Page 21 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Your book isn’t what counts. She is skinny. Pallid. A bit nearsighted.”

“You didn’t read that in Debrett’s.”

“No. It’s common knowledge.” Dessie shuddered. “It is awful to think about. I remember my coming out ball. The glee. The excitement. No expense spared.”

“The beaus lined up down the street.” Great fun so long as the Delancey sisters didn’t aspire to marry into New York Society’s uppermost “old money” echelons. Which they didn’t, but Daddy thought they should. And when they were relegated to the fringes, he simply aimed higher.

“The point is, I looked forward to it for months. Probably years. While Lady Elizabeth is probably dreading hers.” Her face fell, and she stared into the distance for a moment before returning her attention to Ophelia. “So, anyway, do your best not to outshine the poor girl. I wish you still had that awful gown you wore to my coming out. That was sweet of you, by the way. I knew what you were doing and I was ashamed of myself for letting you.”

“I wasn’t doing anything. I liked that dress.”

Dessie cringed. “Please don’t say that. Your taste can’t be that bad.”

She’d meant to respond in kind, teasing, but a flicker of panic kindled in her breast as she imagined a coming-out ball and the unfortunate Lady Elizabeth. “I don’t think I should go. Not if Lynch needs this man’s support.”

“Well, that’s the dilemma, isn’t it?” Dessie said. “There’s no shadow big enough to conceal you. You’re beautiful and you’re a novelty. But you can’t possibly say ‘no’. No one says ‘no’ to the Barringtons.”

*

After thumbing through the rest of the cards and writing a few responses, Dessie retired to dress for the day. Ophelia buried her nose in a rather lurid novel until her sister returned wearing a sunshiny jonquil morning dress. Pretty, yet simple. Ophelia remembered helping her choose the pattern but hadn’t pictured how lovely it would look on Dessie once completed.

“That dress suits you. I know our dressmaker at home said we should never wear yellow with our coloring, but she was wrong. At least, in your case.”

Dessie smiled. “I love the color. One nice thing about being married is I can please myself. I don’t have to dress to appeal to men.”

“You never did.” That didn’t come out quite as she meant it. “Never did have to. And no man would find you unappealing in that dress.”

With a laugh, Dessie brushed aside the scold. “I’m sorry to leave you alone this afternoon.”

“Don’t be silly.” She tapped the book and wriggled deeper down into her armchair. “I have company.”

“I’m just worried you’re regretting your promise to spend a year here.”

A year? “The only thing I regret is spraining my ankle again.”

Dessie sat down and began jiggling her feet. “Perhaps we could invite a few people to supper.”

“You don’t have to entertain me.”

“Believe me, it won’t be entertaining.” She stood back up. Ophelia wasn’t used to seeing her so fidgety. Was she nervous about the ladies who would be at tea, or were fidgets another symptom of her new condition? “I suppose I should have the carriage readied. If Lynch returns before I do, tell him I’ll be home by—”

The Lynchfords’ butler, Peters, stepped into the doorway. “Lady Lynchford, there is a delivery for Miss Delancey. Shall I have it brought in?”

“Yes, do!” Dessie said. She turned to Ophelia, eyebrows raised. “How delightful! A delivery? Did you buy something?”

“No.” She shook her head, confused.

“Then I wonder who sent you a gift.”

“Maybe Daddy?” That was the only thing that made sense.

A moment later, two tidily dressed laborers wheeled in a large crate on a trolley.

“Put it there by the window,” Dessie said.

The men did. Then they pried open the crate and pulled off velvet wraps. Ophelia gasped. An Erard harp. It appeared to be an even finer model than the one she had at home in New York.

“Did you? Did Lynch? Oh!” She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the strings.