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Dear Molly,

Do you recall the bedtime story I once told you about a princess and a frog? Once upon a time, a princess was drinking tea by a pond when she accidentally dropped her favorite teacup into the water. A frog retrieved the cup, confessing to the princess that he was always looking out for her and that he loved her. Moved, she was about to kiss the muddy creature when her betrothed, a prince, intervened, warning the princess that if she so much as touched that frog, he would abandon her forever.

I paused in the story at that point. I asked you who the princess should choose—the frog or the prince.

“The prince,” you replied with certainty, citing the frog’s filth as the reason he was the worse choice.

“My dear girl,” I said. “We should always look past the grime, for what lies beyond it may shine more brightly than anything imaginable.”

You nodded sagely, but did you actually understand? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because even if you didn’t understand then, when you read what I have to tell you now, you will.

—

The evening of the Workers’ Ball was soon upon us, and for the first time in a long time, the mood at Gray Manor was giddy and buoyant. There had been so much doom and gloom about the house, so many threats of financial ruin, but on that night, all was forgotten, and as the moon shone high, the manor was bathed in shimmering magic.

Inside the house, the band had set up in the ballroom and had begun playing jaunty tunes, awaiting the arrival of guests. In the guest parlor, the catered buffet graced long, white-linened tables—freshly polished silver platters heaped with shrimp cocktails and caviar, French cheeses and foie gras.

Mama, Papa, and I took our places in the keyhole archway at the ballroom entrance, ready to greet guests. Papa looked gallant in his midnight-black tuxedo, with satin stripes down the trouser legs. Mama wore an hourglass Dior, black to match Papa, complete with satin gloves and a freshwater pearl choker featuring a cameo—her portrait in miniature on her own neck.

Mrs.Mead had done my hair up, leaving a few tendrils falling gracefully and making up my face to accentuate my eyes and cheeks.

“My little girl is a young lady,” my father said the moment he laid eyes on me. He kissed me on the cheek and fawned over me in a way he hadn’t in ages. “Doesn’t she look elegant, Audrey?”

“At least she’s wearing the gown properly this time,” Mama replied as she looked past me into the ballroom, displeased with the tiered champagne display. She barked sharp orders to the footmen standing by, but when she noticed a procession of guests coming our way, her tone sweetened instantly.

“Oh look, it’s the Farquars! And the Petersons, too!” she enthused.

From that moment on, I greeted lawyers and litigators, brokers and bankers. I curtsied to CEOs and statesmen; I even bowed to a baron and a baroness who complimented my parents on their taste in furnishings.

“Your home is lovely,” the baroness offered as her tiara twinkled on her layered bouffant.

“Just a few family heirlooms,” said Mama.

“Was that a Limoges vase I spotted in the corridor?” the baron asked.

“Good eye,” said Papa.

The baroness followed her husband into the ballroom then, leaving us to greet the line of guests waiting patiently behind them. There were well-heeled matrons with sons and daughters debuting for the first time. There were the workers from our estate and from others nearby, too. Papa insisted we greet the workers with the same respect we afforded everyone else, a rule that applied but one night a year.

After a half hour, the procession of guests thinned as the ballroom filled. Then, down the entry hall, arms linked, came Uncle Willy and Mrs.Mead, with John walking tall between them. His wavy brown hair was combed neatly. He was wearing a black tuxedo with a straight bow tie. Even more arresting than his dapper outfit was the way he carried himself—without apology, always, shoulders back, face open, his smile inviting and real. I felt myself swoon a little as I watched him. I was glad we’d made amends and were no longer at war with each other.

“William, Mrs.Mead,” Papa said as they approached. “You both look dazzling.”

Uncle Willy was wearing his butler’s best, but he’d accentuated his black jacket with a plaid pocket square. Mrs.Mead fidgeted with the puffy organza sleeves on the gown she’d no doubt sewn herself out of old upholstery fabric.

