Prologue
Marianne clutched the handle of her parasol tightly as she raced across the lawn of her family’s newly acquired Mayfair town house with the other boys and girls.
Her mother had impressed upon her before any of the party guests had arrived that no matter what, she must carry her parasol at all times.
“We must try to keep you from getting any more spots,” she’d said, gesturing to the freckles that dotted, well, nearly all of Marianne’s skin—but especially her face. “We may not be gentry, but you should look as much like a lady as you possibly can.”
Her mother’s tone of voice had been glum, as if she’d already given up hope of having much success turning Marianne into a lady.
The twin blights of her freckles and her unfashionable red hair already had them at a disadvantage.
“Especially now that you are turning thirteen,” her mother had continued, standing back to look her over for what felt like the twentieth time, “and we are moving into higher circles.”
Marianne had suppressed a sigh at her mother’s words, thinking longingly—not for the first time—of her life just a few years earlier, before her father’s shipping business had become so profitable.
Her mother had never liked her hair or her complexion, but they had seemed to matter much less when the family was living among all the other merchants and businessmen. Now, there were so many more things that “would not do”.
And so, here Marianne was, clinging to her parasol as she tried to play tag with the other children. The parasol was unwieldy and dragged in the air, slowing her down, but it didn’t matter much, as the boys were primarily chasing each other and most of the girls had focused on fleeing to safety.
Still, she watched as the boys leapt on each other with happy shouts and the girls gathered in groups, giggling together, and felt a little sad.
She might not be losing the game, but it didn’t feel like she was winning, either.
She was relieved when her mother called them to the terrace for cake and ice cream.
“Oh, Frederick, you must sit right here by Marianne and Thomas,” she heard her mother say in a sickly sweet voice. Marianne made a face. Frederick was her brother Thomas’s best friend, a relationship born from the fancy boarding school Thomas now attended. Marianne did not like Frederick at all.
He was often rude and he either seemed to ignore her completely or stare at her as though he didn’t realize she could see him. He also liked to tease her. His excuse for this, when Thomas had stood up for her, was that he’d “heard that is what sisters were for”.
Marianne detested him.
But he was a lord’s son, the heir to an earldom, and therefore her parents were delighted that he had made friends with Thomas, and ecstatic that he’d agreed to come to her party.
“If the Earl of Alderwick is willing to send his son to our affairs, the man himself will not be far behind,” her father had crowed to her mother, beaming. “‘Tis surely a sign of how seriously we are being taken by the local nobility.”
No one had asked Marianne if she wished for Thomas’s irritating friend to attend her thirteenth birthday party. Her wishes on the matter were clearly unimportant.
Thankfully, Frederick sat himself on the other side of Thomas, and Marianne turned her attention to the trio of girls that took up the rest of the chairs at their table. They were new acquaintances, daughters of people her parents hoped to impress.
She had hoped she might join their conversation, but they all seemed to know each other, and she felt suddenly shy and like she would be intruding.
So instead she sat quietly watching them.
Her eyes were drawn to their beautiful gowns, each made in the latest styles in such lovely colors.
Marianne didn’t recognize the fabric used to make the dress of the girl nearest to her—it was something light and airy, that floated around her body like it was alive.
It was a pale blue material that matched the girl’s eyes and it shimmered ever so slightly in the summer sun.
It made the girl look like she was some kind of fairy princess, and while Marianne knew that she could never look like that no matter what she wore, she still couldn’t help but long to have a gown that was so beautiful.
Marianne loved gowns. She was forever asking their own dressmaker all kinds of questions, as many as she could get away with without provoking her mother’s disapproving frown. It was not ladylike to chat with the dressmaker, but Marianne didn’t know how else she was to satisfy her curiosity.
She was wondering to herself if it was the material that gave the gown its ethereal quality, or if it was the skill of the dressmaker, when she became aware that the other girls had fallen silent.
She looked up to find them all watching her, with a variety of facial expressions. The one in the middle, a short girl with shiny chestnut curls, had raised an eyebrow of annoyance, or perhaps disdain.
The far girl, a pretty and plump girl with dark hair, seemed a bit confused as to why the conversation had lagged. Marianne glanced apprehensively at the blonde girl in the blue dress that she’d been admiring, and was relieved to see that she, at least, had a soft smile on her face.
“Did you have something to say, Miss Kettering?” she asked politely.
“Sorry,” Marianne mumbled, feeling her cheeks color with embarrassment. “I was only thinking your dress was pretty and wondering about the fabric.”
“The fabric?” The girl looked down at the dress in surprise, as if until now she had not considered anything about the dress besides wearing it. “I must admit I do not know. It is pretty, though, is it not?” She looked back up at Marianne and smiled again. Marianne returned the smile.
