The day before the Debutante Ball, Rowena handed me a letter from Papa.
Theodora and Rowena,
Thank you for writing to me about Amarante. I agree with Lydia that it is time for her to attend the Season. It will be an opportunity for her to grow and learn. Though I regret I will not be there with her, I know she will make me proud.
Business is booming here in Aquatia—the local merchants are eager to purchase my stock of Deliberan silk. I cannot find time to reply to all my correspondence. Please apologize to my family on my behalf.
The letter cut off. I flipped the paper over.
“Where’s the rest?” I asked.
Rowena scuffed her feet. “He was rambling about business matters. I didn’t think you’d care for it.”
I set the paper on my nightstand, sick to my stomach. Papa wanted me to attend the Season. He believed I would make him proud.
If only he knew the mess I had gotten myself into already.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Rowena asked.
“What if Papa doesn’t care about me anymore?” I said. It sounded harsher out loud, but it was a reasonable conclusion. He had always been there to stop my punishments. Just a few years back, he refused to have Lydia ship me off to a boarding school for troubled young ladies. Why would the Season be any different?
Rowena tutted. “Don’t say that. He’s just busy, that’s all. Look how hard he works to support us.”
“I suppose so,” I muttered.
I didn’t want to overwhelm her with my real thoughts. Perhaps it was ungrateful of me, but I was more aware of Papa’s absence than the wealth that crept into our home in the form of new furniture and ornate rugs.
“Here. Your father sent this too,” Rowena said brightly. She set a large box with a satin bow onto my bed.
Inside was a magnificent ball gown of marigold yellow with intricate beading and gauzy fabric. Though beautiful, it solidified my doom, just like the bracelet of silver bells.
As I ran my fingers over the embroidery on the bodice, I recalled the last conversation I had with him.
“Ah, my flower,” Papa said, smiling as I brought in his nightly tea. His desk was in disarray, his fingers stained with ink. “You look like quite the young lady.”
The porcelain clinked when I set it down. I made a face. “Really?”
“Why, you act like it’s a bad thing,” he said.
“My old governess used to call me that.” I recalled Mrs. Handel’s voice. She reminded me of Julianna, haughty, condescending, and shrill.
Papa took his tea and inhaled its earthy fragrance. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “ever since Mrs. Handel left you’ve been quite idle.”
I sunk into a leather armchair and slumped over the side. “She was a terror. Besides, Genevieve doesn’t have a governess. She’s doing just fine.”
Papa chuckled. “That’s because Lydia is tutoring her. And since you refuse to be taught by your stepmother, Mrs. Handel was the only solution. Though I wouldn’t have chosen her as your governess if I’d known she would swipe the antiques.”
I grinned, recalling the look on my governess’s face when Lydia’s bronze cat figurines fell out of her purse. I had flirted with the idea of getting rid of her in some way or other, but I didn’t expect the old hag to do it herself. It had been four months since I’d received any sort of schooling at all, since Papa was too busy to find a replacement.
In the absence of having to recite historical events or embroider a fish, I spent my time helping Rowena in the garden, lounging outside with Genevieve, and sitting with Papa whenever he was home. The break was a blessing.
Papa took a sip of his tea. “What do you think about attending the Season this year?”
I jerked up. “Papa!”
“Genevieve is going. You won’t be alone,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. He usually did that when he fancied his own idea.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. A whine escaped into my voice—hardly becoming for someone my age—but I didn’t care. I was not going to the Season, with its socials and dancing and courtship.
