Chapter 2
Ophelia suspected the gown had reached a point at which it could no longer honestly be described as the same garment.
It had begun its life several years earlier as a perfectly respectable evening dress. Since then it had been altered, repaired, adjusted, trimmed, retrimmed, and subjected to so many improvements that very little of the original design remained intact.
Her mother, however, remained convinced there was still work to be done. “No,” she announced at last.
Ophelia looked up from the sleeve she had been carefully repairing. “No?”
“The ribbon.”
Ophelia followed her mother’s gaze to the pale blue ribbon edging the bodice. “The ribbon is perfectly respectable.”
“The ribbon is exhausted.”
A smile tugged at Ophelia’s mouth despite herself. “The ribbon cannot possibly be exhausted.”
“It most certainly can.”
“I assure you it cannot.”
Her mother folded her arms. “Then explain why it looks so tired.”
Ophelia studied the ribbon more closely. Unfortunately, her mother had a point. The ribbon did look rather tired. “Perhaps no one will notice.”
“Someone always notices.”
That, unfortunately, was true.
Her mother crossed the room and lifted the gown from the back of a chair, examining it with the determined concentration of a general reviewing battlefield casualties.
The small sitting room had been entirely surrendered to the cause.
Thread, pins, fabric scraps, and sewing baskets occupied nearly every available surface.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows while a fire crackled softly in the grate, filling the room with a pleasant warmth that contrasted sharply with the chill lingering outside.
“We could turn it over,” she suggested.
Ophelia laughed. “Mother, you’ve already turned it over twice.”
“Three times.”
“That is not helping your argument.”
Her mother chose not to acknowledge this. Instead, she frowned thoughtfully at the sleeves. “We could remove the trim.”
“We removed the trim last year.”
“Then perhaps we could put it back.”
This time Ophelia laughed outright.
The sound drew an answering smile from her mother, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
The silence settled comfortably between them.
There had been many afternoons like this over the years.
Not always spent rescuing old gowns, but spent together nevertheless, talking quietly while their hands remained occupied.
Once, there had been enough money for new dresses when occasions demanded them.
Never an abundance of money, but enough.
Now every invitation required ingenuity.
A seam let out here. A hem adjusted there. A ribbon carefully repositioned in hopes that no one would remember precisely where it had been the previous year.
It was difficult to resent the necessity when her mother worked so hard to disguise it. Even so, Ophelia could not entirely suppress a sigh.
Tonight was Isabella Fairchild’s engagement ball. The thought brightened her spirits immediately.
“Have you received another letter?” her mother asked.
Ophelia glanced up from her sewing. The question itself sounded innocent enough. The smile accompanying it was considerably less so. “Perhaps.”
Her eyes immediately narrowed. “Perhaps?”
Ophelia bent her head over the gown in a transparent attempt to hide her smile. It was entirely unsuccessful. “Isabella writes frequently.”
“Mm.”
“You are being suspicious.”
“I am being a mother.”
“Which is considerably worse.”
The resulting laugh was genuine enough to warm the room.
Ophelia felt something soften in her chest at the sound.
There had been a time when laughter came more easily to her mother.
Before every expense required consideration.
Before invitations became sources of anxiety as often as pleasure.
Before conversations about the future seemed to carry practical concerns lurking just beneath the surface.
Not that her mother ever complained. That was perhaps the worst part.
Her mother endured disappointments with grace. She simply worried.
And increasingly, Ophelia suspected, she worried about her.
“She’s very happy,” her mother said.
“Yes,” Ophelia admitted. “She is.”
Her friend had sounded almost radiant in her most recent letter. Every page overflowed with excitement, happiness, and increasingly detailed descriptions of a gentleman she was very clearly falling in love with.
“Isabella has done very well for herself.”
“She has.”
“A marquess’s heir.”
“I am aware.”
“And by all accounts he adores her.”
At that, Ophelia’s smile deepened. That was the part that mattered.
The title was impressive. The fortune was impressive. Every practical advantage attached to the match was impressive. Yet none of those things were what made Isabella’s letters glow with happiness.
What made them impossible to read without smiling was Nicholas himself.
