The Sapphire Heiress (The Silver Order #1)

10 The Gown

Chapter Ten

The Gown

A gentle tapping sounded at the door. Mae cursed. She was hardly in the mood to see anyone and stupidly, she had left the door unlocked.

“Miss Blackthorne?” Grace stepped inside.

Mae lifted her head from her pillow.

“Good heavens, dear. It’s the middle of the day. Are you all right?”

Mae held back a yawn, not wanting Grace to know she had been up morning and night. “Just suffering from a bit of a headache is all.”

“See here.” Grace threw open the curtains, letting in a rush of light. “’Tis no use moping.”

Mae winced, squeezing her eyes tightly against the sudden sunlight.

“So you heard?”

“I thought maybe I could be of some assistance.” Grace clasped her hands together.

“How is that?”

“By making you beautiful, of course. Turning you back into your former self.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of her, there is nothing left.”

“Bosh.” Grace cupped Mae’s face in her hands. “Tonight’s guests may not envy your wealth, but they will envy your beauty.” Her hard tone meant she could not be bargained with. Whatever Grace had in mind, Mae had no choice but to follow along. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing. In some ways, Mae had missed being pampered.

“This is kind of you.” Mae smiled, suddenly racked by emotion. “But I would be impeding upon your duties. I’d—”

“Not in the least. Mrs. Rosewood hired far more help than needed. No doubt she wishes to impress tonight. Half the county is expected to attend, you know.”

“How am I to endure it?” Mae closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, all the chaos of the last few days might disappear. She barely had the time to catch her breath when the next troublesome event was upon her.

“By looking your best and accepting my help, of course.”

“Fine.” Mae outstretched her hand in offering. “You may do your worst.”

Grace didn’t hesitate. Taking Mae’s hand, she yanked her out of bed and into a run. “Not a moment to be spared. The others will soon arrive with your bath.”

“Wherever are you taking me?” Mae’s sluggish limbs barely kept up pace.

“To get your gown! It will fit. I am certain of it.”

Mae dragged her heels. “How could you possibly—”

“No questions.” Grace tugged again, her face lit up with excitement. “It’s a surprise. You’ll be right pleased, I know it.”

At last, Mae gave in, allowing Grace to haul her up the stairs to the third floor—a portion of the home used exclusively by the servants.

Grace collected a candle from a wall sconce and started toward the attic.

“Wait.” Mae gave pause again. “Anything you find there is going to be ages old. I greatly appreciate the effort, but—”

“But nothing,” Grace said. “Do as I say.”

Dust swirled as Mae stepped across the creaky floorboards. Except for a few trunks and some outdated furniture, the small triangle of a room was dark and almost empty.

Where the ceiling met the floor, Grace cast the candlelight upon a dust cover. Ripping away the sheet, she revealed a strikingly white box. With a flattened red bow to boot, it stood out in stark contrast to the dust-covered surroundings.

“Right as I left you.” Grace lifted its lid and pulled out a sheen of silver moonlight.

Equal to the shade of twilight, the silk was beyond decadent and French, to be sure. Gold ruffles of lace edged the deep-scoop neckline and short-cuffed sleeves. She didn’t even care that the high-waist bodice was slightly old-fashioned. It allowed the silk to drape just so and it would doubtless suit her figure.

“How did you get this?” She remembered her mother sitting in the dress before her vanity, another grand ball ahead of her. After all these years, it was as beautiful as ever. “I never thought I’d see it again.” Like so many of her family’s possessions, the dress was supposed to have been sold at auction.

“I snuck this off to the attic before you could sell it.” Grace held the dress over Mae’s figure, her old, crinkled eyes filling with tears. “I know material things shouldn’t matter, but I just couldn’t let you give up all of your mother’s possessions. She would want you to have at least one item. And if you were to find a husband, I knew you’d need a gown.”

Mae hovered a hand over the material almost too delicate to touch. It seemed to embody her mother’s spirit, her sense of adventure—memories that were part of a life so different to her now that they were beginning to feel like they belonged to someone else.

The sea, travel, and romance, it had called out to her, her mother once said, like a song always playing in the back of her head. So at twenty-three, she had taken to the sea with Alastair, not thinking of danger. Nor had she thought how her skin, features, and even religion might be welcomed in a place like England. But she’d married Alastair and settled here with a baby in her arms all the same.

At first, she had simply done as the Romans did. The missionaries had already taught her some English and with the help of private tutors, she had even mastered a proper aristocratic accent. Like any wealthy English woman, she’d dressed in the finest, smartest clothes and loved playing host.

