Perhaps the most impressive part of the house was the grand ballroom. Garland had obviously had it prepared for a dramatic viewing. The curtains were closed so that the room was made brilliant with all five tiers of the four crystal and gold chandeliers fitted with candles that had been lit. The light that spilled from the chandeliers reflected off the grand crystal fountain, weaving threads of radiance over the walls. Mirrors captured it and carried it further, illuminating everything silver and gold. The room was dazzling.

“It’s a veritable wonderland,” my mother said. I spun to look at her when she added, “This house is filled with magic.”

Did she actually feel that?

The ballroom was so large that our footsteps echoed, because there wasn’t anything much in it at the moment, except for the long table with samples of service uniforms with different color combinations and the new piano. The hardwood floor looked as new as the day it was installed. A corridor in the house ran above the far wall. It was difficult to make out too much because it was dark. Would I ever get to know every nook and cranny? How does anyone call such a vast residence home?

“In the horrid event that it rains on our wedding day, we can, as you see, hold the ceremony and reception in here and not feel crowded at all,” Garland told my parents. “My family has held many a big event in this ballroom, including a reception for Robert E. Lee, among other famous people like senators and congressmen. There’s an extension to the kitchen with an additional stove, sinks, and storage when we have to service a large number of people.”

“Have you had such a big event here recently?” my mother asked.

“No, not recently,” Garland said. He thought a moment and then smiled to add, “Not since my father was alive.”

“Hopefully, you will have many now,” my mother said wistfully.

“Oh, without doubt, Mrs. Dixon, without doubt. In the meantime, shall we choose the uniforms for the reception?”

The two of them started for the table. I looked at my father. Wasn’t my opinion important for this, at least?

He stepped up beside me to whisper, “Let her get totally involved, Corrine. The deeper she’s invested herself, the more she’ll accept any surprising news if we have to reveal it beforehand for some reason.”

At this point, I almost didn’t care whether or not she accepted anything, but I took his point and held back. Garland cast a satisfied, conniving glance at me while my mother debated this color or that. She never asked for my opinion or my father’s.

When they were finished, we walked out to another one of Garland’s carriages, driven now by Mrs. Wilson’s husband, John, a tall, lanky, light-brown-haired man who turned out to be quite the expert when it came to Civil War stories.