Page 35 of A Taste of Miss Honey

“Do they use them to untangle unfortunate debutantes?” Izzy asked her sister.

An older lady who appeared to be escorting her two daughters turned and glared at her before looking away with a sniff of disdain. Izzy swallowed a giggle as Clemmie rolled her eyes.

“Hush, or I’ll show you what they’re used for,” she replied, sotto voce.

Inch by tortuous inch, they moved closer to the Queen’s drawing room. Spectators thronged the gallery, the onlookers whispering behind their fans as they passed judgement on the new crop of young ladies, freshly cut like spring flowers to be presented upon the marriage mart, each one hoping to be plucked, and not left to wither and die upon the dusty shelf of spinsterhood. Izzy caught one elegant woman’s eye. She was past the first blush of youth, but beautiful and sophisticated. The man beside her bent his head as she made some comment. They were both watching Izzy, then they laughed, and heat crawled up the back of her neck, scalding her cheeks as she turned resolutely away. Why was she doing this to herself? When she found Boreas, she was going to throttle him.

Feeling cross and out of sorts, Izzy took her glasses off and cleaned them, and then tugged irritably at her gown, trying to shift her stays enough to allow her a fraction of an inch to breathe.

“Stop fidgeting,” Clemmie hissed.

“I feel like a cow.”

Clemmie shot her an exasperated glare. “You wanted to come.”

“Yes, to town, not to auction,” Izzy grumbled, knowing she would have to apologise for being so tiresome but for now her nerves were jangling and she could not seem to stop herself.

Clemmie’s lips twitched. “It’s the same thing.”

Izzy sighed and resigned herself to boredom. With nothing better to do, she found herself listening in on a conversation happening behind her.

“He’s been in France this whole time—”

“—we assumed he was dead.”

“Well, what with his father—such a shocking scandal he created.”

Izzy turned her head slightly as the voices became quieter, whispering between each other.

“They say he’s just like him, the spitting image. So handsome, and so very wicked. Mothers will be locking up their daughters all over town.”

Izzy wondered who the man was as the women tittered with delight.

“Those with a dowry, at any rate,” returned the more cynical of the two.

“Well, you say that, but from what I hear, the son is wealthy, but his eyes, my dear—as cold as winter.”

“He’s aptly named, then.”

“I’d risk frostbite for a man like that.”

Izzy pulled a face as the women laughed and carried on in much the same vein. Really, this was too tedious.

Finally, after what felt like a decade and an interchangeable parade of gilt-edged corridors and opulent rooms, they arrived at the doors to the Drawing Room. Izzy took her place. Her shoulders ached from the weight of the train dragging behind her and her nerves leaped higher as she could now hear the names being called as each person was presented to Her Majesty.

Izzy glanced up at Clementine, who had suffered through this ordeal herself when she’d married Lord Beaumarsh. Yet one would never know that she’d been new to this such a short time ago. She carried herself with the poise and grace of a duchess. Izzy felt a swell of pride, and Clementine smiled at her with encouraging warmth.

“Nearly there.”

Indeed, the ornate doorway loomed before them, guarded on all sides. The queue ended here, in a final explosion of excessive silk, bobbing feathers, and suppressed panic.

Izzy clutched her fan, trying to remember her instructions and praying she would not fall on her face. She was next.

“Miss Isabelle Honeywell, presented by the Countess of Beaumarsh.”

Izzy moved forward, propelled by nerves and the memory of the hours of practice she’d endured back at Cavendish House. She was aware of Clementine’s steadying presence beside her, which was a good thing, as she had half a mind to bolt. And then she saw her.

Queen Charlotte stood in the centre of the room, every inch the monarch in a gown of such magnificence Izzy could not take it in, left only with a dizzying impression of dark velvet, gold, and diamonds. Princesses and attendants flanked her on all sides, each one of them dazzling in their own right.

Izzy forgot to breathe.

The sense of wealth and power was oppressive, making her feel terribly small, until the queen’s gaze settled upon her.

Suddenly the moment sharpened, and Izzy stepped forward. Somehow, she reached the appointed spot and sank into a low curtsey, just as she had practised. Her knees trembled, her ankle wobbled… Izzy prayed fervently and somehow made it back up again. She rose slowly, gracefully, with everyone blissfully unaware of how close she sailed to calamity beneath the huge skirts. Oh! So that was what they were for.

The queen inclined her head.

Izzy resisted the urge to give a little whoop of relief at the show of approval, all her attention riveted to backing out of the room and not tripping over her train, which remained a distinct possibility.

She moved with tiny gliding steps as sweat trickled down her spine until finally, she was done and found herself back outside.

Well, then. She’d done it, and no one had died, there wasn’t even a scandal or the slightest hint of a fracas. She was a bona fide debutante. Now all she had to do was get away from the polite world and find Boreas.