Prologue
April 1857
Beth
Beth wishes Mother could just leave well enough alone. The alcohol stings against her back and she shudders as Mother blows on the spot at the bottom of her left shoulder. Beth really doesn’t think one blemish would be the death of her. They’re lucky she didn’t break out in hives in front of the queen; one pimple can’t make that much difference now.
Beth stares at her reflection in her bedroom mirror as Mother adjusts her shift. Her makeup’s been done, dull brown hair coiled and wrapped artfully high on the back of her head, with careful pieces left framing her face. She looks no less a painted peacock than she did this afternoon, only now she’s exhausted, and hungry, and they haven’t even wrestled her into her hoop yet.
“You look wonderful,” Mother says, wrapping her arms about Beth’s shoulders and leaning down so their faces are level.
“Youlook wonderful,” Beth corrects.
Viscountess Cordelia Demeroven always looks perfect. High, sharp cheekbones, dark piercing brown eyes, bountiful hair swept back in an elegant chignon—she’s beautiful, and graceful,and (now that she’s out of her mourning colors) cheerful. She’s a constant social delight. Beth would rather sink straight into the floor than muster up that energy.
“You’ll be the talk of the ball,” Mother insists, gingerly nudging Beth’s head with her own. “The queen thought you beautiful, and I’ve already arranged a number of morning calls for us. All you have to do is smile.”
Beth glowers at her mother, who simply laughs and reaches around to tickle her. Beth shrieks and jumps away. Mother snickers. Twenty years and she’s never managed to curb that reflex, and Mother still revels in it any chance she gets.
“See,” Mother says, pointing at Beth’s suddenly flushed cheeks and reluctant laugh. “Beautiful. Now, let’s finish getting you ready.”
Beth sighs, but dutifully lets Mother help her into her corset, adjusting the modest padding. Beth has a naturally trim waist, but even the tightest stays can’t give her a bosom. Mother, by contrast, has ample curves beneath the lavender lace across her chest—modest, but coquettish.
She looks stunning in her purple skirts and Beth wishes for the thousandth time that she was more like her mother than her late father. They’ve divested themselves of everything else of his, but Beth’s figure isn’t something she can lock away in a trunk, out of sight, out of mind. Her round face, flat chest, and skinny frame are all his side of the family.
Beth steps into the hoop cage and helps Mother gather it to settle on her small waist. Together they adjust the hoops and then gingerly slip a petticoat over the curved steel and taping. Beth marvels at the lightness of her skirt and smiles as Motherwinks. It beats the seven petticoats she would have worn last year, had she been presented as planned.
Beth steps to the side to allow Mother to slip around her and pick up the skirt from her bed. Her hoops knock the vanity chair, and it scrapes loudly against the wooden floor. Beth groans and Mother laughs.
“You’ll adjust,” she promises.
“Right. I’ll knock them all over,” Beth says, going for playful, though she can tell by Mother’s frown that she’s come off more petulant and anxious.
“You’ll have fun. You might even meet someone special tonight.”
Beth narrows her eyes. “I thought I was to go into this with a sensible head for a good match.”
“There’s nothing that says a good match can’t be a love match,” Mother says firmly.
“Only that I’ve just the four months to fall madly in love or we’re dying in a hovel,” Beth counters. Mother’s frown deepens and her eyes turn downcast. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. Let’s do the dress.”
Mother steps in front of Beth, blocking her view of the mirror so Beth’s left looking at her quietly devastated face. She really didn’t mean to bring this up, tonight. She shouldn’t beat a dead horse.
“I hope you find someone youwantto marry. That is what I want for you.”
Beth nods, biting her cheek as Mother takes her hands. “I know.”
“And I’m very sorry. I hope you know that too,” Mother insists, ducking her head to catch Beth’s eyes.
“I know,” Beth agrees.
It’s not her mother’s fault they’re in this situation. And she’s spent almost her entire settlement as it is for their dresses. Now it’s Beth’s responsibility to make sure her mother’s sacrifices pay off. They need somewhere to live come the end of the season, and if Beth fails to find a husband—
“Let’s get you into this beautiful gown, shall we?”
Beth nods, breaking eye contact. She raises her arms so Mother can lower the skirt their housekeeper, Miss Wilson, laid out before they shooed her away to rest for the evening. She watches as Mother adjusts the fabric until it sits comfortably over her hips and then helps slide her arms through the short capped sleeves of the bodice.
She does look nice, she supposes. The blue compliments her pale skin and dark hair. Her hair can’t hold a candle to Mother’s, but she always enjoys wearing a few of her mother’s family jewels studded into her braided bun. Makes her think of when she and Mother used to get dressed up and throw their own fake balls when she was small—just the two of them alone in the country in their ball gowns while Father stayed in London for the winter season.