But she would never truly be considered one of them. Rather, it had been curiosity that had eventually brought her into the neighborhood’s highest circles. She’d held a “sweet, exotic allure,” she’d overheard a crass gentleman whisper one of the rare times Mae had been allowed to formally greet guests before bedtime.

Regardless of how crass the word seemed to Mae, it was a role her mother had decided to embrace. That was when she’d begun to theme her parties after every corner of the world. Soon enough, everyone had talked of them and no one had dared miss them. At a time when Mae was so focused on the bad, the gown had brought up all the good parts of her past. And something else too.

Her lips fell, a coldness coming over her. She had long wondered what business her father had had in the Philippine Islands. Neither her mother nor her father had told her. Locke’s claim offered one explanation, though.

She clenched her fists, hating that he knew her so much more than she knew herself, more so that he’d been right.

She didn’t belong here. Though everyone thought it, he was the first to make her think that maybe she was better off. That maybe she could actually escape this place. Something in his eyes had awakened that long-dead desire. Made her want to do it, tonight.

“What is it?” Grace asked.

“Nothing,” Mae said, her words raspy with emotion. “I—I just don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need.” Grace folded the gown back up into the box and took Mae in for an unexpected embrace. “Just promise you’ll do everything you can to catch someone’s attention tonight. Your mother would have wanted it so. She’d want you to leave this place.”

*

Locke trampled down the hall, violins strumming caution in his ears. A few more steps and the ballroom opened up before him.

He swallowed a breath, the crush of gowns and evening coats taking him aback. He hadn’t expected a crowd this large, not by half.

Amidst the romantic glow of candelabras, he entered the same Blackthorne ballroom of decades past. But there was something different about this gathering, something much more sinister behind the quiet whispers and concealed laughter. This crowd hadn’t come for his recent engagement. Rather, this crowd had everything to do with the years-old scandal surrounding Miss Blackthorne.

No one cared for him. He was halfway through the room and not a soul had noticed. Their shifty eyes were all searching for the heiress-turned-governess.

His goal remembered, he set his sights on a slim figure in black. Every muscle went tight with anticipation. Since Mrs. Rosewood had confirmed Miss Blackthorne’s attendance that evening, he had worked up an excuse to abandon his duties as host. Greeting guests had become a surprisingly tiring charade.

He wanted to see if she’d discovered the key, of course, but something else had his feet moving faster through the room.

Catching up to the familiar figure in black, he set his shoulders back, prepared to steal her away. To hell with what these people might think.

He had just reached out when the woman turned around. Locke stepped back. A face that wasn’t Miss Blackthorne’s regarded him, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Excuse me.” He swept past her .

Where is she?

He paced the ballroom, the whispers of those around him ringing loudly in his ears. Miss Blackthorne, Mr. William Blackthorne, shameful, pitiful. There was no avoiding it. At length, he could take it no longer. He escaped to a secluded spot near the window.

He could not shake this constant feeling that she was in danger. His heart began to pound. A panic that wouldn’t cease until he found her. He needed to do so at once. It was all he could do to keep from screaming out her name.

Through the glare of the window, a flicker of movement caught his eye. His heart stilled. There was only one person who might seek the refuge of a patio on such a chill night.

Nodding to the occasional guest who now began to recognize him, Locke made his way through double doors. Behind him, the chandeliers and candelabras of the ballroom lit up the night.

He found her figure beside the marble balustrade, its once-pure-white glimmer stained with green. Though her back was to him, a tightness in his gut left no doubt. Her silvery dress swooped low, exposing gold, gleaming shoulders. Her dark hair had been braided more intricately than usual with ribbon weaved throughout. He struggled to get out a single word, much less make his approach.

As he feared, his first step gave him away. She swept around and moved more visibly into the light.

He stared. The woman who stood before him was no governess, no woman who had lost everything. Before him, stood the true Mae Blackthorne. The woman who lived deep within her, who held the kind of emboldened spirit he had only ever met at sea. A spirit he might very well kill if he kept a man like Ellsworth at his side.

He swallowed, wishing he had some champagne to relieve his suddenly dry throat and something, anything , to occupy his heavy, foolish hands.

“You should be with Miss Rosewood,” she said. Setting his pulse to quicken, she picked up her skirts and came close. “Dinner will soon begin.”

“Hang dinner.” He wanted nothing more than for the entire event and all who came with it to disappear. He nearly said as much when she stepped back, casting her face in shadow.

