She should scream at herfather, that’s what she should do. Make Mother stop the carriage on the way there to go and hurl insults at his grave.
“It’s time.”
Miss Wilson’s chatter dies away. Mother stands in the doorway to Beth’s room, severe in dark mauve with black accents—the perfect widow.
“You’ll be great,” Miss Wilson says, squeezing Beth’s shoulder.
Beth watches as she hurries out around Mother, taking the last dregs of normalcy with her.
Mother stares at Beth in her pale pink dress, the model of an expectant bride-to-be, and utterly miserable. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t seem to find the words.
Beth doesn’t need them. She knows what she has to do. Knows who she has to be, today.
“We should go,” Beth says, her voice a rasp against the unnatural quiet.
“Yes,” Mother agrees, stepping back to lead Beth down the hall.
There’s so much they could say, but their ride in the carriage is quiet. The words stick in her throat, too many and too much to fit into the thirty-minute journey. Instead, she clenches her hands and breathes steadily, counting the houses as they pass.
***
By the time they’re being led through the Ashmond mansion, her stoicism has left her. Her stomach is all knots, that anxietyrising heavy and fast. Her pulse is hammering and she can feel sweat dripping down her back and into her drawers. She’s never longed for the barrage of petticoats before. What if she sweats so much it pools beneath her?
They reach the large glass doors that lead from the solarium and out onto the patio that sits at the base of the expansive gardens. The porter steps through, and Mother goes to follow, but Beth stands rooted to the spot, clutching at her arm.
She can’t do this. She can’t walk out there and—
“You’ll be fine,” Mother says softly, leaning into her. “Breathe, smile, and if you can work up to it, which I bet you can, give a good cry.”
Beth shudders. She shouldn’t need coaching on how to properly react to a proposal, but given that her instinct is to turn tail and sprint away, she’ll take it. She squeezes Mother’s arm, dragging in a few rapid breaths.
“Go on.”
There’s a beat where it feels the world stands still, all the air sucked out of the sky. A moment where she teeters, the life she wants with Gwen behind her, this life she hates ahead. A brief hesitation, as if to say goodbye.
And then the world starts turning again.
She forces herself to step through the doorway, toward her new, empty life.
Chapter Twenty
Gwen
As she stands squished between Albie and Bobby, listening to Meredith prattle on about their upcoming wedding reception, Gwen considers choking on her remaining profiterole.
The Johnson ball is in full, boisterous swing. What seems like a thousand candles twinkle overhead, sparkling against the jewels that dapple every floral arrangement and hanging garland. The room is a swirl of pastels and fans, dancers twirling on the floor. Servers with hors d’oeuvres meander through the crowds milling on either side of the expansive dance space.
It’s a massive spectacle, though nothing compared to the upcoming Yokely ball. At least at the Yokely estate she can disappear off into their gardens. Here she’s trapped on the edge of the floor, unable to escape the talk of weddings and engagements. She’s been desperately trying to slip away, but Albie keeps hold of her elbow, and Bobby’s pressed tight on her other side. She thinks Father may have something to do with it and both resents and appreciates his forethought.
If she were able to get away, she’d be stealing multiple bottles of wine and getting drunk in the servant’s corridor. And while it wouldn’t be good for her image, she’d much prefer it. Because of course, now that she’s suffered two hours, the trueexcitement of the ball has just entered, and it feels like her stomach is a piece of lead fighting to sink to her toes.
Beth, looking as glorious and beautiful as Gwen has ever seen her, descends the massive staircase down to the ballroom on the arm of her equally glowing fiancé, Lord Montson, and Gwen just wants to die.
“I need the lavatory,” Gwen mutters, trying to pull away from Albie.
“Meredith can go with you when she’s done with her aunt,” Albie says, holding fast to her arm.
“I can use the—”