Even when Isabella intended to write about something entirely different, he inevitably found his way onto the page. His name appeared with suspicious frequency. Small anecdotes involving him occupied increasingly generous portions of every letter.
That was what Ophelia envied.
Not rank. Not wealth. Not even security, though Heaven knew security would be useful.
Love.
The belief remained stubbornly fixed within her despite every practical argument against it.
At two-and-twenty, with her family’s circumstances growing more strained each year, she ought perhaps to have learned to value other considerations more highly.
Yet she could not persuade herself that affection ought to be treated as a luxury.
Marriage was meant to last a lifetime.
Surely a lifetime deserved love.
“I know that look.”
Ophelia immediately became suspicious. “What look?”
Her mother set aside the gown and regarded her with entirely too much amusement. “The one that appears whenever somebody mentions romance.”
“There is no look.”
“There absolutely is.”
“There is not.”
Her mother’s smile only widened. “You have that exact expression whenever one of your novels reaches the final chapter.”
Ophelia reached for her needle with as much dignity as she could manage. “You are imagining things.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“You’ve been reading those novels again.”
Ophelia gasped. “Those novels?”
“Yes.”
“The ones you insist upon borrowing the moment I’ve finished them?”
A faint flush appeared in her mother’s cheeks. “That is entirely beside the point.”
“Of course it is.” Ophelia bent over the gown to hide her smile.
The truth was that her mother enjoyed the stories nearly as much as she did. Her mother maintained that she read them only to ensure they were respectable, an argument she presented with admirable consistency and absolutely no success.
Neither of them believed it.
The discussion might have continued indefinitely had the door not opened.
Edmund entered without ceremony and stopped just inside the room. His gaze traveled from the sewing basket to the ribbons scattered across the table before settling on the gown itself.
A grin spread across his face.
“Good Lord,” he said. “You’re still fighting with that dress?”
“We are improving it,” Ophelia replied.
“You’ve been improving it for three weeks.”
“We are being thorough.”
Edmund grinned.
The expression transformed him. It always had.
Ophelia suspected a great many of her brother’s successes could be attributed entirely to that grin. It had rescued him from childhood punishments, offended neighbors, disappointed creditors, and at least one furious clergyman. Quite often, it accomplished what apologies could not.
“Be ready by seven,” he said. “If we’re late, Isabella will never forgive us.”
“We won’t be late.”
“Excellent.” His gaze moved between them, and something immediately clicked. “You were discussing marriage again, weren’t you?”
“No,” Ophelia said.
“Yes,” her mother replied at precisely the same moment.
Edmund laughed. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one you make whenever anyone suggests you may someday acquire a husband.”
Ophelia reached for a cushion.
Edmund wisely stepped backward. “You joke,” he said, still laughing, “but whoever marries you had better possess a substantial fortune.”
“Edmund.”
“What?”
“You are being dreadful.”
“I am being practical.” His grin widened. “Preferably wealthy enough to support your alarming habit of purchasing novels.”
The cushion left her hand before she could reconsider. Unfortunately, Edmund caught it. More unfortunately, he looked entirely pleased with himself afterward.
Across the room, her mother was attempting—and failing—not to laugh.
Traitor.
***
By the time Ophelia arrived at the ball, she had already become convinced that every stitch in her gown was held together entirely by optimism.
The room blazed with candlelight. Crystal chandeliers scattered golden reflections across polished floors while conversation and music merged into a pleasant hum beneath the soaring ceiling.
Ladies in silk and satin drifted through the crowd like bright flowers, their laughter mingling with the strains of the orchestra.
For a moment, Ophelia simply stood and looked.
She had attended enough balls in her life that none of it should have felt remarkable.
Yet invitations had become increasingly scarce over the past few years. Not through any deliberate cruelty. No one had formally excluded her. Her family’s circumstances had simply become one of those quietly understood facts that gradually altered things.
There were fewer invitations than there had once been.
Fewer introductions. Fewer opportunities to find herself included in the circles where she had once moved naturally enough.
Society excelled at such things. No one ever said she was unwelcome.
Invitations simply arrived less often than they once had, until one day she found herself wondering when the change had begun.
Fortunately, she had not come for society.
She had come for Isabella.