“What is it?”

Miss Blackthorne eyed the guests beyond the window glass. “We should not be seen together.”

“Come now. You’re already ruined. We’ve been alone. I’ve touched your waist. A few decades ago, that would have been enough.”

Amidst Locke’s short-lived laughter, Miss Blackthorne’s stoic face didn’t shift. He almost apologized. He was being insensitive again when for once he wanted to be something other than a brute.

“Not me, you . Soon they’ll be whispering about you too.”

“And you think I give a farthing?”

“If you are to secure Miss Rosewood’s hand and this estate, perhaps you should.” She clutched her hands and eyed the room nervously. How many years might have passed since she had last seen these people in the ballroom? How many of them might she have asked for help as they’d turned on her one by one?

“Hang them,” she cursed bitterly. “Hang them all.”

He reached out but thought better of it. He couldn’t risk scaring her away. She was more valuable than he had imagined. Her first guess about the vault being in the cellar had been right. After searching for some time the night before, Ellsworth and his goons had found it.

Earlier that day, he had been the one to discover it. He’d merely kicked aside a stack of crates and swiped away two layers of dust. The simple yet sturdy trap door had hardly been hidden at all. Beneath it, there could be no mistaking the heavily padded vault. He imagined that barrels of wine had once covered it. The location still seemed strange to him, though. It was too obvious. Any servant who happened upon it would tell others at once. It was likely how the legends had begun.

“When I was inside…” Miss Blackthorne’s gaze hardened toward the windows. “This man—a man I thought had been a friend of my father’s—was speaking the most terrible slander against my brother. I had expected all talk to center around me. At first it had, but…”

Locke almost demanded whom. Which of these bastards had he greeted and smiled at? He would demand an apology, rip it from the man’s throat with his bare hands.

Right now, however, he wanted to remain at her side. Ellsworth had censured Miss Blackthorne for her lack of dancing, fashion, and even domestic skills, none of which mattered to him. She had something like true bravery in this quiet countryside. Most would be broken down by these tragedies or changed into something wretched. Miss Blackthorne hadn’t been. Not at all.

He knew only a few men half so strong as she. One of them her own grandfather.

Forgetting his trepidations, Locke stepped closer, mere seconds from crushing her into him. He wanted so badly to complete the movement, to press into her, when the sharp arch of her brow gave him pause.

In her eyes, he could read her words perfectly. Scoundrel. Killer. Pirate. Names he wished had never belonged to him.

Locke stepped back and forced his desires into retreat, feeling them sizzle down inside him until he felt raw.

“I know what you want,” she whispered.

“You do?” The words chilled him from raging fire to sudden ice.

“Yes. And you’ll be relieved to know that I did indeed find the key.”

“Oh, yes.” Locke jolted. He had almost forgotten. “Hand it here.”

Miss Blackthorne tilted her chin away.

“You don’t trust me?” Locke balked. “We have an understanding, remember?”

“ Trust you?”

“I’ve kept you from harm, haven’t I?”

“You want me on your side is all.”

“Of course, I do. As partners.”

“No, not the same,” she said in sudden passion. “You want my help. Your kindness is all a manipulation.”

“So I should be cruel to you? Is that what you think you deserve? I say, you must have a very low opinion of yourself.”

“If you are kind to me, it is only for the basest of reasons.”

“I see…” He broke off, momentarily shaken by that truth. “It’s myself you have a low opinion of.”

He thought to try to dissuade her, but as long as he was little more than a scoundrel to her, what was the use? She would never trust him. Christ, she barely trusted their deal. The idea distressed him, reminding him in one harsh blow of the life he needed to change.

He forced a smile. “I suppose now is not the time to ask for the honor of a dance.”

“No.” Mae eyed him. Did he really mean that? Did he even know how? She couldn’t even picture it. Or was it just another one of his flirtatious manipulations?

She held his gaze. “Have no misgivings. I won’t let the key out of my grasp. Not for a moment.”

“Whatever you like,” Locke said. “Meet us back near the cellar after the first dance.”

“‘ Us ’?”

“You can’t expect me to keep Ellsworth away for good. He’s even managed to secure an invitation to tonight’s ball.”

“He has?” Miss Blackthorne visibly shivered.

“You’ll have no trouble getting away?”

“No, but surely, you will.”

Locke grinned. “I have a feeling I shall take badly to the mussels this evening.”

Miss Blackthorne didn’t return the smile. She just stood there staring. “Are you certain we must meet so soon?”

