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“Then they’d think you were supposed to be the female version of Bacchus,” said Isobel.
“You could roll out clutching a wine bottle,” said Viola. “Perhaps we could find a cluster of grapes.”
“And we could dress one of the footmen in a Roman toga and have him lolling at your feet. You could feed him grapes.”
“Ladies,” said Beatrice. “While I appreciate your enthusiastic efforts to cheer me up, the fact of it is that this gown is hideous, I look ridiculous in it, and wine won’t improve anything.”
“Wine improves everything,” said Viola, taking a large sip from her glass.
“Mr. Wright is here,” said Beatrice.
“What, here at the ball tonight?” asked Viola.
“My brother invited him.”
“How does that make you feel?”
The butterflies sewn on her mask migrated to the inside of her belly. “It feels like I’ve walked over the edge of the ninny cliff and plummeted into the lovelorn abyss.”
“Oh. Beatrice.” Viola sat next to her on the bower. “Have you finally admitted it?”
“I don’t think I can hide it anymore.”
“Then don’t,” said Isobel, always so pragmatic.
“But he’s leaving soon. And I knew that, of course I knew that. But I continue to have these irrational dreams that he decides to stay, and that my mother magically transforms into someone who would allow me to be happy.”
“Does he make you happy?” asked Isobel softly.
“He does.” She hadn’t meant to admit any of this, but her friends were so dear to her and she was tired of suppressing her emotions.
“Maybe you can find a way to be together,” said Viola, ever the romantic.
“There’s another obstacle thrown in our path, ladies. Foxton visited the shop today and threatened me with the possibility of another heir to challenge my ownership of the property.”
“We’ll fight him,” said Isobel. “We’ll fight him to the death! He doesn’t know about me, for example, or my access to legal records.”
“Why are men so threatened by the idea of allowing women to have any power?” asked Viola.
“Ford... Wright suggested that we pay this potential heir a visit.” Beatrice sighed. “And there’s the problem of Mayhew. I’ll never marry him, obviously, but I haven’t found a way to inform my mother that all of her hopes are in vain.”
“Your mother lives in a fantasy world,” said Viola. “She thinks that if she sets the stage and writes the script, that you’ll learn to speak your lines like an obedient girl and accept the handsome prince, and live happily ever after.”
“Poor Mama,” said Beatrice. “She’s in for a rude shock. You know, I’ve been thinking. We women are all so critical of ourselves. We’re too plump, or too thin. Too tall, or too short. Our hair is too curly, or too straight. We live in a society that rewards conformity to a strict set of physical standards and an even more rigid set of rules for proper behavior. We have these unpleasant thoughts running round and round in our minds. Wouldn’t it be revolutionary if we decided to love ourselves exactly the way we are?”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Viola, clinking her glass against Beatrice’s.
“I have an idea,” said Beatrice. “My mother won’t like it, but it’s not about her.” As she told her friends what she was planning, they nodded enthusiastically and offered helpful suggestions.
“Your mother will probably never let you speak to us again after this,” said Viola.
Her friends helped her with the transformation, keeping the maids from the room and watching for her mother.
No one disturbed them and soon Beatrice was ready.
“Are you certain that you want to do this?” Isobel asked her solemnly.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” Beatrice replied. “I’ve decided to stop hiding for the benefit of others. I intend to be wholly me.”
