This was the first party that Margaret had attended in several years where she was not a subject of interest. Though she was close to Elizabeth, she was relatively anonymous and was able to be more observer than observed. She found she rather liked it.
The balls and teas that would follow this evening’s event were slightly less formal and thus slightly less scheduled. Tonight’s agenda, on the other hand, reminded her of the complicated tactics her father used to tell her about when he lectured her about historical naval battle plans.
The forty or so young men and women who were set to debut waited in a room off the main ballroom while the Queen and Prince Consort were installed, and the press arranged, so as not to be in too many people’s way. For now, the debuts mingled nervously. There were few enough of them that they needn’t arrange themselves before they entered the ballroom. They only had to pay attention for when their own name was called. It had, of course, the possibility of backfiring, but Margaret was reasonably confident that the Mistress of Ceremonies would get them all to the front of the crowd at the right time by sheer force of will.
The parents and sponsors would be marshalled into place in the ballroom, and then, at Lady Highcastle’s signal, the debuts would make their entrance, and then wait to be called—alphabetically because Lady Highcastle was the consummate Navy wife and believed good sense should always overshadow good politics.
Margaret was impressed at the number of boys in their company, as most young men chose not to have a public debut. It had been several decades since debuting had been treated merely as an entrance to the marriage mart. In fact, many girls now treated it as an extended career fair, where they might make connections to escape their own inherent nepotism and crack through someone else’s—though obviously neither Margaret nor Elizabeth needed to take that approach. There was still some sexist stigma associated with the affair, however, which caused boys to elect another, less ostentatious path. Margaret thought they were cheating themselves of a lot of fun that way and decided that the presence of Elizabeth Highcastle probably had a great deal to do with the increased number of boys in the room.
“Silly, it’s the Queen!” said Elizabeth, when Margaret suggested as much.
Margaret felt foolish for having forgot.
Looking around, she saw knots of well-dressed young people whispering to one another, as nerves increased. The room was a riot of colour. Elegantly draped hijab and gele were worn in combination with ball gowns, tasteful kippot with suits, and vivid salwar kameez and military uniforms were worn by all genders. There was no shortage of English-style dresses like the one Elizabeth wore, but many of them were decorated with Chinese iconography, or, in at least two cases that Margaret could see, First Nation styles, depending on who wore them. She counted at least six saris. The few boys who were wearing plain, though well-tailored, Savile Row suits, stood out rather starkly in the crush.
She and Elizabeth had attracted their own group, mostly girls Elizabeth had gone to school with, and they all whispered their anxieties as the moments dragged on longer. Margaret, who had not felt overwhelmed until she was surrounded by strangers, felt she needed some air. She cast about the room, though she could hardly expect anyone to rescue her in this crowd of people she didn’t know. Everyone seemed to be congregating the way Elizabeth’s comrades were, and Margaret didn’t see any way to make a graceful move from her own cluster to someone else’s. There was one girl, however, who stood mostly alone. She clasped a fan, more an affectation than a necessity—and a common enough gift from Hong Kong Chinese families that she was far from the only person in the room holding one—given the sophisticated climate controls in the ballroom, and stared at a spot on the floor in front of her, presumably to avoid making eye contact.
“Who is that?” she said quietly to Elizabeth when she was able to get the other girl’s attention for a moment. “In the corner, by herself.”
“Oh, that must be Miss Marcus,” Elizabeth said. “I forget her first name just now. Her mother is the chief clinician at the New London Findings Ward, and so my mother invited Miss Marcus as a sort of . . .”
“Charity case?” Margaret said, not entirely kindly, when Elizabeth trailed off. It was not often that Elizabeth’s privilege impeded her speaking her mind, though Margaret had noticed the consideration behind Elizabeth’s words, now that she knew to look for them.
“I should think not,” Elizabeth said somewhat sharply. “I suppose it’s in recognition of her mother’s good work, particularly because she does so at the behest of your—that is, of the Queen.”
That was true enough. Margaret’s mother, and all the monarchs back to the first Victoria, were adamant in their decision to help all members of the Empire find their way to being full citizens in it, and paid for the extra help that some of them needed. Indeed, Margaret well knew that the only photograph in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office was of one of his predecessors, as she signed the Genetic Creed into Canon in 1962, Sir Alan Turing and Margaret’s own illustrious ancestor smiling on either side. If Miss Marcus’s mother excelled in her position, carrying out the will of the Church and the Crown in helping every citizen in the Empire, then it was entirely appropriate to invite her daughter.
“She looks quite lonely,” Margaret said, but her suggestion that they go introduce themselves was drowned out by the arrival of a new group of debuts, each more convinced than the last that they were about to make fools of themselves before the Queen. How Elizabeth could have this many friends in Toronto at the same time she planned to move to a small island country in the Caribbean, Margaret couldn’t fathom, but it was certainly another good reason never to underestimate her.