“It chafes like the dickens,” she said, “but if I pass as presentable, I’m pleased.”

“Presentable. That’s the word,” said Mama.

Mrs.Mead turned to John, staring up at him adoringly with her one blue eye and one green one. “Don’t just stand there gawking at the young lady. Say something, lad.”

Only then did I notice how quiet John had become, how his glassy brown eyes were fixed on me.

“You…you look…”

“Beautiful. Charming. Elegant,” Uncle Willy offered. “Any of those will do, son.”

“You look…ravishing, Flora,” John said.

“Goodness,” said Papa. “He’s found his tongue.”

“And then some,” said Mama.

“How very kind, John,” I replied. He took my hand then, and for the second time in my life, he kissed it, lingering before letting go.

I could feel my knees weaken. I looked to Mama, her mouth a tight grimace.

“William,” she said, addressing the father rather than the son. “It seems your boy doesn’t know better than to kiss my daughter’s hand. We’ll overlook him taking such liberties.”

Uncle Willy flinched, but he didn’t say a word as he bowed, then led his family into the ballroom.

“What did you say that for?” I hissed the moment they were out of earshot.

“Oh, Flora,” Mama hissed back. “Don’t lead the poor boy on. He hasn’t a hope in hell of ever claiming you.”

“Claiming me? No one owns me, Mama.”

“Here she goes,” said Papa sotto voce.

“Not tonight, Flora. Behave,” said Mama.

I left them, going into the ballroom to find Uncle Willy, John, and Mrs.Mead standing awkwardly in a corner.

“Apologies,” I said, looking from John to his father and aunt. “Welcome to the ball. My family is grateful to you and yours, today and every day of the year, even if it doesn’t always appear that way,” I said.

John’s brow furrowed, but he responded with an elegant bow.

Before I could say anything else, Mama was at my side once more.

“Excuse me,” she said as she drew me away. “The dance is starting, and they’re not here yet.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The Brauns,” Papa said as he walked into our conversation.

“Reginald, what if they don’t come?” Mama asked, her hands clutching the cameo at her neck. “You know what that will mean.”

“Audrey, everyone’s watching,” Papa said through a stiff grin as he met the eyes of the many guests glancing our way.

“Flora, entertain the young ladies,” Mama ordered as she pasted on a smile. “When the band starts, dance with the boys from your class.”

For a moment, I wondered what she meant by “class”—the boys from school or the wealthy young heirs gathered in the ballroom.

Just then, the band changed measure, from jazz preludes to a slow ballad—“I’ve Got You Under My Skin”—sung by a dulcet-voiced crooner.

I wandered over to a group of boys from school, all of them standing in a corner, Percival in the middle. They looked uncomfortable in their tuxedos, like penguins awkward out of water.

“Welcome to Gray Manor,” I said by way of greeting. “You’re supposed to ask the girls to dance now.” I gestured to a group of young ladies on the other side of the room.

Percival stared at me. “My friends don’t know how to dance,” he said, pointing a thumb at his posse as if he himself were Fred Astaire.

“You all have feet, don’t you?” I asked. “And ears?”

“I’ll show them how it’s done,” I heard, and when I turned, John was behind me, a head taller than the other boys, hand extended. “Flora, may I have this dance?”

I knew if my parents saw me opening the dance with the butler’s son, they’d be less than pleased, but in that moment, I didn’t care. I took John’s hand and let him lead me to the middle of the ballroom floor. We put our arms around each other, and our feet fell into perfect rhythm for the very first time. It was so effortless and easy, Molly. We flowed as if his body was an extension of mine.

“Who taught you how to dance?” I asked, in awe that he was so fine-footed on the floor.

“My father,” he answered. “He hasn’t danced in ages, not since my mother died.” He looked down at his feet, and for a moment he lost his lead.

