“My,” Georgia drawled, “you are lovely. William will have his socks knocked off the moment he sees you.” She took up the dainty teacup up to her lips, sipping in that drawn-out manner I’d often see in high society.
Her movements were precise and flawless, not a hair or straying glance as she lowered her cup and gave a false smile.
“Although her countenance is quite drawn. Julia, is she well?” Charlotte quipped, her blonde curls bouncing in time to her tapping foot.
Charlotte was young, younger than Georgia and possibly myself. Much of the gossip had pinned her marriage at the very first season she was out.
She had a childlike demure about her many ladies lose well before they are placed on the marriage mart. Her round face and eyes did not help draw her away from the childlike wonder despite a diamond stud on her gloved hand.
Mama smiled. “Oh, heavens no. She is very particular in her diet and has a marvelous skin routine.”
Their heads turned in my direction.
I attempted a smile. “Yes. Although the way that you talk, I am more like the vampire of old these days. Who knows, I may be back from the dead soon enough to haunt Endovier.”
Mama’s stern glare sent a message.
I had crossed the line.
Her gray eyebrow twitched as she rearranged her face back into the placid smile hiding our sins.
The other ladies seemed startled by my answer, their delicate features tense and uncertain while hiding their shock by drowning themselves in tea.
My own tea remained untouched along with the sweets on the platter nearby.
Miriam howled in laughter, “When did you get so funny, sister?”
“William will have his hands full,” Gloria said. “Has she met my son yet?”
Son.
I messed with the piece of lace underneath the table. Much of my engagement was arranged with a string of connections I did not understand. Mama was the one to arrange it with the Sharpes, but even then, I was never privy to their conversations. The quickness of it all disturbed me, as it kept reminding me that my life—my choices—were never my own.
It was just this morning I was informed I was to be married in a month to a man I never met.
The news came the same morning I was informed I wouldn’t last the season.
Gloria and my mother talked with Charlotte, adding her two cents in marriage advice, fiddling with the large diamond atop her finger.
Chatter kept the shop busy, teacups clinking against their porcelain friends, the lingering aroma of sweets and sandwiches curling in my senses.
I kept my gaze on the pathetic teacup sitting in front of me, unable to drink or eat as the tightness in my chest coiled. I feared if I partake, I’d ruin the ruse. I’d be the reason we are destitute and on the street.Not that I would live long enough to really see it to fruition.
Miriam grasped my hand from underneath the table and squeezed.
I’m still here.
Half-heartedly, I squeezed back.
“Dear,” Mama said. I snapped my attention back to the conversation. She sat her cup down, lips tight. “You haven’t had a sip or bite to eat.”
I grimaced.
Mama had especially ordered the tea to be the medication the doctor prescribed to ensure I was healthy enough for my wedding.
The lukewarm tea stared back at me mockingly, insisting its sustainability to my miserable life.
“I’m simply not hungry, Mama. Pre-wedding jitters.”
