The Reluctant Debutante
for her debut had cooled. On the day of her presentation as an eligible woman ready for marriage, she slouched in her aunt’s dingy little carriage, wearing a white gown and a tasteful number of diamonds—only slightly more than the other girls would wear, but not enough to be gaudy—with her arms folded tightly over her chest.
“Can’t I be a spinster like you?” she grumbled, wondering if she could count the hours until she might be free to live as she pleased.
Aunt Clara sniffed, pressing a finger under her nose because she hated the smell of London. “That’s not a privilege you’ve earned. Court a few men, and then we may reconsider if you find no one worth your time.”
“How does one tell if they’re worth anything at all?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Aunt Clara said mildly. “I never found one.”
Though Aurelia had lived seven years in London, she remembered little of it. Thus far, she’d decided she preferred her aunt’s house over the city, a thought that worried her because, while she was beginning to entertain the idea of spinsterhood, she hadn’t embraced the thought of becoming a recluse.
They stopped in front of the royal palace where a hundred other well-dressed ladies who were walking inside, tittering and eyeing the castle’s turrets and heavy iron gates.
Aurelia stared out the opposite window. A black carriage sat on the other side of the street, its occupants shrouded in darkness. Where they going, and could she follow? Perhaps she’d run across the street and throw herself inside and beg them to take her away without a care as to who might be inside.
She considered it, but then her aunt squawked, “Time to go. We don’t want to be late.”
With a heavy sigh, Aurelia left the carriage and followed the others, moving at a snail’s pace through the palace where they would be presented to the king before spinning their way through a royal ball and finally heading home.
“You used to be excited about this,” Aunt Clara puffed as she waddled to a corner of the antechamber where they would wait until it was Aurelia’s turn to meet the king. “What happened?”
Ralph. Her parents. Misery.
“I grew up,” Aurelia said.
Her aunt’s face scrunched. “That’s very narrow of you. You used to want love.”
“I was a child,” Aurelia said morosely. “And I’ve learned life does not give you what you want just for dreaming hard enough.”
Her aunt made a sound low in her throat and looked away.
Any love she might have wanted was on a ship, far from the drudgery of social games she would be forced to endure. And if he were to be a true possibility—and he wasn’t—she’d be foolish.
She would not embarrass herself over a man. In fact, she’d gone an entire year without doing anything remotely ridiculous, even though her little girlish crush lingered in the back of her mind like a whisper or a shadow, or a silvery glint of spider silk that caught the light at only a certain time of day, determined to thwart even the most intent feather duster. Nothing could fix it—not even the murders a year ago, or that he continued ruling the sea in ways that made Aunt Clara burn the news more than once.
She’d known it would be this way, but she successfully pretended to ignore her heart and therefore didn’t worry for any kind of resurgence of silly fantasies.
In time, Aurelia and her aunt were summoned to the throne room. It was decked in red velvet and gilded fixtures, and filled with a sea of painted faces both on canvas and flesh. Aunt Clara followed Aurelia as she approached the king and sank into a deep curtsy.
“Lady Aurelia Danby,” said the courtier next to the king.
“Danby,” the king mused, and when Aurelia straightened, she saw a large man in his sixties. He stroked his patchy beard. “Like my nephew.”
“She is your nephew’s child.”
“Ah.” The king nodded. “I didn’t know he had a child. Very fine. Very nice.”
Aurelia forced a smile even as her heart smarted. However, the king’s comments were more than most girls received, and now the other young ladies watched Aurelia with jealous sneers. She ignored them and joined her aunt in the corner of the ballroom and talked to no one, glaring away suitors before they could approach.
“Go mingle,” Aunt Clara commanded. “No one likes a wallflower.”
“They don’t want to talk to me.”
Her aunt cast her an icy look. “Stop terrifying them.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort.”
“You’re making your face odious even to God. Go and smile.”
Chastened, Aurelia prowled around the perimeter of the room, taking joy only in the way her gown swished around her ankles. It was the finest thing she’d ever worn, and now that she’d debuted, she would have more fine things to wear. The only downside was who she would wear them for. These young men with nice faces and charm, but who were boring and—
“Lady Danby, may I have this dance?”
Aurelia turned, prepared to firmly decline in such a way to assure him no other such invitation would ever be welcome. But she found herself facing a tall young man with golden, sun-bleached hair, a tan face, and dark, smiling eyes.
“Ralph!” She barely kept herself from throwing her arms around him. Instead, her sudden happiness burst from her in a loud giggle. She scanned the opulent room for any other Kingswoods, then stopped when she realized what she was doing.
Like cobwebs and shadows, she reminded herself. I am not ridiculous.
“I promised,” he said, holding out his hand. “A year is far too long.”
“I would hug you, but then you’d probably have to marry me.”
“One might find it worth the price,” he mused, taking her hand and leading her to the floor where other couples frolicked and spun. “You look lovely.”
“You look well-traveled,” she replied, eyeing his hair. “It suits you.”
A year away had turned him golden in nearly every way, setting him apart from the pasty English gentlemen surrounding them. She remembered him telling her of his desire to have a home and a wife, and she thought a life like that would suit him very well as women eyed him from behind fluttering fans.
Ralph placed a hand on her waist and moved them into the steps of a waltz. “It may suit me, but it doesn’t compare to being home. Being here.”
“You’ve only written to me twice, you know,” Aurelia said, teasing.
He smirked. “Does Will still write?”
“He does.” She might’ve found a way to ask him to stop, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. A proper lady she may be, but her desire for adventure and freedom remained. So she allowed herself the letters, and enjoyed them for the few minutes she could before she turned them to ash and moved on with her day.