I gripped his hand tighter, and his head veered up, those brooding, deep eyes meeting mine. I tell you, Molly, that man was a marvel. Every step with him came easily. My arms fit into his like lock and key. And yet I took it all for granted.

“Are you nervous about the exams?” he asked as we whirled around the floor. The finals were fast approaching, and our fates hung in the balance.

“A little,” I admitted. “I’ve been studying hard, but you heard the headmaster. The exams are tough. I may not pass.”

“Of course you’ll pass,” he replied. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. And the most beautiful, too…even if I get tongue-tied trying to tell you so.”

I was the one to look away then, fearing he might notice the blush rising up my chest and coloring my cheeks. “You’re very…smart yourself,” I replied as the ballad came to an end.

We stood still in the middle of the ballroom, and I felt him lean in, perhaps to whisper something in my ear, but then my mother’s voice at the front of the room drew my attention.

“They’re here!” she called out as several heads turned.

In the arched entry, my parents were greeting three late arrivals. One was Magnus Braun, in a daring white dinner jacket and black tuxedo trousers, a red rose boutonniere over his heart. As he shook my father’s hand, he clapped Papa on the back so loudly, the sound ricocheted through the room.

Beside Magnus was a willowy blonde about my mother’s age, wearing a royal blue empire gown—Mrs.Braun, no doubt. She held the arm of a much younger man wearing a finely tailored, modern suit—metallic sharkskin—with no tie at all, and a white shirt, three buttons undone, revealing an expanse of tanned chest beneath. He, too, had an audacious red rose as a boutonniere. Blond hair in a pompadour quiff, the front left long like James Dean’s; one errant lock fell in his face, and he swept it back casually with the palm of his hand. As he did, his eyes met mine—icy blue, like the eyes of a wolverine.

I watched as Magnus leaned in and whispered something to his son. Then the two of them were smiling and looking my way. Magnus waved. It took me a moment to wave back. Mama’s black-gloved hand beckoned me over, her eyes conveying that I should make my way there urgently.

“Excuse me, John,” I said. “My parents are calling.”

“So I see,” he said, then he looked down at his feet.

I made my way to the young man in the threshold. I’d never seen a man like him in real life. He looked like a movie star who’d just stepped off the silver screen into our staid manor home.

“There she is,” Magnus said as I approached.

So stricken was I by the sight of his son, I could barely peel my eyes off him.

“Flora, please welcome our special guests,” Papa said as he touched my elbow.

“Good evening, Mr.Braun,” I managed to say.

“This is the rogue son I was telling you about, Algernon,” Magnus explained as if I hadn’t already noticed his boy, as if the entire room hadn’t noticed him.

I curtsied as I offered my hand.

“Don’t bow too low or I might get used to it,” Algernon replied. He laughed then, and so did I. Then he pushed that churlish shock of long blond hair out of his eyes, grabbed my hand, and kissed it just as John had earlier, though he lingered longer. I was painfully aware that all eyes were on me.

“Aren’t you going to scold him?” I whispered to Mama. “Just like you did with the last young man who kissed my hand?”

“Scold him?” she replied, fanning herself flirtatiously with one black-gloved hand. “On the contrary, I was going to offer my hand next,” she said, and the guests in our midst laughed.

“Audrey,” said Papa, “if you require a dashing gentleman to fawn over you, all you had to do was ask.” Papa, in a gesture so unlike him, grabbed Mama’s hand and dramatically kissed it as the Brauns clapped their approval.

A moment later, the woman on Algernon’s arm addressed me. “Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing,” she said.

“Flora, meet my mother,” Algernon said.

“How do you do, Mrs.Braun?”

“Oh, please. I’m not that old. Call me Priscilla. Even my son does.”

“Actually, I call you Prissy,” said Algernon with a gentle shove of her arm.

“Now, now. Behave,” his mother urged.

“Hardly my strong suit,” her son replied.

“Reginald, how would you feel if my son asked your daughter to dance?”

