1 of 4
Photography by Whitney Curtis
This year’s Queen of Love and Beauty, Charlotte Capen Jones, takes her place beside the Veiled Prophet.
2 of 4
Photography by Whitney Curtis
Miss Taylor Rose Harris mingles with fellow maids.
3 of 4
Photography by Whitney Curtis
The Bengal Lancers provide the night with some comedic relief. At one point, a lancer nearly spears a maid by accident, all part of the fun. “At least they’re all wearing pants this year,” one observer jokes.
4 of 4
Photography by Whitney Curtis
Miss Megan Elise Goddard makes her debut.
The carpet is red, I seem to remember, but it’s now hidden by a patchwork of voluminous gowns, a rainbow of taffeta and satin. It’s a few minutes before 7 p.m. on December 22 at the downtown Hyatt, and 49 maids of honor are preparing to make their debuts at tonight’s 131st Veiled Prophet Ball. This holding area would usually be off-limits to press, but after weeks of negotiations with the secret organization’s secretive spokesman, I’ve been allowed behind the scenes. VP members in white tie and tails tiptoe around the skirts, offering the young women, all sophomores in college, curiously strong breath mints, as well as tissues for dabbing perspiration. “You look lovely,” they say again and again. A spread of cheese and veggies, intended to tide the girls over until the midnight dinner, goes untouched. Seamstresses stand at the ready to correct any wardrobe malfunctions.
Photography by Whitney Curtis
Miss Allyson Brockman Kang is escorted by her father.
Standing near the bar in a simple (relatively speaking) red gown, Miss Allyson Brockman Kang says she was initially opposed to participating, on the sole basis that “I would have to wear a dress, but then I realized it would be fun and an opportunity to make friends.” If Kang is the shyest girl in the room, Miss Taylor Rose Harris, the ball’s only African-American maid, is the most outgoing. Asked what tonight means to her, she answers as if she were Miss America. “It’s such a wonderful experience, because this event celebrates women who give back so much through their service,” she says.
Indeed, the women honored tonight and their families have volunteered 4,000 hours in the months leading up to the ball. Kang packaged food for cancer patients, painted a house, and cleaned up a school. Harris speaks passionately about helping other members of minority groups who have been less fortunate. Tonight, though, more of the conversations are about gowns and makeup and hair. Blown Away in Ladue was bustling by 9 a.m. with debutantes seeking updos; hovering mothers had to stay behind a line of tape on the floor. Miss Megan Elise Goddard (“I’m just really excited—and nervous!”) and Miss Sophia Louise Tomaso (“I feel like a celebrity—so popular!”) bubble with nervous anticipation. One woman confides that she has avoided using the stove this week, afraid that her hair will catch fire.
A few minutes before 8, the girls are lined up, then walked out to the escalators to meet their escorts, usually family friends chosen by their fathers. Miss Claire Cecile Rainford, for instance, is escorted by father Jeff’s former boss Mayor Francis Slay. Then it’s time for the most challenging moment of the night: ascending the escalator to the fourth-floor ballroom without tripping over or snagging the flowing gowns.
The parade of debutantes processes to a roped-off area backstage, behind the yellow curtain from which they will appear, one by one, to much applause from the crowd. Each girl walks across the runway to the opposite end of the room, where the Veiled Prophet greets her and presents a small gift. (Contrary to popular belief, the modern VP looks nothing like a member of the Klan, his robes more purple and gold than white and his head adorned with a crown rather than a hood.) As her turn approaches, Kang remains cool. “Nothing is really reliant on my performance now,” she says. “I can walk. Other than that, it’s out of my hands.” Backstage, Harris warms up her smile by blowing raspberries. She beams for the entire walk.
“My father has been part of this organization since I was a baby, and I’ve always wanted to follow this tradition,” says Miss Taylor Rose Harris, “and it made me feel like a princess for the night.”
Before her turn, Goddard wonders aloud what the Prophet will say to her. “Maybe he’ll tell me I look nice,” she says. The garbed seer is supposedly a mystical being, but he’s really one of the city’s civic leaders, a different one each year, whose selection is a tightly guarded secret. Once all of the maids of honor have been seated on the stage, it’s time for the special maids. The Keeper of the Jewels, accompanied by costumed trumpeters, gestures to the orchestra to be quiet, then heralds the next girl from a scroll, proclaiming that “his mysterious majesty, the Veiled Prophet” summons them to his Court of Love and Beauty. The entire routine is repeated for each of the special maids, whose trains are carried by pages. When each special maid approaches the Prophet, she bows in a deep curtsy, then kneels as he places a feathered crown on her head. Last comes the Queen of Love and Beauty, “the fairest maid of his beloved city,” who’s given the place of honor on the plush throne next to the VP. The whole scene looks like the set of an Aladdin musical. The Bengal Lancers come out to show off their marching skills—and make fools of themselves, to the amusement of all. At one point, a lancer nearly spears a maid by accident, all part of the fun. “At least they’re all wearing pants this year,” one observer jokes. The ball ends around 10 p.m., but the evening is far from over.
Photography by Whitney Curtis
Tomaso and her father share a dance before the midnight dinner.
In the course of a furiously chaotic 15 minutes, an army of young VP members clears the ballroom for a cocktail reception and receiving line with the new queen. The maids of honor mill about with their fathers, hugging relatives and making important friends. The pressure now off, they sip wine and laugh at Dad’s jokes. About an hour later, the party moves back to the second floor, where gold ticket holders enter another ballroom for a midnight dinner and dance. As the maids arrive with their fathers, they’re greeted by a gantlet of cheering family and friends. Then it’s time for the traditional father-daughter dance. As the band plays “The Way You Look Tonight,” Kang and her father swing across the parquet floor. The dancing will continue until 3 a.m., when a breakfast is served, but when the clock strikes midnight, my all-access fairy dust expires.
The next day, I call a groggy Kang to ask her about the experience. Isn’t the whole idea of a debutante ball a little outdated? I ask the biochemical engineering major. “This was about an introduction to society, but at the same time, it was a recognition of my own community service and the community service my entire family has done,” she says.
Harris, an aspiring lawyer, agrees. “My father has been part of this organization since I was a baby, and I’ve always wanted to follow this tradition,” she says, “and it made me feel like a princess for the night.”
