“My dear,” she said, her tone the brittle sort of sweetness that carried daggers beneath it, “I must say, your complexion has improved tremendously since the Season began. When I saw you last spring, you had such a... pale quality about you. Almost sallow. But now you’ve found some colour.”
Abigail blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or take offense. So, she was in the room after all, but only as someone to be criticized and judged.Marvelous.
“London air agrees with me, I suppose,” she replied evenly, reaching for her wine glass. Noticing she was running dry, a footman topped up her glass and she clocked a look from her mother which told her to slow down.
Lady Margaret nodded. “Indeed, or perhaps you’ve finally begun to grow into your features. That can take time in some girls. Late bloomers, as it were.”
Across the table, Harriet chuckled as though that were the most delightful remark she’d ever heard.
“Oh, Lady Margaret, you do have such a way with words,” she cooed.
Abigail glanced at her mother. Not even a flicker of defense in her expression—only satisfaction that her daughter was beingnoticed.
Lady Margaret pressed on. “I was saying to Edward only yesterday how refreshing it is that you’ve not succumbed to any of the morevulgarfashions. That dreadful French style—colour in excess and a décolletage best suited to actresses. I told him, ‘Edward, nowthere’sa girl who’s been raised properly.’”
Abigail felt her spine stiffen. “I’m sure you flatter me, Lady Margaret.”
“Not at all,” she replied smoothly. “It’s simply true. Of course, one always hopes for natural elegance in a prospective match. And as I said, yours is…developing nicely.”
Abigail stifled a choke as she almost inhaled a piece of duck.
At least now I can see where her son gets his version of being complimentary.
Edward gave a low chuckle. “She’s always so precise, my mother.”
Abigail fixed a thin smile in place. “Indeed.”
The conversation soon shifted to the state of the theatres in Covent Garden, and Lady Margaret’s lament that so many playwrights had turned to “pedestrian” themes. She spoke over Harriet with regularity and dismissed Abigail’s attempts to contribute with a wave of her hand.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the light operettas,” she said with a gracious smile. “They’re more suited to a feminine sensibility. All those romances and melodramas…”
“I prefer Shakespeare,” Abigail replied.
Lady Margaret blinked. “Really? I always found him rather... weighty. All that…male ruminating. Brooding gents, and tragic heroines.”
And wouldn’t the world be such a dull place if we all shared the same opinions?
Abigail gritted her teeth and counted to three before responding.
“He does have a great deal to say about the way power and ambition corrupt the soul,” Abigail countered.
Lady Margaret gave a condescending laugh, as though amused that Abigail would bother herself with such thoughts. “How clever of you to think of it that way.”
If Abigail had not spent years mastering the art of polite conversation, she might have buried her fork in the tablecloth… or, better yet, would have thrown it at Lady Margaret.
Instead, she sat straighter and said nothing, letting her silence speak louder than words.
Edward spoke of his recent visit to the family estate—how tiresome the steward had been, how difficult it was to find good help these days. He complimented Harriet’s table settings, praised the wine with a flourish, and offered a thinly veiled comparison between the Darlingtons’ silverware and a set gifted to his mother by a duchess.
Abigail said little. She picked at her food. She answered when addressed. But the lively, thoughtful woman from that morning had vanished, tucked carefully away beneath the armor of social composure. The familiar, suffocating weight of expectation pressed down upon her shoulders like waterlogged wool.
And through it all, Harriet was the epitome of a charming, insipid hostess.
Abigail folded her napkin, slowly and with great care. If she didn’t, she might throttle someone with it.
Harriet beamed across the table, utterly oblivious. “Such delightful company, is it not?”
Abigail gave a hollow laugh. “Delightful, indeed.”