“Flora would be delighted!” my mother answered as she pushed me forward.

“Shall we?” said Algernon, releasing his mother’s arm and taking mine. The crooner launched into “Unforgettable” as the young Mr.Braun led me onto the ballroom floor.

“So you’re Flora,” Algernon said once we’d begun to dance. He drew me close, so close I could smell the bergamot on his neck. “I’ve heard about you and your family from my dad. I’m relieved you don’t live up to your name.”

I had no idea what he meant, so I asked.

“With a last name like Gray, I’d pictured plain and boring. I figured Mags was coupling me up with a brown bagger like those ones over there.”

He nodded to the clique of young ladies in the corner, all wearing pretty pastel gowns and staring at me with such envy that I ignored the insult Algernon had just hurled their way and found myself reveling in the fact that I had been deemed worthy, a cut above the rest, according to this alluring and daring young man.

“My dad says you’re more than just pretty. He claims you’re whip smart. I like whip smart,” he said, whispering the last part so close to my ear that the words seeped in like a sweet, hypnotic potion.

“I’m studying hard,” I said. “I’m hoping to go to university, but I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“You definitely have what it takes,” he said as his icy blue eyes looked me up and down. “What are you studying?”

“Literature,” I answered. “I love to read.”

“What a coincidence. I love to be read to. In fact, I think I could lie in your lap all day drinking wine and listening to your voice. You should come to Saint-Tropez later this summer. We can frolic on my dad’s yacht. It’s my last fling before Mags chains me to the family firm.”

Mags. Prissy. Everything about this young man was so modern and refreshing—exactly opposite my parents’ stale and staid conventions. I looked over to where Mama and Papa stood on the edge of the dance floor with Algernon’s parents. All of them now had drinks in their hands, and Papa was beaming as he watched us. Mama raised her champagne flute my way and gave me a discreet thumbs-up with her other hand. The look of pride in her eyes was one I’d seen only once and recently—on the day of the summit, right after Magnus Braun and his men left.

I turned to Algernon. “You call your parents by their first names,” I said. “And you didn’t wear a tie to the ball.”

“A tie? They’re nooses in disguise. Anyhow, this is how we swing in Saint-Tropez. The girls don’t seem to mind. Do you like it?” he asked, getting so close to my mouth that if I moved an inch, his lips would have met mine.

“I do,” I said. “I like it very much.”

And Molly, when I said that, I spoke the truth. In that moment, it was like I was suddenly possessed—mesmerized by Algernon’s swagger and glamour, dazzled by his movie-star looks and emboldened by my parents’ obvious approval. I felt overcome with a dizzying rapture for this stranger who’d just swept me off my feet.

As the song ended, Algernon closed the gap between us. My chest pressed against his, and our lips met. It was completely unheard of—to kiss a girl on the lips on the ballroom floor—but I knew my parents wouldn’t dare disapprove. When Algernon drew away, all I wanted was more.

The band struck up a rock ’n’ roll number by that Elvis fellow who my parents said was corrupting youth and the airwaves.

“Thanks for the dance,” Algernon said. “If I don’t take a turn with a few of them, there’ll be hell to pay,” he added, pointing to the group of young ladies in the corner. “But I’ll be thinking of you the whole time, Flora. Catch you later?”

“I look forward to it,” I replied.

He strode away then, wordlessly taking the hand of a girl in a lilac gown and leading her into a jive on the dance floor. Soon enough, the entire room filled with young couples gyrating to the beat. Magnus and Priscilla took to the floor and were twisting while my parents watched from the sidelines, my father grinning stoically and my mother clapping along awkwardly with her black-gloved hands.

Dance after dance, the mood in the room crescendoed. Buttons were undone and ties removed. Never had the Gray ballroom been worked into such a frenzy. A ruddy sheen blossomed on the women’s faces. All decorum surrendered to the pure provocation of the new rock ’n’ roll.

