Chapter 1
Oxfordshire, April 1899
“Fern!”
Fern huffed out a breath, wishing for a third arm so she could cover her ears without putting down her book. Her mother had been screeching louder and louder for the past fifteen minutes, even sending up an unwitting maid and a reluctant footman, before the mounting frustration in the woman’s voice made her feelings obvious to anyone within a mile of their estate. Two decades of experience ignoring her mother’s demands were rendered moot when the Viscountess Redborne wanted to go shopping.
Fern’s eyes darted over the engrossing volume of statistical analysis, hoping to steal a few more minutes with the text. She loved finding the patterns, predicting the future from the configurations, and seeing the beauty inherent in the numbers.
“Fern!”
Fern flinched at the noise and dropped the book to the floor as she got to her feet. “I’m coming!” She pulled on her low boots and a fawn sweater over her forest green muslin dress, then dashed down the stairs to meet her mother and sisters in the foyer of their home. The ancient walls of Boar’s Hill, the ancestral seat of the Redborne viscountcy in Oxfordshire, overflowed with family heirlooms and portraits of past viscounts, screaming of the rich history of their hallowed ancestors. The eyes of long-deceased forebearers seemed to follow Fern in silent judgment as she tromped down the stairs.
The slack jaws and wide eyes of three of the Waverly women met Fern’s arrival. She knew that look: she had donesomething wrong. Her life was full of moments where she did something wrong or said something wrong. Fern gave herself a mental once-over.Wearing appropriate shoes? Yes. Dressed correctly for the weather and social situation? Yes, or close enough for my purposes.
“Fern,” her twin sister Rose whispered, widening her eyes and then patting her own head.
Oh, yes, her hair. She should probably brush it. Being twenty years of age, Fern should have a better grip on managing her appearance, at least according to her mother. Having dispensed with the use of a ladies’ maid years ago, a necessity since the employment services refused to send any more to the house, the responsibility for Fern’s upkeep was entirely in her hands.
She turned on her heel and dashed upstairs, ran a brush through her fine brown hair enough times until she could sweep it back in a simple knot. She looked in the mirror for anything else her mother may object to, referring to the portrait she had posted next to her vanity.
Frustrated with her mother’s incessant disapproval of her appearance, Fern drew a sketch of herself when she appeared presentable: hair smooth and pulled back from her pale cheeks, dress neat and without stains, boots or slippers on her feet. Fern captured a remarkable likeness of her body on paper, but not her face. She never drew faces. While the symmetry of the human body fascinated her, she could never capture the human visage without it seeming inhuman, soulless and cold on the page.
Straightening the collar of her dress, she confirmed it lacked stains and she was, in fact, wearing boots and stockings. She nodded once at her reflection in approval and bounded down the stairs.
Lady Clara Waverly, Viscountess Redborne, began dressing her five daughters in colors matching their names from the moment they arrived in the world. White for the eldest daughter Lily, yellow for their second, Marigold. Her third daughter Violet waited at the bottom of the stairs in a walking dress the exact shade of the heliotrope blooming in the garden, topped with a purple velvet hat adorned with a long purple feather. Rose’s more understated pink wool skirt, fitted pink jacket, and white topper embellished with pink roses did not distract from her beauty but emphasized her narrow waist and gleaming chestnut brown curls.
Blast.Fern had forgotten her hat. She turned to fetch it when she heard her mother release a heaving sigh. Again. “We haven’t time, Fern. Mrs. Hastings is waiting to give you the final fitting before tomorrow night.” Shaking her head, Lady Redborne shooed her girls forward into the waiting carriage.
Chatter about the upcoming party filled the brief but bumpy ride into Oxford proper.
“Your father will be so surprised by this year’s event,” the viscountess remarked, sitting back on the plush velvet cushions.
“This party happens every year for his birthday, Mama,” Fern said. “How would he be surprised?”
“Because he will be sixty,” Rose retorted, as though achieving this milestone was akin to discovering a previously unknown continent. “And we have never hosted a masquerade before!”
“The masquerade was a brilliant idea, Rose!” Violet beamed. “How exciting!”
“We had masquerades often when I was a girl, but they went out of fashion,” Lady Redborne told her daughters. “I am thrilled to bring them back into style.”
“It will be glorious, completely unique, and utterly decadent!” Rose squealed with delight.
“And besides, it will be important to put forward a good face,” Lady Redborne continued, her jaw tightening. “In light of…what happened.”
Three pairs of eyes shot to Violet, whose elfin form crumpled into itself as she stared at her lap. Violet’s broken engagement a month prior represented a black stain on the family’s reputation, unfairly assigned to Violet considering she had been blindsided by her fiancé‘s unfaithful behavior. How cruel women always bore the brunt of gentlemen’s misdeeds.
Lady Redborne cleared her threat. “The party will be a great success for you as well, Vi.”
Fern sat silently, counting the fir trees they passed on the way, exhaling slowly through her nose. It added up to twenty-seven every time they made the trip. She was always deeply satisfied when she reached the final tree, as though everything was right in the world. Counting trees was one of several routines she relied upon when her body began to tense, overwhelmed by the chaos of the world around her.
The fine hairs on Fern’s arms rose in slowly mounting panic as her mother recited the list of guests who would be in attendance, from everyone of importance in Oxfordshire to social elites who would make the short trip from London. Nothing distressed Fern more than people, except perhaps having to impress those people.
Her mother waspopular, as Rose explained to her twin on multiple occasions, meaning the viscountess filled her days with social calls, teas, card games, dinners, and balls. She maintained both a country home and a London townhouse, had credits at every trendy shop, and dressed at the height of fashion.
“And, of course, my dear aunt Margaret will arrive from Hampshire tomorrow,” Lady Redborne said, casting quick glances at her daughters. Violet’s eyes went as wide as saucers while Rose winced. Fern grinned. Her father once remarked that Fern inherited her bluestocking tendencies from her bookish and eccentric aunt and enjoyed it when the unpredictable woman came to visit.
“Will she be chaperoning us?” Violet asked, the trepidation in her voice barely contained.
