For a brief while, the women ask us questions: Are we looking forward to our debuts? Did we enjoy this opera or that play? As we give our slight answers, they smile, and I cannot read what is behind their expressions. Do they envy us our youth and beauty? Do they feel happiness and excitement for the lives that lie ahead of us? Or do they wish for another chance at their own lives? A different chance?

Soon the mothers tire of asking us questions. They fall into talk that does not concern us. During a tour of Mrs. Sheridan’s gardens—of which she is exceedingly proud, though it is the gardener who has done all the work—we are left to our own devices, thank goodness. The trained masks melt away.

“Have you seen Lady Markham’s tiara? Isn’t it exquisite? I’d give anything to wear a tiara such as that, even for a moment.”

“Speaking of Lady Markham, I suppose you have heard the gossip?” a girl named Annabelle says.

The others are immediately drawn in. “Annabelle, what is it? What has happened?”

Annabelle sighs heavily but there is a certain joy in it, as if she has been bottled up all this time, waiting for a chance to share her news. “I am burdened with a confidence I will disclose only if you make promises not to share it with anyone else.”

“Oh, yes!” the girls promise, no doubt thinking of who shall be first to hear the unfortunate tale.

“I have heard that Lady Markham has had a change of heart and that she may not present Miss Worthington at court after all.”

The girls put gloved hands to mouths but their glee shows like a slipped petticoat. They’re glad for the gossip and doubly glad it’s not about them. I don’t know what to say. Should I tell them that Felicity and I are friends? Do they know?

The chorus begins: “Oh, dear. Poor Felicity.” “What a scandal.” “But she is so very cheeky.” “Quite right. It is her own fault.” “I do adore her, but…” “Indeed.”

Annabelle cuts in. Clearly, she is the queen bee among them. “Her independence does not endear her to the ladies who matter. And then there is the question of her mother.”

“Oh, what is it? I do hate my governess, for she never tells me a thing!” a girl with apple cheeks and a dainty mouth says.

Annabelle’s eyes twinkle. “Three years ago, Mrs. Worthington went abroad whilst her husband, the admiral, was at sea. But everyone knows she ran off to Paris to be with her lover! If Admiral Worthington were not the hero he is and a favorite of Her Majesty’s, Miss Worthington would have no place at all in decent society.”

I know a great deal about the horrors the admiral has visited upon his daughter, how he went to her bedroom late at night as no father should. But I swore to keep that secret for Fee, and who would believe it even if the truth were told? People have a habit of inventing fictions they will believe wholeheartedly in order to ignore the truth they cannot accept.

“But there is more,” Annabelle says.

“Tell! Tell!”

“I overheard Mother telling Mrs. Twitt that if Miss Worthington does not make her debut, her inheritance is forfeit. Her grandmother’s will states most emphatically that she must make her debut ‘as a lady in fine moral standing,’ else the money shall go to the Foundling Hospital, and Felicity will be at the mercy of the admiral to chart her course.”

Felicity wants nothing more than to have her freedom. But now she’s in danger of losing that dream. I cannot keep the blood from rising in me. My cheeks must be crimson for all to see. If I could, I would box Annabelle’s lovely ears. My corset’s too tight, for I can scarcely breathe. My skin tingles; my head is light, and for a moment, it is as if I leave my body.

“Ow!” Annabelle cries, turning to the girl beside her. “Constance Lloyd! How dare you pinch me!”

Constance’s mouth opens in a surprised O. “I didn’t!”

“You most certainly did. I can feel the bruise rising on my arm!”

The other girls try to contain their glee as Constance and Annabelle engage in a war of martyrdom. The lightheadedness I felt a moment earlier has vanished, and I feel strangely fine, better than I have in ages.

“When I mentioned we might host an English garden party, Mrs. Sheridan gave me the queerest look. Do you suppose she thought it too ordinary? I felt it would make quite a nice party. Don’t you?”

Grandmama has pestered me for the entire carriage ride home with such natter. She frets constantly over every possible slight or imagined judgment. Just once I wish she would live her life and not care so much about what others think.