Gwen nods, even as the very idea gives her a headache. But they both have their roles to perform. “I’ll be better, I promise.”
He smiles and leans in to brush her cheek. “You’re perfect just as you are. Don’t let the society mothers tell you otherwise. And when you’re not so drunk you’re vomiting, you’re a delight. We’ll find you someone someday. I’m sorry it couldn’t be Miss Demeroven.”
“Me too,” Gwen admits, her chest hitching.
Father nods and leans back, patting her leg again. “All right, I say we sleep until noon, and then take a promenade, looking our best and brightest.”
Gwen blinks. “Won’t—only if it’s cloudy?”
Father grimaces. “Good thought. Better yet, we’ll sleep until one and then spend the rest of the day in the library. Bribe Mrs. Stelm with some of that port to get her to make your sick-day soup and play chess. And tomorrow we become respectable members of the ton again. Deal?”
“Deal,” Gwen says, shaking the hand he extends before he stands.
He smiles down at her and then turns and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. Gwen stares at the door, half wanting to follow after him—to ask, to know—did having her ruin his life? His mistake—was it worth it?
But her head is still swimming a little, and he loves her, that much is clear. However she happened, however he married her mother, he did it. And it’s them against the world. She’ll live up to her bargain, be a polite society lady for the rest of the season, only mildly tipsy and making sober mayhem.
So she’ll be a failure four times running. Maybe she’ll really get a medal, or a plaque.
***
Four nights later, as she stands with Albie and Meredith in the grand Yokely ballroom, she desperately wants to renege on her promise. Meredith and Eloise are going on about ribbon colors and taper heights, and Albie’s been talking to Prous for the past ten minutes about locomotives, with Bobby chiming in on his other side.
All Gwen’s had to do is stare around at the crowded ballroom. Of course it’s grand, with its massive chandelier and shiny marbled floor. The white-paneled, two-story walls make the space feel endless, and she supposes all the flowers arebeautiful. She’s been itching to slip out into the gardens for about an hour, but Albie won’t leave Meredith, and Bobby’s already tipsy. She doesn’t think Father would approve of her getting drunk with him a second time.
At least not here, at the ball of the season. Everyone who’s absolutely anyone is here. The dancing never seems to stop, and the mothers all have a crazed, predatory look in their eyes. They’re approaching the last month of the season, and it’s eat or be eaten now.
She’s glad at least to be with friends. When she entered, she was forced to dance with two of Father’s compatriots from his smoking club before she could excuse herself and steal away.
She promised Father she wouldn’t drink. But when Beth Demeroven steps up to their circle with Lord Montson, greeting Eloise, Meredith, and Annabeth with smiles but giving Gwen only a brief flick of the eyes, Gwen decides to sod her promise. She’s about to take Albie’s drink when he nudges her and she realizes in her desperation to numb the pain, she’s missed Montson addressing her head on.
“Apologies, I couldn’t hear,” Gwen says, dipping into a short curtsy.
“I asked if you were quite recovered,” Montson says and Gwen swallows, tightening her jaw.
Apparently after the last public ball Albie began a rumor that he dragged Gwen and Father out because they were both ill with food poisoning. How he managed it, Gwen doesn’t know, given that they were both clearly drunk and not at all poisoned. But it seems to have stuck, and she’s been waving off concerns all evening.
“Quite,” she says, keeping her voice light.
She can feel Beth’s eyes on her but can’t meet them. Instead, she goes to step back, eager to excuse herself. Only Albie’s grip on her elbow stops her, preventing her from being rude to one of the highest-status young men in the room, even if he has stolen the love of her life. Blasted Albie.
“Was it the fish?” Beth asks.
Gwen feels Albie’s hand tighten around her elbow and she turns her gaze to meet Beth’s. “No. I think it was the chicken,” she says as politely as she can manage.
“Funny, I had the chicken and I was perfectly fine,” Beth continues.
Why is she pushing this? “Well I’m glad. No one should be put through food poisoning. Dreadful business. Lady Meredith, you mentioned your uncle once served a rancid trout but the dog got to it first, didn’t he?”
She turns to find Meredith staring back at her, a bit agog. “Um, yes. It was horrid. We had to put him down, actually.”
She’d forgotten that the end of the story was tragic. “Right.”
“Good thing we don’t do that to people, eh?” Montson puts in.
The group titters as they all shift uncomfortably. She’s sure no one knows exactly why the air now feels so heavy, but it’s clear they can all sense the tension.
“It is a good thing we don’t murder the ill, yes,” Albie agrees, elbowing Bobby when he lets out a startled laugh. “Though I suppose the practice is more to ease suffering than punish animals for falling sick.”
