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“Your grandmother waits for you in the parlor, miss.”
“Thank you.” I cannot help myself. “I’ll see myself into the Muenster.”
“As you wish, miss.”
And there we are, though it is a pity my wickedness has been wasted with no one to appreciate it but me.
“You’re late,” Grandmama announces the moment I open the doors to the parlor. I don’t know why she’s blaming me, as I was neither the driver nor the horse. She casts a disapproving eye over me from head to toe. “We’ve a tea to attend at Mrs. Sheridan’s. You’ll want to change, of course. And what has happened to your hair? Is this the fashion at Spence these days? It won’t do. Stand still.” Grandmama pulls my hair up so tightly that my eyes water. She sticks in three pins that nearly impale my skull. “Much improved. A lady must always be at her best.”
She rings a bell and our housekeeper arrives like a phantom. “Yes, mum?”
“Mrs. Jones, Miss Doyle shall need assistance in dressing. Her gray wool, I should think. And another pair of gloves that do not look as if they’re the charwoman’s,” she says, scowling at the smudges on my fingertips.
I’ve been home less than a minute, and already, I am under siege. I take in the dim parlor—the heavy burgundy velvet drapes, the dark green papered walls, the mahogany desk and bookcases, the Oriental rug, and the enormous fern in a heavy pot. “This room could do with a bit of light.” Hah. If it’s criticism she wants, two may play at that game.
Grandmama’s face furrows into worry. “It is a fashionable room, is it not? Do you say that it is not fashionable?”
“I didn’t say that. Only that it would be nice to let in the light.”
Grandmama eyes the drapes as if considering. But it is short-lived and she once again regards me as a village’s missing idiot. “The sun will only fade the settee. And now, if we have dispensed with matters of decorating, you would do well to dress. We leave at half past.”
A silent maid welcomes us to Mrs. Sheridan’s well-appointed library. The sight of so many books comforts me, which is more than I can say for the gray wool suit. It chafes and itches till I could scream. Mrs. Jones has laced me so tightly in my corset that if I dare take two sips of tea, one shall surely come out again. Five other girls have come with their mothers. I am horrified to find that I do not know any of them, though they seem to know each other. Even worse, not a one has been forced to wear drab wool. They look as fresh as spring, whilst I resemble the spinster aunt every girl dreads as chaperone. It is all I can do not to confide to the girl closest to me: “If I should die during tea—asphyxiated by my own corset—please do not let them bury me in such a hideous dress or I shall come back to haunt you.”
I’m under no illusions that this is simply tea; it is a marketplace, and we girls are the wares. While the mothers talk, we sip our tea silently, our smiles mirroring theirs as if we are players in a pantomime. I must remember to speak only when spoken to, to echo the sentiments of others. We work in concert to maintain the clear, pretty surface of this life, never daring to make a splash.
With each question, each glance, we are being measured in the exacting scales of their minds, teetering in the balance between their expectations and their disappointments. This one laughs too frequently. That one’s hair is coarse, her skin ruddy. That girl wears a dour expression; still another stirs her tea far too long, while one unfortunate girl daringly ventures that she finds the rain “romantic,” and is told quite firmly that the rain is good only for the roses and for bringing on rheumatism. No doubt her mother will scold her mercilessly in the carriage and blame the misdeed squarely on the governess.
For a brief while, the women ask us questions: Are we looking forward to our debuts? Did we enjoy this opera or that play? As we give our slight answers, they smile, and I cannot read what is behind their expressions. Do they envy us our youth and beauty? Do they feel happiness and excitement for the lives that lie ahead of us? Or do they wish for another chance at their own lives? A different chance?
Soon the mothers tire of asking us questions. They fall into talk that does not concern us. During a tour of Mrs. Sheridan’s gardens—of which she is exceedingly proud, though it is the gardener who has done all the work—we are left to our own devices, thank goodness. The trained masks melt away.
“Have you seen Lady Markham’s tiara? Isn’t it exquisite? I’d give anything to wear a tiara such as that, even for a moment.”
“Speaking of Lady Markham, I suppose you have heard the gossip?” a girl named Annabelle says.
The others are immediately drawn in. “Annabelle, what is it? What has happened?”
Annabelle sighs heavily but there is a certain joy in it, as if she has been bottled up all this time, waiting for a chance to share her news. “I am burdened with a confidence I will disclose only if you make promises not to share it with anyone else.”
“Oh, yes!” the girls promise, no doubt thinking of who shall be first to hear the unfortunate tale.
“I have heard that Lady Markham has had a change of heart and that she may not present Miss Worthington at court after all.”
The girls put gloved hands to mouths but their glee shows like a slipped petticoat. They’re glad for the gossip and doubly glad it’s not about them. I don’t know what to say. Should I tell them that Felicity and I are friends? Do they know?
The chorus begins: “Oh, dear. Poor Felicity.” “What a scandal.” “But she is so very cheeky.” “Quite right. It is her own fault.” “I do adore her, but…” “Indeed.”
Annabelle cuts in. Clearly, she is the queen bee among them. “Her independence does not endear her to the ladies who matter. And then there is the question of her mother.”
“Oh, what is it? I do hate my governess, for she never tells me a thing!” a girl with apple cheeks and a dainty mouth says.
Annabelle’s eyes twinkle. “Three years ago, Mrs. Worthington went abroad whilst her husband, the admiral, was at sea. But everyone knows she ran off to Paris to be with her lover! If Admiral Worthington were not the hero he is and a favorite of Her Majesty’s, Miss Worthington would have no place at all in decent society.”
I know a great deal about the horrors the admiral has visited upon his daughter, how he went to her bedroom late at night as no father should. But I swore to keep that secret for Fee, and who would believe it even if the truth were told? People have a habit of inventing fictions they will believe wholeheartedly in order to ignore the truth they cannot accept.
“But there is more,” Annabelle says.
“Tell! Tell!”
