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“ I do hope Norman is up to the task,” Abigail said, dropping the thick damask curtain back into place and shutting out the London night once more.

“The patronesses are quite selective. They delight at turning girls away at the faintest whiff of scandal, and goodness knows we’ve had more than a whiff. ”

The chandelier glittered in the candlelight, but its brightness did little to lift Marjory’s mood. She bent over her embroidery hoop, feigning concentration. It was at least the tenth time her sister had remarked on Almack’s and its persnickety patronesses.

They can all go to the devil.

“The Season is quite full this year,” her mother, the Dowager Countess of Edgerton, murmured and tightened her shawl around her.

The early spring damp left a chill despite the crackling fire in the grate. Reedley Manor—the newly acquired home of their cousin, Norman, the current Earl of Edgerton—was a monstrosity of overstated grandeur.

Marjory gave an idle flick of her needle through the fabric. “Perhaps I should do everyone a favor and make it one less.”

Abigail huffed and turned back to the window. “Do not jest. This is important.”

“But we’ve only just arrived back in town,” Marjory said, laying her embroidery aside. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait? Perhaps next year?”

She knew it was a futile effort. They’d been yanked from their comfortable country life a fortnight ago when it had been decided that Marjory must have her coming out that season. In the resulting flurry of moving houses and dress fittings, no one had once listened to her opinion on the matter.

As if my thoughts mean anything. It’s only the rest of my life at stake after all.

She missed her country life where she’d helped in the parish soup kitchen and local orphanage. In the country, she had purpose. Here, she had embroidery.

“Verity believes you will make a fine impression, my dear,” her mother remarked. “She’s persuaded Norman to bring us here, so you can have the Season you deserve.”

At that, Marjory managed a half-smile. Verity—Norman’s bright, tireless wife—had indeed been the driving force behind their sudden return to London. The woman’s relentless determination almost made Marjory feel guilty for complaining. Almost.

“In the country,” she said, “we could at least pretend our lives were our own. I’d rather be overlooked entirely than smiled at through gritted teeth.”

“Must you needle everyone with your gloom?” Abigail snapped, smoothing a crease from her skirt. “You know appearances matter—especially now.”

Marjory exhaled and picked up her sewing to hide her irritation. “I do not begrudge Norman and Verity their ambition,” she said. “They enjoy society. They wish to rise within it. That is their prerogative. But do not expect me to be grateful for being paraded about like a prized mare.”

Their mother shifted uncomfortably. “It is not so terrible as all that.”

“No?” Marjory arched a brow. “I am to curtsy, smile, and pretend to be delighted by every dull conversation with some self-important gentleman who sees me as nothing more than an ornament. That is not terrible?”

Abigail sighed. “Bridget is happy enough.”

Marjory’s grip on her embroidery hoop tightened. “Bridget never had the luxury of complaint. She had no choice.”

Silence settled like a heavy cloak. Even the crackling fire did little to dispel the tension. No one ever spoke openly of Abigail’s flight that left Bridget to marry the Duke of Wilds. That decision had changed the trajectory of all their lives.

“She is content now,” Abigail said at last though her words carried a brittle edge. “Her life is of her own making.”

Marjory tugged the thread through a sloppy stitch. Her sister’s blithe insistence that the ends justified the means rankled her nerves. As if a woman could simply declare herself content and make it so. Bridget had fought for every scrap of the life she now lived.

“Only because she had the sense to seize it for herself,” she said, unable to keep the barb behind her teeth.

The Duchess of Wilds had long since given up any pretense of playing by the rules of the ton .

She went about town unchaperoned, ran her household on her own terms, and raised her daughter without a fleet of hovering nurses.

Now pregnant with her second child, she seemed even less inclined to indulge society’s demands.

Abigail did not reply, but the tension in her jaw spoke volumes.

Marjory cast another crooked stitch. She had once believed in the romance of the Season—floating through candlelit ballrooms, waltzing in shimmering gowns, and finding a true love match.

But her time in the country, witnessing true hardships she’d never known existed, had taught her there was more to life than idle gossip and titles.

Right now, she could be mending clothes for the needy or helping Cook prepare extra soup or bread. So many people needed so much help, and yet here she sat—stitching meaningless flowers into linen, waiting for someone else to chart her course.