“The ball provides a perfect distraction and we may very well leave with our shares tonight.”

“I don’t understand.” Her mouth hung open.

“Don’t you? The vault, Miss Blackthorne. I’ve found it.”

*

Mae stared at the gold-rimmed dinner plate, its red-rose design peeking out beneath a scattering of peas. She smiled to herself. She hadn’t seen these plates in ages. Mr. Rosewood must have attained them at the auction, along with the furniture, before finally deciding to buy the whole damn house.

She trembled, remembering the relief that had fallen over her. Now she wished she had refused. How differently her life might have been.

Damnable regret. She hated the feeling. No one, no matter how wealthy and well-connected, was immune to that bitter poison. She had felt its strong effects most as a heiress. There was the boy to whom she hadn’t spoken, the horse on which she hadn’t cast a high enough bid.

How trivial and foolish she had once been. She had endured too much since to let such a thing as pointless as regret consume her.

If nothing else, the decision to stay had brought her the truth. And it had brought her adventure, even if it had also brought her Locke. She had so many reasons to be angry with him for what he’d pulled her into.

But at the same time, the last few weeks since she met him had been utterly enthralling. A feeling she had known so briefly, it almost felt new. With this search for the vault, he had set her stagnant life in motion. Though minuscule, she still had a chance at getting all she wanted. Her old life. Revenge. Love? But that was only a girlhood dream. As an adult, it was a notion she had given up a long way back.

Roused by the thought, Mae looked up. At the same time, a dozen or so guests hurried away their gazes. Mae sighed inwardly, fighting to keep her chin high.

The guest next to her, a Mr. Cummings if she remembered correctly, had been the only one not staring. He seemed nice enough, just not quite to her taste. He’d been quiet and reserved the whole evening, seemingly not yet mustering the bravery to join the surrounding conversation, either.

“Mr. Cummings.” Mae turned to him with a smile. “How is it, exactly, that you’ve come to live in India?”

Mr. Cummings glowed with eagerness. Mr. Rosewood had introduced his cousin as a visiting businessman, but his mission was clear enough. Like so many Englishmen who resided in foreign lands, Mr. Cummings had returned for the sole purpose of finding a wife.

“My family’s long been involved with the country’s silk trade,” he answered her.

“How interesting.” She forced cheerfulness in her tone. “Your forefathers must have worked very hard to establish themselves in that part of the world.”

“Of course we owe much of our success to the East India Company. A pity their own success was so short-lived. Are you much aware of them?”

“I am.” In the heyday of piracy, she imagined her grandfather commandeering their ships, perhaps taking their vast shipments of silver. As much as she wanted to dismiss the notion, she found herself holding on to the hope that the pirate treasure did indeed exist. Not only for her own livelihood, but because she couldn’t stand the idea of William dying for less.

Unable to stop herself, she cast her gaze several seats down from her toward Locke. Still handsome in his black-and-silver-buttoned evening coat, he too, had been staring. Before he snapped away, his face reddened.

She was surprised at his jealousy. His feelings for her were supposed to be a manipulation just to get her to do what he wanted. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Locke had been genuine. She couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

Nearby, Miss Rosewood hardly seemed to notice him. She was in the midst of laughter and, down another seat, so was Ellsworth.

At the mere sight of him, Mae jerked with sudden rage, her fork nearly slipping from her grip. She clenched the utensil tighter, so tight, it cut into her hands.

That man should not have been allowed to come anywhere near someone so innocent. Although Mae wanted to demand he leave at once, she was powerless. These guests, who also chatted with him, seemed to suspect nothing. He hid his venom well beneath a veil of good manners and fine clothing.

She turned back to Mr. Cummings. He was, after all, a gentleman many women would’ve found attractive. Why shouldn’t she?

“I hear India has the most wonderful weather. Much nicer than our often rainy, overcast skies, yes?”

Despite her lacking interest in the man, Mae couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to live in such a country.

Mr. Cummings gave a slow nod, his gaze calculating. “Does travel interest you?”

“Quite.” Mae rested her chin over her hand, struggling not to look bored. She should’ve been fluttering her eyelashes and smiling widely. After all, what is stopping me from running off with this very man? Mae thought wildly. Likable or not, the man could afford to take care of her.

Maybe she didn’t need her fortune. Maybe she could live off a generous husband instead. Only the idea revolted her. It was the sort of life that would only end in imprisonment. That was all a loveless marriage could ever be.

