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“Thank heavens I’ve found you!” Felicity trills. “Good evening, Lord Denby. Would you mind awfully if I borrowed Miss Doyle?”

Lord Denby is all smiles. “Not in the slightest, my dear.”

“Where have you been? You must save me,” Felicity insists, linking her arm tightly through mine.

“From what?”

“Horace Markham,” she says with a laugh. I glance over her shoulder and see Horace looking after her. He holds fast to her fan as if it were Felicity herself. “The way he moons over me,” she says, making a face. “Hideous.”

I laugh, happy to be in Fee’s world, where everything from a lovesick suitor to the choosing of a hat is ripe for drama. “You shouldn’t be so charming,” I tease.

“Well,” she says, tossing her head, “I can’t help that, now, can I?”

Felicity and I take refuge on a terrace overlooking the street. The drivers have gathered in a huddle, keeping one another company. One tells a joke, and I can see by the way the others lean in that it is naughty. They fall into laughter but quickly disperse at the sight of one of the guests. Hats are donned, spines are stiffened as Lucy Fairchild walks toward her carriage. Simon keeps pace, but Lucy’s chaperone shuts him out. The driver helps the women into the carriage and it pulls away from the curb, leaving Simon behind.

“How delicious!” Felicity exclaims. “Scandal! At my ball—and not involving moi. Astonishing!”

“Yes, it is rather astonishing that there are events which have nothing at all to do with you, isn’t it?” I quip.

Felicity puts her hands on her hips, a wicked smile on her lips. “I was to offer you lemonade, but now, I shall only satisfy myself. You may watch me enjoy it and suffer.”

She saunters off and I let the cool night air wash over me. Down below, Lord Denby consoles his son. They exchange words I cannot hear. Lord Denby prevails, and he and Simon return to the ball.

As they pass, Lord Denby sees me on the terrace. He stares daggers at me, and I put my fingers to my mouth and blow him a kiss.

I spend the day after the ball, Sunday, with my family before returning to Spence. The seamstress has come to fit my gown to me and make minor adjustments. I stand before the mirror in my half-finished gown whilst she takes in a pinch here, adds a ruffle there. Grandmama hovers nearby, barking instructions to the woman, fretting over every little detail. I pay her no mind, for the girl staring back at me from the mirror is starting to become her own woman. I can’t say exactly what it is; it’s not something that can be named. I only know that she’s there, emerging from me like a sculpture from marble, and I’m most anxious to meet her.

“You look like your mother. I’m sure she would have wanted to be here for this,” Grandmama says, and the moment is ruined utterly. Whatever was struggling from the marble of me is gone.

You’ll not mention my mother again, I think, closing my eyes. Tell me how beautiful I look. Tell me how happy we are. Tell me I shall be someone, and there’s nothing but blue-sky days ahead.

When I open my eyes, Grandmama smiles at my reflection. “Dear me, aren’t you a vision in that dress?”

“The picture of loveliness,” the seamstress chimes in.

There. That’s so much better.

“Grandmama tells me you’ll be the loveliest girl in London for your debut,” Father says when I join him in his study. He’s sorting through drawers as if looking for something.

“Can I be of help?” I ask.

“Hmmm? Oh. No, pet,” he answers, distracted. “Just cleaning out a few things. I must ask you something unpleasant, however.”

“What is it?” I take a seat and Father does the same.

“I heard Simon Middleton was far too familiar with you last night at the ball.” Father’s eyes flash.

“He wasn’t,” I say, attempting a laugh.

“I hear that Miss Fairchild refuses to admit him,” he adds, and I feel a twinge of remorse, which I push away.

“Perhaps Miss Fairchild wasn’t a proper match.”

“Still…” Father trails off into a coughing fit. His face is red, and he wheezes for a full minute before settling into easier breathing. “London air. Too much soot.”

“Yes,” I say, uneasily. He looks tired. Unwell. And suddenly, I’ve the urge to be with him, to sit beside him like a child and let him pat my head.

“You say Simon Middleton has nothing to answer for?” Father presses.

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