They were like decadent little desserts to be savored only on occasion, and she remained perfectly, utterly sensible.
“Honestly, I don’t know when he has the time,” Ralph said, spinning her. “But if he can manage it, I have no excuse. I swear to write more.”
“Perhaps you should ask him his schedule.” She dared not speak his name, because even if she was sensible, she feared his name on her lips might feel like a curse or taste like sin—and sensible girls didn’t partake in such things.
“His schedule doesn’t have time for questions. He exists, but only as captain.”
She wondered how true that was. William’s letters were short and vague, but they were still very much him, and that had never changed. Instead, she asked, “How long are you here?”
“Only for tonight, unfortunately.” His eyes bored into hers, heavy with regret. “It’s all we could manage.”
A year of intention to return, and this was all the time she’d get with him. He’d hardly been here for a few minutes and already any idea of inviting him to tea or strolling through the garden dissipated.
“But,” he said, pulling her close and slowing his steps, “if you swear not to marry this year, I’ll return and maybe—”
Everyone stopped to applaud as the dance ended. Ralph stepped back, cleared his throat, and did the same.
“I can assure you I won’t marry this year,” Aurelia said as the clapping subsided. “I’m trying to convince my aunt to let me be a spinster.”
“That would be a travesty,” he said with a smirk. If they were anywhere else, she might pinch his cheek like she had when they were younger. Instead, she stuck out her tongue, earning a ferocious laugh from him.
Across the room, Aunt Clara glared. Aurelia took Ralph’s hand and tugged him to the edge of the room where they could snicker beyond the range of her aunt’s judgment.
With Ralph’s return, Aurelia’s debut wasn’t as dismal as she expected. She danced with him more than was appropriate, and when she returned home that night, she felt light and even a little cheerful.
Feelings that dissipated at the sight of the letter waiting on her bed.
Letters were not usually cause for alarm, but this one was different. This one did not bear her parents’ seal, but another featuring two crossed swords stamped in blue wax. It bore no address on the back—only her name written in handwriting she knew as well as her own.
Suddenly fighting to breathe, she hung her head out the door and called for a maid. One came running, and Aurelia paced farther into the room, tearing off her long white gloves and demanding, “Untie me. Get me out of this dress, please, I beg you.”
The maid set to work, untying as Aurelia gripped her bedpost and tried to catch her breath.
“Are you okay, miss?” the maid asked.
Aurelia gasped, “I can’t breathe.”
The dress pooled to the floor, leaving only her stays and chemise. Her fingers dug into the wood, and now she fully hyperventilated as the maid rushed to free her from her bindings. Once they fell away, Aurelia sucked in her first full breath and stepped aside so the maid could gather the garments and leave the room.
The letter still sat on her bed, expectant in its lack of script and its blue seal.
A letter with that seal came from down the lane.
A letter with no address…it was hand delivered.
Even with her stays and dress gone, she still struggled to breathe. She shook out her hands, and once she found her nerve, she grabbed the letter and tore the wax away.
Aurelia,
Congratulations on your debut.
You’re in London tonight as I write to you, and I hope you’re not forced to dance with any stuffy old gentlemen you dislike (Ralph not included).
This is a different letter than usual. Instead of the sea, I’ll tell you of home. It’s been three years since I was last here, and while Ralph enjoys the ball in London, I’m dining with my parents and youngest brother, who I’m not sure you know—he’s fourteen and usually hides away to study books and rocks and bugs and whatever else a boy of his temperament likes. I find him amusing in the best ways.
Though I feel more at home on a ship, my childhood home holds a charm I find nowhere else. Where my life abroad is windy and loud and full of excitement, this place is quiet and secure. It makes me feel like myself without all the demands of the life I’ve come to know. And my mother worries, so I feel it’s only kind to appear for her every now and again.
I leave again after supper, which is both a relief and a sadness. A relief because I’m returning to a life I’ve learned to love, but also because I leave behind a generous measure of ease and comfort.
I do hope you’re well. If you ever wish to write back, you’ll find several addresses below. I can’t tell you where I’ll be or when, but I or someone I know might look for correspondence at these places.
William
You don’t have to burn this one.
Below his letter was a list of addresses through five port cities in different countries, along with a name—William C. Smith.
Trembling, she dropped the letter and moved to the window where she could see a single chimney above the trees.
He’d been there, just across the lake. He’d been at the door, perhaps in this very house, and she’d been too busy meeting the king and dancing with Ralph.
Spider silk and shadows, she told herself. It’s just spider silk and shadows… She turned away and tugged at the pins in her hair, pulling down her blonde locks and leaving them a disheveled mess. With her hair in ruins and wearing a simple chemise, she couldn’t possibly go out. She couldn’t seek him, even if he was still home. And he wasn’t going to be.
She sank to her knees, remembering the way she’d expected William to sweep her off her feet at her debut, and how foolish she’d been to think it possible. She laughed, a terrible sound that sounded more like a choke, and was grateful she’d let go of the idea before it could have followed her here, to this day, when such a disappointment would have devastated her.
How nice it is not to be devastated, she thought as she stared at the pins on the floor. How nice it is to not be disappointed.
The letter trembled in her hand. For a moment, she considered burning it. She even moved to the hearth and held it over the fire, watching the light shift and behind the addresses scrawled over the bottom, but her fingers would not release it.
Instead, she fished the book from beneath her mattress, its pages filled with all her old clippings of Copson’s escapades. She hadn’t touched or added to them in a year, but tonight she slipped William’s letter among them. She’d burn it tomorrow…or next week. She’d close the door on William for good—somehow finally remove those cobwebs—and find love with someone more suitable and available.
She’d burn it eventually.