It didn’t seem to offer the same excitement it had her mother. It was about social connection, money, those who gained and those who lost. She wanted none of that. She only wanted love, but that sort of marriage didn’t seem to exist anymore. She wasn’t the sort of fool that thought it did.

“ Miss …” The voice of a servant rang in her ears, his tone exasperated, no doubt from repetition. “More wine?”

Bewildered, Mae shook her head vehemently.

Mr. Cummings gulped down the rest of his glass. “I prefer something a bit stronger myself.”

Not sure how to respond, Mae smiled. Charmingly, she hoped. But in fact, she was cringing. Ever since her brother’s problem, the notion of drinking—especially strong liquors—had never sat well with her. More often than not, men abused liquor and the consequences were often less than favorable…

“You seem to have a great deal on your mind.”

“Forgive me.” Mae’s cheeks burned. “I’m afraid I’m not much for witty conversation.”

Mr. Cummings eyed her unabashedly. “You’re a far better dancer, no doubt. Perhaps as the evening progresses, I may have the pleasure.”

The haughty undertone of his statement had Mae buzzing with discontent. And yet, she could not politely refuse. Before she could stop herself, she was nodding her consent.

Dinner after that seemed to stretch on forever until Mr. Rosewood stood up from his seat and announced the start of the evening’s amusements.

As Mae began to rise, she sensed Locke’s presence behind her.

“May I escort you to the ballroom?” he asked stiffly, shooting Mr. Cummings a glare.

She tensed. He’d broken decorum again. He was supposed to be among the first in line toward the ballroom and she, the last.

Mae searched the shifting bodies for Miss Rosewood, her biggest fear becoming reality. With one hand holding Miss Rosewood’s and another shielding his modest laughter, Ellsworth walked to the head of the line. Even Mrs. Rosewood looked pleased.

How had Ellsworth done it? What lies might he have told this time? That his home at the edge of town was three times the size of Blackthorne Manor? That this was a mere hovel in comparison?

“Miss Blackthorne?” Locke repeated.

Mae sent an apologetic smile in Mr. Cummings’s direction. “I shall see you for our dance later.”

“I am sure the wait will be well worth it.” Mr. Cummings bowed his head and waited there, his eyes expectant. She sighed inwardly. He was no doubt waiting for her to offer her hand. If only to be rid of him, she offered it. Rather than simply grasp it, which would have been more bearable, he pulled it in for a kiss.

The smile that followed sent a shiver of ice down Mae’s spine. Grateful for his presence now, Mae took Locke’s arm and mingled inside the crowd.

“You accepted a dance?” His whisper burned hot in her ear.

“That is none of your concern.”

“We haven’t the time for such frivolity. We should leave at once.”

“You’re mad,” Mae whispered. “I have to at least make an appearance.” Otherwise, Mrs. Rosewood would have her neck. And more than that, she needed to plan. Everything was happening so fast, so soon.

“The key is safe?” Locke opened a door nearest to them and forced her inside.

“Of course.”

“You have it on your person?” He backed her deeper into the empty butler’s pantry.

“Perhaps…” She wanted to shove him for the way he looked down in to her bodice, perhaps thinking it was there.

“We should leave for the cellar now.”

“You—we can’t. Not before you complete a dance with your betrothed.”

“She is not my betrothed,” Locke said, hard and cold. “At least not truly.”

“You signed a contract, did you not? Only the Rosewoods can release you—”

“Not if they can’t find me.”

So that was his plan: to run off someplace.

“You’ll cause a scandal. You’ll ruin Miss Rosewood…and Miss Lenore too. I can’t let you do it.”

“What society believes makes no difference to me.”

“How could you do that?” Mae’s voice wavered. “Ruin some young lady like that. Never mind her feelings for you and the heartbreak she’ll have to go through once you run off.”

“I have to do what I have to do. At this point, what would be worse? Starting a little scandal that will undoubtedly blow over in a matter of months or marrying a woman who doesn’t interest me when all I can think of is someone else entirely?”

It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying. Did he mean her? Of course he did , she chastised herself. Who else could he mean? Mrs. Rosewood? And yet, she just stood there, too stunned to speak.

Before Mae could find the words, Locke jolted away, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “This evening has been the most torturous—”

“And it’s almost at an end.”

He regarded her, his expression softening, then, in his usual abrupt manner, fled into the hall. It didn’t bother her this time. Rather, Mae brightened. If what he’d said was true, if all along he’d actually been genuine, at the very least she’d be safe. Locke wouldn’t let Ellsworth hurt her, no matter what she did.

