I hope that will not be the case, for I do long to be a part of society here—the daily rides along Rotten Row, the receptions, luncheons, and evenings at the theater. It has been an exhausting but glorious experience so far, though I admit most of my acquaintances have been frustratingly superficial.
I realize, of course, that that is to be expected. I am in England after all, and people are reserved. I suppose my frustration comes from what occurred with Gordon two years ago. I must be an oddity. I crave adventure and my heart wants it, yet I know how dangerous it can be. I know I must strive to move beyond that mistake if I wish to live a proper and virtuous life. I only hope that my heart has not become too complicated. Sometimes I find it difficult to simply smile and be pretty, which is what is expected of me. I want something deeper than that. Something more honest. Indeed, what a challenge this is going to be....
Your loving sister,
Clara
Already late for her firstball in London—quite notably the most important ball of her life—Clara Wilson stood in the doorway of her sister’s boudoir, watching her chaperone, Mrs. Gunther, flip through a large stack of invitations.
“I’m sure it’s one of these,” Mrs. Gunther said, spilling a few of them over the edge of the silver salver onto the mahogany desk. “It has to be.”
Mrs. Gunther was a staunch woman—the only person her mother trusted to act as Clara’s chaperone in London. She was a great social matriarch in America and came from a very prestigious family, but unfortunately for Clara, Mrs. Gunther’s memory was not as sharp as it once was.
“It was at—or somewhere near—Belgrave Square. I at least know that. I remember Sophia describing it.”
Clara’s tiny heels clicked over the marble floor as she crossed the room to peer over her chaperone’s shoulder. There were certain to be a number of balls “at or somewhere near” Belgrave Square that evening.
“Is there any way I can help you remember?” Clara asked. They had to find it soon, for they were already late.
Mrs. Gunther flipped through invitation after invitation. They all looked the same—square, ivory cards with fancy titles in lavish print—and they all belonged to Clara’s older sister, Sophia.
Three years prior, Sophia had become the first American heiress to marry a duke. She and her husband, James, were immensely popular among the Marlborough House set, and there was never a shortage of social engagements to attend at any given moment—which made the task of finding the correct invitation all the more difficult now.
“The Wilkshire Ball, the Devonshire, the Berkley....” Mrs. Gunther said. “No, no, no. The Allison Ball. Could that be...? Wait, Lord and Lady Griffith.... Was that it?”
Mrs. Gunther continued to guess haphazardly at the names, and Clara’s hopes for the evening took a dive. Everything depended on this one night, and if Clara did not make an appearance at the ball, there might not be a second chance. For Clara—the latest American heiress to invade aristocratic London—had to pass the test. In order to be accepted and welcomed into British society as her sister had been, Clara had to glide into a London ballroom and win the approval of the Prince of Wales. Otherwise, she would end up returning to New York where her position in society was fragile, to say the least.
“Ah.” Mrs. Gunther turned to face Clara and handed her the invitation. “Here it is. The Livingstons on Upper Belgrave Street. I’m certain this is it. We can go now, my dear.”
Letting out a breath of relief, Clara smoothed a gloved hand over the antique lace on her French silk gown and touched the glittering diamond-and-pearl choker at her neck. She led the way out of her sister’s boudoir, the precious ivory invitation safe in her hand.
A moment later, they stepped out of the brilliantly lit manor and into the dark, still night. Mantles buttoned at their bare necks, ivory fans dangling from their wrists, they walked down the stone steps to the coach.
As soon as Clara reached the curb, however, her heel imposed upon a crack and she stumbled. The invitation went sailing out of her gloved hand, and she toppled sideways into a tall, extravagantly liveried footman who caught her and righted her before she even had a chance to notice him standing there.
Clara collected herself. “My word. Thank you!”
Without a hint of a smile, the man stood like a palace guard, his face made of stone.
Clara sighed hopelessly.The English.Pray, the people she would meet tonight would have a little more personality. A sense of humor at least.
Clara picked up the invitation and looked at it more closely. “What’s that symbol in the corner?”
Mrs. Gunther squinted at the small triangular medallion printed on the card, with the letters MWO above it. “I’ve no idea. I’ll ask Sophia when we see her.”
The footman handed them into the crested black coach with shiny silver fittings, then hopped onto the page board as the vehicle lurched forward and turned toward Belgravia.
A short while later, they pulled up in front of a grand manor house, lit up like a sparkling jewel in the night. Clara heard music from the orchestra inside while couples moved past the large windows, twirling on the dance floor to a Strauss waltz. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sizzled through her veins, and she gathered up her silk skirt to follow Mrs. Gunther out of the coach.
They made their way up the stone path to the front door beneath a massive portico. A broad-shouldered, bald man stood at the entrance, and when Clara and Mrs. Gunther approached, he stepped in front of the door, which was closed tightly behind him.
Mrs. Gunther rolled her shoulders in that haughty way of hers, a skill she had perfected. “We are here for the ball,” she said in her best matriarchal voice, with one intimidating eyebrow raised.
“Do you have an invitation?” His deep, booming voice didn’t intimidate Mrs. Gunther. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she reached into her purse.
“Here.” She handed it to him.
He glanced over it, then lifted his narrow gaze to assess each of them individually. Clara felt a prickling of dread, as if they were about to be turned away. Was this how her Season in London was to begin? A failure, before she even set foot in the door?
