The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray Read Free Book Online Page B

for the gray wool suit. It chafes and itches till I could scream.
    Mrs. Jones has laced me so tightly in my corset that if I dare take two sips of tea, one shall surely come Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    out again. Five other girls have come with their mothers. I am horrified to find that I do not know any of them, though they seem to know each other. Even worse, not a one has been forced to wear drab wool.
    They look as fresh as spring, whilst I resemble the spinster aunt every girl dreads as chaperone. It is all I can do not to confide to the girl closest to me: “If I should die during tea—asphyxiated by my own corset—please do not let them bury me in such a hideous dress or I shall come back to haunt you.”
    I’m under no illusions that this is simply tea; it is a marketplace, and we girls are the wares. While the mothers talk, we sip our tea silently, our smiles mirroring theirs as if we are players in a pantomime. I must remember to speak only when spoken to, to echo the sentiments of others. We work in concert to maintain the clear, pretty surface of this life, never daring to make a splash.
    With each question, each glance, we are being measured in the exacting scales of their minds, teetering in the balance between their expectations and their disappointments. This one laughs too frequently. That one’s hair is coarse, her skin ruddy. That girl wears a dour expression; still another stirs her tea far too long, while one unfortunate girl daringly ventures that she finds the rain “romantic,” and is told quite firmly that the rain is good only for the roses and for bringing on rheumatism. No doubt her mother will scold her mercilessly in the carriage and blame the misdeed squarely on the governess.
    For a brief while, the women ask us questions: Are we looking forward to our debuts? Did we enjoy this opera or that play? As we give our slight answers, they smile, and I cannot read what is behind their expressions. Do they envy us our youth and beauty? Do they feel happiness and excitement for the lives that lie ahead of us? Or do they wish for another chance at their own lives? A different chance?
    Soon the mothers tire of asking us questions. They fall into talk that does not concern us. During a tour of Mrs. Sheridan’s gardens—of which she is exceedingly proud, though it is the gardener who has done all the work—we are left to our own devices, thank goodness. The trained masks melt away.
    “Have you seen Lady Markham’s tiara? Isn’t it exquisite? I’d give anything to wear a tiara such as that, even for a moment.”
    “Speaking of Lady Markham, I suppose you have heard the gossip?” a girl named Annabelle says.
    The others are immediately drawn in. “Annabelle, what is it? What has happened?”
    Annabelle sighs heavily but there is a certain joy in it, as if she has been bottled up all this time, waiting for a chance to share her news. “I am burdened with a confidence I will disclose only if you make promises not to share it with anyone else.”
    “Oh, yes!” the girls promise, no doubt thinking of who shall be first to hear the unfortunate tale.
    “I have heard that Lady Markham has had a change of heart and that she may not present Miss Worthington at court after all.”
    The girls put gloved hands to mouths but their glee shows like a slipped petticoat. They’re glad for the gossip and doubly glad it’s not about them. I don’t know what to say. Should I tell them that Felicity and I are friends? Do they know?
    The chorus begins: “Oh, dear. Poor Felicity.” “What a scandal.” “But she is so very cheeky.” “Quite right. It is her own fault.” “I do adore her, but…” “Indeed.”
    Annabelle cuts in. Clearly, she is the queen bee among them. “Her independence does not endear her to

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    the ladies who matter. And then there is the question of