries from across the globe.  Mr. Drummond, the chief from the Secret Service Bureau popped in several times to oversee the proceedings.

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Despite his problematic knee, the whitehaired man twirled out of the way when the tall stack of light-weight boxes toppled.  Then he neatly caught a hatbox before it could overturn a nearby lamp.  However, he stumbled as two movers brought in yet another velvet upholstered settee, and he landed to lay supine on the cushions.

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Milo Quick had been overseeing similar “dances” in the kitchen.  He looked at his superior and smirked.

“If you ever so much as think about suggesting that I’m lazy, this tale will be spread far and wide,” Milo remarked, holding back a laugh.  “I’m surprised Felina hasn’t been supervising the chaos in the kitchen.  Have you seen her?”

“Mind your tongue.  I’m still your chief,” Drummond replied with only a slight quirk of his lips and then he got to his feet and pointed upward.  “Felina?  Oh, the duchess.  She’s up there.  I guess inspecting the food in the kitchen is one thing… but men moving furniture is something else altogether.”

“What do you think of all this, Duchess Gattone?” the chief asked, having spotted me where I lurked at the top of the broad curving staircase.

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Narrowing my eyes, I cast a baleful look down at him.  I quite liked my home exactly as it was, thank you very much.  My lack of speech was not an issue, because Gideon interrupted.  The butler eyed the Secret Service chief curiously, then he held out a silver salver.  The little tray held a folded sheet of cheap-looking paper.

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“Sir, I believe it’s an invoice,” Gideon intoned and walked away.

Stuart Drummond turned with the intention of giving the bill to my housemate, but Milo had prudently disappeared into the confusion.  Drummond gave a resigned sigh.

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Elsewhere in the city, a Belgian ambassador was presented a salver which held a very different paper.

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Inside the study at an elegantly appointed residence, a diplomat of middle-years leaned back in a chair.  He straightened the elaborately embroidered sleeve of his blue uniform.  Thread of gold also glittered on the red epaulettes at his shoulders.  Attentively he watched the Belgian aristocrat across the table open a velvet box.

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“Thank you for taking time away from your other guests.  That is a humble token of friendship my wife sends to your baroness.”

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“Now, my wife will be even sadder that she could not come with me to the United States.  A collar pin?” Baron Rogier Dessain exclaimed in a carefully moderated tone of pleasure when he beheld translucent lavender jade cabochons in a lacy platinum setting.  “General…  Ambassador, on behalf of my wife, I am honored to accept this beautiful token of friendship.”

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Discretely, a servant leaned over Baron Dessain and presented a salver bearing a sealed envelope.  Inside was a single sheet of Belgian embassy note paper with a terse line penned by Enno, his secretary.

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“A lady is waiting for you.  She insists that she must see you immediately and that the matter is of the greatest importance,” Baron Rogier Dessain’s brow wrinkled as he read the note.

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“Not possible tonight,” he took up the pencil that waited on the salver and scribbled.  “Have her call at the embassy tomorrow morning,” then he folded the note and handed it to the servant.

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After a brief private conversation with his guest, the baron guided the general back to the large room, where dinner was being served to ambassadors and other dignitaries from across Europe and what was known as Latin America.

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Yet less than half an hour later, the scenario played out again.  Just as the oyster course had been taken away and the cream of celery soup was presented, a servant brought him another mysterious note.  Irritated, Dessain pushed the missive aside.  He tried to continue the small talk with a pearl-bedecked dowager seated next to him.  However, curiosity won.  Removing the gold rimmed monocle from his breast pocket and putting it to his eye, he opened the note.  Within was a white card with the unsigned demand that he come to the embassy at once.

The handwriting was unmistakably that of a woman, although he had no idea who had written it.  Dessain examined the card.  The reverse side was blank, except for a crest which he recognized quite well.  He almost choked on his soup.

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Baron Rogier Dessain immediately went to his automobile where the driver waited at its door.  Within five minutes he reached the embassy of his country.  Enno met him in the hallway.

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“The lady is waiting in your office” Enno explained apologetically. “I gave her your message, but she is determined that she must see you.”

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“What name did she give?” the baron asked.

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“She said no name would be necessary,” the secretary replied anxiously.

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A slightly puzzled expression touched the ambassador’s face as he entered his office.  Standing before a window, gazing idly out into the night, was a young woman gowned in shimmering fabric.  It fell away to bare her smooth shoulders.  When she turned, he found himself looking into a pair of amber eyes.  Her gaze was frank, but its guilelessness was indefinably, subtlety alluring.

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The baron could not have described her as beautiful.  However, a certain charisma radiated from her, holding his glance.  He bowed low and then closed the door.

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“Madame, I am at your service,” he said in a tone of deep respect.  “Pardon my delay in coming to you, s’il vous plait.”

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“I should have written the first note myself,” came her gracious reply.  “It would at least have saved a little time.  You have the card I sent?”

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Unspeaking, he produced the card, crest-side down, and handed it to her.

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She struck a match, which reflected in her eyes making their amber color flame.  She put the match to the card, and watched as the paper blackened, curled and burned down to the corner she held in her gloved hand.  She dropped it into an ashtray.  Then she turned to the baron with a brilliant smile. 

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“No harm is done,” she went on lightly.  “The dinner you are hosting tonight isn’t of any consequence, but I should like very much to attend the ball the Americans will hold.  Can you arrange it for me?”

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“Madame, I’m not certain how I would proceed,” the baron objected.  “It would be rather unusual, difficult, and if I may be so bold—”

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“Ah, but these Americans are overly impressed with positions of power, and they swoon at royal titles.   You are both an ambassador of Belgium and a baron.  Surely you can arrange it somehow?” she interrupted, demurely lowering her eyelashes.  “The highest diplomatic representative of our nation should not find it difficult to arrange so simple a matter as a lady attending a ball,” she added reasonably.

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Baron Rogier Dessain was respectfully silent and deeply thoughtful for a moment.  An inner struggle seemed to take place within him, resentment and an uneasy sense of rebellion that he was being used.

“Your requests are unprecedented, and they undoubtedly will draw unwanted attention,” he protested.

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Her amber eyes twinkled.  Then she smiled a little smile and gave a melodic chuckle.  There was no trace of impatience in her manner.

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“I had hoped that this would not be necessary,” she sighed as she produced a sealed envelope.  “Please read it.”

The baron’s eyebrows lifted as he took the envelope, opened it and read what was written on a folded sheet of paper.  His facial expression abruptly changed.  He looked at the woman in wonder.  Again, he bowed low.

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“I am at your service, Madame,” he repeated.  It will be my honor to make any arrangements that are necessary.  Again, je m’excuse.   Also, your name must appear on the invitation,” the baron explained.  “If you will give me your name I’ll have my secretary—”

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“Oh, yes, my name,” she interrupted whimsically.  “My dear baron, you embarrass me.  Actually, I have no name.  Isn’t it awkward?”

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“I understand perfectly, Madame.  I should have said a name,” he consented, and she thought for a moment.

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“Very well.  You may say Miss Jouret — Miss Zola Jouret,” she finally suggested.  “That shall do very nicely, don’t you think?”

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End Episode 2

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  I’m sure the name will do nicely at that… but are these two nice or naughty?  Friendly comments are welcome.  Hugs!

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Of course, here’s the obligatory shameless self-promotion.

A Peril in the Vines

Universal Purchase Links

A Peril in the Vines

e-book:  relinks.me/B0DS4G7RSD

Paperback:  relinks.me/B0DS69GJDV

A Medium’s Peril full series link: relinks.me/B0CG2SXX24

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This is a work of fiction.  Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene

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