She did not add that she would come at the speed of a woman who had not slept.
The mirror offered her a pale mouth and a pair of stubborn eyes. She washed her face in cold water and pinched her cheeks until life returned to them.
In the morning room, the fire had been coaxed into something akin to cheerfulness.
Howard stood by the window, already dressed for town, a small roll of paper in his hand as if he meant to stride out and purchase fate. He did not look at her when she entered.
“Sit. A gentleman may call. If no one calls, you will sit until noon. I have business to attend to,” he spoke to the window.
Cordelia forced a smile. “Will you dine with us later, my dear?”
Howard tucked the paper into his pocket. “I will dine where I am required. Try to avoid embarrassing yourselves in my absence.”
He left without further ceremony.
The house exhaled once, then pretended nothing had happened. Gwen took a seat and tried to look as if she were not sitting in order to be inspected.
The long minutes unfurled. The clock spoke its thin truth. Her head drooped despite herself. She rested it against the corner of the sofa and thought of nothing at all.
Thatwas bliss.
“Wake up,” her mother whispered.
The whisper arrived with a small, embroidered missile. The pillow bounced off Gwen’s shoulder with gentility and mortification combined.
Gwen sat upright, blinking.
Cordelia’s eyes were wide with a mix of apology and excitement. “A caller,” she breathed.
A hundred possibilities flew at Gwen and skittered away.
The Duke. Perhaps he sent word… or the money.
Do not be a fool, Gwendoline. He would never present himself like a shopman at our door. Calm down.
A footman she had never seen before entered with a small tray. Upon it lay a single card and a sealed vellum packet edged in silver. No gentleman followed.
The strange footman bowed. “A messenger for Lady Gwendoline,” he announced, before walking over to Gwendoline.
He leaned in and whispered, “From the Duke of Greystone, My Lady.”
Gwen took the envelope and broke the seal. A faint scent drifted to her nose, something like roses kept in an iron casket. She read the neat, assured hand.
The Duchess of Bellweather requests the company of Lady Gwendoline Reeves at a private garden party this Wednesday at four o’clock. Sundials, Riverside. Intimate musical selections to be performed. Tea and light conversation to follow. Present card to be admitted.
Gwen read it twice more to be certain she was not hallucinating. The Duchess of Bellweather was a creature of fashion and force. Her parties were the kind of gatherings that begat other gatherings, and then anecdotes, and then paragraphs in gossip columns that pretended to be casual praise while tallying winners for the Season.
The Duchess took pains to curate her guest lists. She did not invite troublesome spinsters who spent last year being seen with gentlemen they had never met.
Cordelia pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh, darling.”
Gwen managed a small, careful smile. “It appears I am to drink tea among sundials.”
“Praise heaven,” Cordelia whispered. “Perhaps last year will be forgotten after all!”
Gwen folded the invitation and slid it into the pocket sewn into her gown. Her heart did a small, alarmed flutter.
Why invite me now? Who put my name on Her Grace’s list?
