“We will be,” Marion reassures her, but Emmy and Greer shift awkwardly.
Everyone turns to me, waiting.
“Sorry to disappoint.” There’s no benefit in lying to them. “I couldn’t think of anything I wanted enough to bargain for it, so I didn’t make one.”
“You... didn’t make one?” Greer asks.
“Nope.”
Before anyone can question me further, Viscountess Bolingbroke appears in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Up, girls, up! You must make haste!”
We abandon our plates and bound up the stairs to our bedrooms. At the foot of my bed I find a black leather trunk embossed with my initials, IEB, in gold, and overflowing with clothes. There’s a rainbow of dresses: gowns made of silk so fine it nearly glows, smart cotton visiting dresses, even a velvet riding coat. Beneath that is a layer of new drawers, chemises lined with lace, and gloves made of kidskin and satin.
I peer over at Faith. Girls can debut in front of the queen and take part in the Pact Parade only if their own mothers had done it or if an older woman, usually a relative, sponsors their participation.
Last night, my mother was excited to tell me all the new gossip she learned at the garden party. Faith grew up in Brighton, and her alleged godmother, Lady Carrington, sponsored her coming-out. Mama recounted in perfect detail that Faith had been, up until recently, a ballerina in the Royal Ballet, hardly an acceptable position for a high society girl. Faith is rumored to be the bastard child of Lord Carrington. His mother, Lady Carrington, isn’t Faith’s godmother, but her grandmother. But that’s not the only rumor about Faith Fairchild.
The silence between us is awkward. “You grew up in the country, right?” I ask her.
Faith levels me with a venomous glare. “Are you seriously stupid enough to think we’re going to be friends?”
I have absolutely no idea how to respond.
“Stay out of my way, and I’ll leave you be. Get in my way, and you’ll regret it.”
I salute. “Got it, boss.”
She glares again.
If anything, I’m relieved to be sharing a room with someone who doesn’t feel the need to pretend we’re all going to be bosom friends at the end of this.
A flurry of lady’s maids arrives soon after to ready us all for the ball. We’re prepped and preened with curling tongs and perfume oils and rouge for our lips, like we’re dressing for battle.
Shiny black carriages embossed with the queen’s seal pull up after eight p.m., and we pile in, two to a carriage, our skirts too wide to allow for more.
My lady’s maid must have tied at least six petticoats around my waist, and I know I’ll be sore before midnight from carrying around the extra weight.
Faith stares out the window, her chin in her hand, as the mansions of Chelsea pass by in a blur. She’s in a cornflower blue gown, exactly the same shade as her eyes, with matching topaz earrings and necklace, both from the royal vault.
My carnation-pink gown is an off-the-shoulder confection, with intricate pleating and floral embroidery up the skirt.
Settled on my collarbones is a weighty diamond necklace from the queen’s private collection, brought to our room by a lady-in-waiting who said to consider it a token of the queen’s best wishes as Prince Bram’s suitors began their season. My May Queen crown glinted at my bedside, and my lady’s maid had gestured to it in an offer to pin it to my curls. “No, no,” I insisted, the idea of drawingany more attention to myself after yesterday’s fanfare made me sick to my stomach.
Our carriage slows as we approach the Twombleys’ manor, which is lit up with dozens of torches glowing against the night.
There’s an orchestra on the open second-floor landing, and the dancing inside the palatial house is in full swing by the time we enter.
At the door, we’re each handed dance cards, delicate little pamphlets with a tiny pencil attached with a ribbon.
Like a mother duck, Viscountess Bolingbroke corrals us, snatching the dance cards out of our hands one by one.
“Remember, ladies, you are not here to court. You will not accept any offers to dance, you should always be in the company of other ladies, and under no circumstances should you disappear from my view. Anything less than impeccable behavior could result in your removal from consideration for the prince’s hand.”
We all nod in understanding, but Olive is already swiveling her head, looking at the party, and Emmy has somehow procured herself a glass of champagne. I fear the viscountess may have her work cut out for her.
“The prince will be here tonight,” she says. “This is your first opportunity to make a real impression on His Majesty. I suggest you don’t waste it.”
A hush falls over the crowd as the six of us enter, everyone craning their necks to get a look at us. Our names and faces were splashed over every paper in London this morning. From the dukes and duchesses in this room to the mud larks along the Thames, Queen Mor’s announcement that this is the season her son will take a bride is all anyone can talk about. My May Queen victory was particularly noted. Whispers follow me as we cut across the room.There goes Ivy Benton. Who knew she had it in her? He’s still never going to pick her.