*

Mae’s last step of the quadrille could not have come sooner. With anticipation roiling inside her, she curtsied.

“A glass of punch?” Mr. Cummings offered, probably noting her shortness of breath.

Mae shook her head, her gaze searching for Locke. “I’d much rather have a bit of fresh air.”

“I could join you.”

Good heavens, the man was persistent. But the moment she caught his hopeful stare, her anger subsided. She pitied what would prove to be a difficult pursuit for a wife. After all, the women willing to sail halfway across the world must have been few and far between. The least she could do was be honest with the man.

“My regrets, Mr. Cummings, but I’m afraid I must wish you good evening.”

Mr. Cummings’s hopeful smile dropped to a frown. “Is something the matter? Something I’ve—”

“I’m afraid that’s all I can say on the matter.”

As Mae raced away, a gathering of young women swelled around her. Their delicate, white dresses made her stand out with such bold starkness, she didn’t dare linger.

Impatient for the cool, crisp air of the patio, she weaved her way through the faceless figures, her face pulsing and her hands still shaking with fear. Then all at once, the crowd parted. At first, she was relieved, but to her dismay, a small yet obvious circle had formed. Previous glances became stares, the warmth of before intensifying. Something in the air had shifted. Whatever it was, she felt herself choking on it.

“There she is…” Miss Rosewood shrieked down the clearing. Mrs. Ge rtrude Wilson followed. Wonderful. Mae took a ragged breath. Years ago, Mae had known the woman well, but even as an heiress, they had never really been friends. Straddling the line of very rich and moderately rich, Mrs. Wilson had an easy propensity toward jealousy.

Before Mae could escape her, the woman closed in.

“Miss Blackthorne.” Mrs. Wilson swept up Mae’s hands. In her smile, it was like no time had passed at all. But her eyes held something different, something horribly false. “You are well, I hope. The Rosewoods do throw a good party, don’t they? Everyone says it’s the best they’ve ever attended.” Her eyes went round, inching from Mae’s face down to her feet. “My, you look lovely this evening.”

“Mrs. Wilson. If you don’t mind. I have matters to attend to.”

“Surely, your duties can wait for an old friend. Your dress doesn’t disappear at midnight, does it?”

Miss Rosewood turned to Mae, her gaze darting back and forth between them. The young woman was not prepared for this sort of cruelty. In the face of it, Mae needed to show strength, not weakness, good humor not ill will. In the schoolroom, she would have told her pupils to act the better person. So Mae kept her smile.

“That Mr. Locke is quite the Prince Charming,” Mrs. Wilson went on. “I daresay you yourself seemed quite taken by him.”

All around Mae, the room seemed to still. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” Who else had seen her on the patio earlier? It had been foolish to speak with him given the windows. Now she was caught. For a long, languishing moment, she felt herself grow hotter.

“Tell me, Miss Blackthorne…” Mrs. Wilson’s whisper chilled away the heat. “How was a young lady like Miss Rosewood here able to catch such a handsome husband?”

When Miss Rosewood looked to her feet, Mae could stand the insults no longer.

“She has tact,” Mae said. “A trait you don’t have the fortune to possess. ”

Mrs. Wilson covered her mouth, her eyes wide and staring. She clearly hadn’t been expecting an insult so loud and without guise. Mae did not care. She could take the veiled venom no longer. She steeled her face determined to retain her composure.

“ Heavens ,” Mrs. Wilson said, as if Mae had as good as spit on her. “What in the world has gotten into you these days?”

“I’ll thank you to step back.” Mae straightened, looking upon Mrs. Wilson with such defiance that her old companion’s confidence finally began to waver. Her jaw slackened—most unladylike, but still, she did not budge.

“I only wanted to see how you were faring.”

Mae decided there was no need to wait or ask a second time. Even if it would only make matters worse, it could not be helped. Mae refused to stay another moment. So she strode forward, bumping Mrs. Wilson square in the shoulder. Mae had even put some force into it. Frankly, she did not know what had come over her. Or perhaps she did. All the whispers of that evening, the quiet betrayals she had endured these last few years, her anger over William’s unexpected death, Ellsworth with his harsh words… It all seemed to coalesce into one flaming ball of go to hell .

In a most un-Christian way, Mrs. Wilson cursed too. The words—shrill and clear—set off its own eruption of gasps and whispers.

As the crowd parted further in her wake, Mae smiled to herself. That little victory felt good. The air tasted calm again. And making her way toward the west wing, she felt ready for the trials ahead.