And Elizabeth had smiled. Had thanked her. Had played along, as if a ribboned bodice and a borrowed mask might carry her into a world where her name had not become a punchline.
She had imagined the dance. The moment. The miracle of being seen.
It was not logical. It was not even likely.
But still.
The bedroom door creaked behind her.
Jane’s reflection appeared—hair unpinned, robe belted, eyes too gentle.
Elizabeth stilled. “No.”
“I am sorry.”
She rose from the stool. “No. No, we agreed—”
“They changed their minds,” Jane said. “Mrs. Gardiner says we cannot risk another evening of scrutiny.”
Elizabeth blinked. “So I am to stay home. For safety.”
“For dignity,” Jane whispered.
A pause.
A knock. Mrs. Gardiner stepped inside, face pale with the strain of civility. “Elizabeth, you may hate me for this, but I will not have you ridiculed like a carnival jester. Not while they are passing drawings of you like caricatures in a music hall.”
Elizabeth’s hands gripped the edge of the vanity. “Is it truly so bad?”
“It is worse than that,” said her aunt. “And it will pass. But not if you give them more to whisper about.”
Her throat was tight. Words gathered but refused to sort themselves.
Jane crossed the room, reaching for her hand. “Please. Take it off.”
Elizabeth nodded—once. Mechanical. And began to unfasten the gown.
Each hook was a little knife.
She undid them anyway.
She did not weep.
Not when the decision was made. Not when her aunt folded the blue sash and slipped it into the drawer like a letter of rejection.
But her hands would not be still.
She laid out her writing paper with unnecessary precision. Drew her chair to the window as if summoned by dramatic instinct. Dipped her quill. Stared.
No words came. Not even a sharp one. Her wit, usually so eager to gnaw at the edges of discomfort, had abandoned her like a gentleman late to the altar.
She was not angry. She was not brave.
She was, at present, very impressively useless.
Outside, carriages rattled past—off to Mayfair, to Grosvenor, to ballrooms filled with music and people who still had names that earned invitations. Her name was now shorthand for poor judgment. A cautionary tale. A clever anecdote, if you liked your gossip a bit literary.
Behind her, Jane paced.
