Her mother had insisted on that. Scarlett’s corsets were always laced as tight as possible, giving her a fairy-thin waist. Abigail was a little thicker in the trunk than her sister and was decidedly uncomfortable.
Aunt Florence chuckled. “Bless you, child, no. Some people are only invited to the ball, sure enough, but people like you and I attend for several days at a time. Don’t worry, it’ll give you plenty of time to settle in!”
Abigail highly doubted that.
There hadn’t been time to get her new dresses for every day, so she was obliged to wear one of Scarlett’s today – hence the tight-lacing – and the dress was wretchedly uncomfortable. Aside from being too tight, it was rather frillier than Abigail could have liked, and the shade of lilac did not, in her opinion, become her as well as a more muted colour would have done. Besides, Scarlett’s dress was a fraction too long for Abigail, and she had to keep kicking out the hem as she walked.
Too late now. The expensive concoction that had been ordered specially for her was already packed up and waiting, and she would undoubtedly have to wear it tonight.
Aunt Florence’s carriage was large and well-padded, a stark contrast to the Atwater carriage, which was in great need of respringing and reupholstering. Aunt Florence herself was sprawling out over one side of the carriage, looking very comfortable and rather satisfied with herself, and Abigail hunched over on the opposite side.
She wished, not for the first time, that she could be back in the library, or back in her own room, following the adventures of the unlucky Emily St. Aubert.
“You worry too much, my dear,” Aunt Florence said suddenly. Abigail glanced up, eyes wide.
“I… what, Aunt?”
“You heard me,” Aunt Florence responded, smiling wryly. “It’s just a ball. You’re just my quiet, reserved little niece, here to enjoy herself with everybody else. Nobody will expect anything of you.”
Abigail flushed. “I wish I could believe that. I… I’m afraid of doing something wrong. Embarrassing myself, you know?”
“I shouldn’t worry about that.”
“Won’t the authors of the gossip sheets be here?”
Aunt Florence sighed. “Probably. The wretched creatures keep themselves anonymous – knowing, probably, that Society would shun them if they were ever discovered – and they seem to be everywhere.”
“Well, what if I do something silly, and they write about me?”
Aunt Florence tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a possibility.”
Abigail sucked in a breath. “Aunt!”
“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not your mother. I don’t pretend you don’t exist when it’s inconvenient, but neither will I tell you reassuring little lies. The fact is, dear, very few people are ever mentioned in those scandal sheets. Only the shocking people. And you are notshocking,are you?”
“No,” Abigail muttered. “I’m not much of anything.”
Her aunt narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like defeatist talk, Abby.”
Abigail straightened her spine, steeling herself. “Why did you invite me, Aunt? Why put out my mother in that way? Why not bring Scarlett? She’s much prettier than me.”
“On the outside, perhaps. My dearest niece, you might as well know that I do a great many things justbecause that is how I act. I like your company, and I thought you deserved a little treat.”
“A treat would be sitting at home with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels,” Abigail countered, before she could think twice about it, “not attending a ball where I don’t know anyone and watching gentlemen pass me over for prettier ladies.”
She immediately clamped her jaw shut, wondering what had come over her. Aunt Florence, however, gave a great gurgle of laughter.
“That’s my Abby! Save some of that razor-sharp wit for the ball, please! Be yourself, my dear, and you’ll do fine.”
Abigail did not bother to point out thatbeing oneselfonly worked for pretty, charming, interesting women.
And rich men, of course.
The carriage took a slow, ponderous turn into a wide gravel drive, well-raked and trimmed with green hedges and towering oaks on either side. It was the grandest drive Abigail had ever seen, and she began to feel just a little ill.
She bunched her fists in the side of her gown – embroidered with delicate white flowers on the hem, another addition to an already gaudy gown that Abigail did not feel comfortable in.
The carriage turned out of the green driveway and into an open, circular courtyard in front of a terrifyingly grand house. People were milling about in the courtyard – servants, mostly. Gardeners, footmen, the occasional maid scurrying to get out of sight. At the front of the house was a set of wide, well-polished marble steps, leading up to an immense porch and a high door. The carriage slowed to a halt, the driver managing to stop without a lurch. Again, this was something that the Atwater driver could never manage.