Footsteps and a burst of laughter echoed from the front entrance, followed by Verity’s unmistakably cheerful voice. Marjory’s stomach lurched. For good or ill, the news would define her path. She set aside her embroidery and drew a steadying breath.

“And so, the verdict arrives,” she muttered.

The door to the drawing room burst open in a flurry of silk and excitement as Verity swept in, followed closely by Norman, who was positively beaming, brandishing a small slip of paper aloft like a battlefield banner.

“Victory!” he declared, his voice triumphant as he strode toward the center of the room. “Marjory, you are officially among the chosen.”

Abigail let out a breath of relief. “Finally, something is going smoothly.”

Their mother simply offered a small, approving nod.

“I can scarcely contain my delight,” Marjory said. At her mother’s sharp glare, she cleared her throat and added, “Thank you, cousin.”

Verity nudged her husband out of the way and took over the conversation.

“Oh, don’t thank him,” she cried, practically dancing on the spot.

“It’s Lady Harrington you ought to praise.

She spent half an hour extolling your impeccable moral fiber—so much so that Lady Jersey had no choice but to grant the voucher!

I swear Lady Harrington could convince the King himself to abdicate if she put her mind to it. ”

Norman let out a low chuckle. “I won’t object to receiving some measure of gratitude,” he teased, slipping the voucher into his pocket. “After all, I did endure her soliloquy.”

Verity nodded in his direction. “You did splendidly, husband,” she said, shining a bright smile on the Earl, who grinned like a schoolboy.

“We are most grateful, Norman,” the Dowager Countess added. Her gaze slid to Marjory as if daring her to argue.

“It was extra fortuitous that Miss Eloise Montmere took that spill from her horse,” Verity went on. “A broken ankle, poor dear. A tragic turn for her, no doubt, but it did clear a spot for you.”

Abigail pursed her lips. “Miss Montmere’s mother must be in hysterics. Though if I recall correctly, Eloise has time on her side which is not a luxury shared by all,” she said, casting Marjory a meaningful glance.

Marjory pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Abigail spoke as if she were a crone and poor Miss Montmere indeed. She’d change spots with her in a heartbeat.

Her gaze drifted toward the staircase. A twisted ankle? A fainting spell? What is a little pain if it means escaping Almack’s?

With a sigh, she turned back to the drawing room, accepting there would be no escape this evening—or any other. “Well, how fortunate for me. I shall have the privilege of experiencing Almack’s at some point this Season.”

Verity gasped. “At some point? No, no, my dear! Tomorrow evening!”

Marjory straightened. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Norman confirmed. “A Wednesday, as is tradition.”

“And your gown must be perfect,” Verity added, tapping her chin in thought. “We must make a strong impression. No silks—muslin only as required by the patronesses. And no gaudy embellishments. A proper debutante must be understated but elegant.”

“Her lavender gown might do if we remove the lace at the hem,” Abigail suggested after a moment’s consideration.

Verity nodded. “Yes, and perhaps the pearl combs in her hair.” She turned to Norman. “We must send a note to Madame Bellamy in the morning, just in case. A few adjustments never hurt.”

And with that, the room dissolved into a flurry of discussion—fabrics, accessories, the precise shade of gloves, and the endless importance of making a favorable first impression.

Their voices rose and fell, a cacophony of laces, ribbons, and instructions Marjory was certain she’d never remember. The debate twisted in on itself, unraveling and re-stitching the same points like an embroidery pattern gone awry. She added nothing to it. Better to nod and let them sort it out.

Eventually, Norman, well accustomed to Verity’s enthusiasms, let out a heavy sigh and declared, “Enough. We have gone over every detail thrice now. There is nothing more to discuss tonight.”

Verity huffed but relented, rising from her seat and smoothing out her skirts with the air of a general conceding a battle but not the war. Abigail followed suit, and with a few more lingering comments about ribbons and reticules, the room slowly emptied.

Marjory remained still, watching the firelight flicker across the gilt-framed mirrors. She should go to bed, if only to quiet the thoughts gnawing at her. But what was the point? Tomorrow would come whether she wanted it or not.

And yet, as the house fell into silence, she moved closer to the fire and took up her sewing once more, knowing sleep would not come.