It got so warm that I downed two glasses of champagne, then headed to the ladies’ powder room, where the window was cracked open and the air was not quite so charged. I ran my wrists under cool water and looked at myself in the mirror. My pupils were so large I barely recognized myself.

Just then, I heard sobbing, a girl’s voice catching in her throat. I turned to see a young lady in a light blue gown sitting on a velvet settee in the corner. Beside her was Mrs.Mead, an arm rubbing her back.

I dried my hands and made my way over. “Is everything all right?” I asked Mrs.Mead, for the girl’s head was in her hands.

“Bring a tissue for her issue,” Mrs.Mead whispered.

I spotted the uniformed attendant on the other side of the powder room and asked for a package, bringing it to my nursemaid.

“There, there,” Mrs.Mead said as she offered the girl a tissue from the pack. “Dry your eyes, my dear. Take a breath.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I mouthed to Mrs.Mead.

“We’ll discuss this later,” she replied. “I’ve sent John to look for you, Flora. Keep him close, you hear? Dance with him.”

“I danced with him already,” I said.

The girl broke down into a full chorus of sobs, and Mrs.Mead rocked her back and forth while giving me the green-eye-blue-eye signal that I should be on my way.

I left the powder room and was heading back to the ballroom when I felt a hand on my arm.

It was John, his brow furrowed, his eyes wide. “Flora,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Am I not allowed to go to the ladies’ room?” I asked, withdrawing my arm.

“Of course you are,” he replied. “Listen…just…be careful out there,” he said as his eyes traveled to the ballroom entrance and the frenzy within.

Oh, Molly, I don’t relish admitting this, but in that moment, every fiber of my being suddenly revolted. In my deep state of youthful confusion, I found myself catapulted back to that place where love and hate exist in close proximity. And without realizing what I was doing, I turned a switch inside myself. All the hatred I’d once felt for John surged forth again, and I forgot the other feelings that had blossomed. Who did John think he was, trying to control me and tell me what to do? Why did he want to pin me down when all I wanted to do was fly?

“We dance once, and now you think you’re the boss of me?” I said.

“What?” he replied. “No, it’s just that…people have been talking. I’m just saying you might want to be careful because—”

“You’re jealous,” I said. “And you can’t admit it. Leave me be.”

“Flora, wait!”

But I didn’t wait. Instead, I rushed to the ballroom like a moth drawn to a flame. Inside, I searched for him—Algernon—and found him with a highball in hand, holding court with Percival Peterson and the boys from class. He was telling them a story, and their heads were thrown back in laughter. While they celebrated Algernon, he glanced my way, and I felt my stomach flutter. I waved.

“There she is,” he said. “Will you excuse me, boys?”

He sauntered over to me. “Flora, how old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen,” I replied.

“Old enough,” he said.

“And you?” I asked.

“Twenty-one,” he replied as he downed the rest of his drink. I’d figured he was a bit older than me, but I didn’t realize by how much until that moment. “What do you say?” he asked.

“What do I say to what?” He always spoke some youthful patois I didn’t quite understand.

“Do you like convertibles?”

“The automobile?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “The ‘automobile.’ What do you say to next Saturday night?”

“With you?” I was hoping beyond hope he was proposing a date.

“Pick you up at eight?” he asked.

“I would be delighted,” I said as I bowed my head.

He touched one finger to my chin, tipping it up so my eyes met his. He smiled, so casual, so free. Then he put both of his hands on my bare shoulders and kissed me deeply on the mouth. After a few moments, he drew away to look at me with those icy blue eyes.

“I don’t know who’s more taken by you—me or my father,” he said, “but I think I’m the luckier one.”

“Luckier,” I said breathlessly. “Why?”

“I get to kiss you,” he replied. “He doesn’t.”

He laughed and started to leave. But then he turned to me one more time, tossed that shock of blond hair out of his eyes, and said, “See you Saturday, pretty little flower.”