“It is the prettiest dress I have ever seen!” she agreed happily, and then, worried she’d offended the other two girls, quickly added, “Though of course you all look so beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the grown-up ladies I have seen drawings of, attending balls.”
The other girls murmured a few words of thanks at her compliments, but some awkwardness still hung in the air. The blonde girl scrunched her nose delicately, and finally spoke again.
“Do you think you shall like balls, Miss Kettering?” she asked.
“I cannot say for sure,” Marianne said honestly. “I have only just started dance lessons, so I do not yet know how good I shall be at it. But I do know I shall be happy if I can wear beautiful gowns like the ones I have seen!”
The curly-haired girl giggled, and Marianne got the impression she was being laughed at somehow.
“Gowns and dancing are just what little girls think balls are about,” the other girl said with a patronizing smile.
“Well, what do you say they are about then, Arabella, if you are so smart?” the blonde shot back. Marianne felt a warm wave of gratitude toward her.
“Everyone knows they are for finding husbands, Beatrice!” Arabella declared.
Then she gave a self-satisfied grin. “Of course, I might not even have to go to balls to find a husband. My parents have already been speaking to the Duke of Lansing about his son. It is very likely we shall be betrothed in the next year.” She tossed her hair, making her perfect curls bounce a little.
“Betrothed?” Marianne asked, her curiosity overriding her growing dislike of the girl.
“Yes, betrothed to be married,” Arabella replied. “It means once we are of age he shall propose, and I shall accept, and we shall marry one another.”
Marianne blinked in surprise. She knew parents were often involved in arranging marriages for their children, but she had never heard of someone their age who was already engaged to someone.
“My parents have been talking of it for months now, as well,” the dark-haired girl said, her voice trembling a little.
“I thought maybe my sister’s marriage would be enough to make them happy, but it seems like they expect me to make as good a match.
I think they are hoping I’ll make a better one, honestly.
” She said all this with a wince, like she was not as hopeful about her prospects as her parents.
Marianne sat back in her chair, amazed.
“I do not believe my parents have discussed my marriage prospects at all,” she said.
A snicker floated to her from across the table, and her head snapped in Frederick’s direction. He was smirking at her.
“That is because no one wants to marry a spotted hen,” he said, and mortification rushed through Marianne. She felt herself go pale and then turn bright red in quick succession. And the deeper his words sank, the more she felt another emotion bubble up—anger.
Just because I’m spotted and red-haired and not particularly pretty, doesn’t mean he should mock me for it.
Thomas gave his friend a frown and opened his mouth as if to object, but Marianne was already on her feet, fists balled up.
“Let me tell you something, Lord Halcombe,” she gritted out—but that was as far as she got. A hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, shoving her back down into her seat, and her mother’s voice was hissing in her ear.
“I thought I made it clear you were to act like a lady.”
Marianne sucked in a breath. The indignity of having her mother take Frederick’s side stung, even though it shouldn’t have surprised her.
“Come on, Hal,” Thomas said, jumping in before anyone could say more, “let’s go for a walk. I can show you the rest of the garden.” He stood and gestured for Frederick to follow him, and the other boy did, though not without one haughty glance back at Marianne.
Marianne swallowed, hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
She knew Thomas was only helping to defuse the situation, but seeing him walk away with Frederick, hearing him call Frederick by that chummy abbreviation of his last name, made her feel like they were both in a club she hadn’t been invited to join.
“We shall discuss this later,” her mother muttered darkly to her before she swept off after the boys. She was no doubt hurrying to make sure Frederick hadn’t been offended that Marianne had dared to be hurt by his insult.
“A walk sounds nice, actually,” Arabella said, standing and jerking her head for the other girls to follow her. The dark-haired one stood immediately, but the blonde, Beatrice, stayed seated.
“Go ahead without me. I am going to sit with Miss Kettering for a bit,” she said, polite but firm. Arabella frowned but didn’t object. When they were gone Beatrice turned back to Marianne.
“That was very rude of him to say,” she said softly. At this unexpected show of kindness, Marianne couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. They started spilling silently down her cheeks.
“I am sorry, Miss Langley,” she said, her throat tight as she willed herself not to sob. “I don’t mean to make a scene. I should go inside, and you can join your friends.”
“Please, call me Beatrice,” the other girl said. “And you needn’t apologize.” She slipped her hand into Marianne’s and squeezed it tightly. Marianne squeezed back and managed a small smile.
“You know, my mother says that sometimes boys are mean to you because they are secretly sweet on you,” Beatrice said.
“No,” Marianne replied, more tears streaking down her face as she shook her head. “They are all so mean to me. They cannot all be in love with me.”