Margaret couldn’t bear to listen to them any longer, feeling her own nerves spooling tight. She nodded to Elizabeth, hoping the other girl would understand that it was all right if she didn’t follow, and began to make her way over to Miss Marcus. Of course Elizabeth would know the details of her family and not the girl’s first name! At the same time, that did give Margaret a very easy opening.
“I’m Margaret Sandwich,” she said, holding out her hand. Miss Marcus hesitated for a moment, and then took it gratefully.
“Helena Marcus,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Are you as nervous as the rest of them?” Margaret asked, waving her hand to indicate the room at large.
“A bit,” Helena admitted. “But I’m not from Toronto, and it’s entirely likely that after tonight, I’ll never see any of these people again, so it’s not as bad as it might be. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Mostly I just want it to start.”
“Margaret.” Elizabeth appeared at Margaret’s elbow. “You should take me with you when you’re meeting new people!” She turned her smile to Helena. “I’m Elizabeth Highcastle.”
“Helena Marcus,” Helena said politely, extending her hand. Elizabeth took it mostly out of habit, but recovered to shake hands with genuine friendliness.
“I’m so glad you could come all this way,” Elizabeth said. “I know my mother has been anxious to speak with yours, and I’m flattered that you were willing to cancel whatever plans you had in New London to come here and debut with me.”
From any other person in the Empire, that would have been the worst of backhanded insults. There was no way that New London society could possibly match the party Elizabeth’s parents were throwing for her, and Elizabeth had as much as said that Helena had only been invited on her mother’s merits. By now, Margaret knew well enough that Elizabeth always meant exactly what she said, though she could only hope that Miss Marcus understood the same. There was a brief expression of confusion on Miss Marcus’s face, as she tried to puzzle out what Elizabeth had said, but eventually she returned Elizabeth’s smile, accepting it for the sincerity it indeed held.
The tall doors at the far end of the room opened, and an excited murmur ran through the crowd before a look from the Mistress of Ceremonies dropped an expectant hush on them. Margaret wasn’t entirely sure how the woman might punish anyone she deemed mischievous tonight, but she had no doubt that she would. Her uniform did include a ceremonial sword.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said, her tone reverent. “If you will follow me.”
Margaret imagined that this was the first time in their lives that most of them had been addressed by these titles without a trace of irony. If any of them had escaped the gravity of the evening until this moment, they were now caught in it.
Margaret took a deep breath and followed the others out of the room. She realized that she, Elizabeth, and Helena were now at the back of the group, and would therefore be concealed by it when they emerged into the main ballroom. She wondered if Elizabeth might push her way to the front, despite the risk of the Mistress’s ire, but realized that this way, Elizabeth’s dress would remain relatively well concealed until the moment the herald called her name, and she stood alone in front of the throne.
When they stopped walking, Margaret surreptitiously surveyed her appearance, and noticed those around her doing the same thing. Amelia’s designs left no room for error, however, and Margaret found not so much as a ribbon out of place. She resisted the impulse to touch her hair. It was loose, a dark brown halo around her head, though Elizabeth had found a hairdresser who could ensure that it was perfect in its naturalness. Margaret had never learned to deal with her own curls, because someone from the household staff had always done her hair for her, which she suddenly found to be a profound embarrassment. After this was over, she would have someone teach her, not the least because if her hair frizzed, she wouldn’t know how to fix it.
She dismissed the distraction, and turned to look over at Elizabeth and Helena as well. She noted that while her dress and Elizabeth’s were faithful reproductions of the style that had been modish when their grandmothers had debuted, Helena’s dress appeared to be the genuine article. There was no –bot stitching on her gown at all, because when it had been made, there hadn’t yet been any –bot fine enough to do the work. Margaret did note, upon closer examination, that the dress had been altered for Helena’s use, and altered very well: it fit to her figure perfectly. Her gown wasn’t as ornate as Elizabeth’s, but in its simple splendour, Helena was simply splendid.
For her part, Helena was not looking at her dress. She was looking into the crowd, seeking, Margaret assumed, a particular face. At first, Margaret thought she was looking for her parents, but when she followed Helena’s gaze, she found it lighted upon a well-dressed young man whose waistcoat had clearly been chosen to tastefully match Helena’s own attire. Margaret looked back at Helena’s face, and saw upon it an expression she knew all too well, having seen it often on the faces of her own parents.
“Oh, Helena,” she whispered, after ensuring that the Mistress of Ceremonies was not paying attention. “You’ll look wonderful together.”
Helena smiled, a real smile this time, not the polite one given to a new acquaintance.
“Stuart Applewright!” boomed the herald. “Son of Joseph and Gloria Applewright.”
Margaret’s heart went out to Stuart, though she had not spoken to him. He was visibly nervous, probably as a result of having to go first, but his steps did not falter as he went to stand in front of the raised platform on which her mother sat, in full regalia, with the Prince Consort at her side. Victoria-Elizabeth wore the trappings of her office with an ease Margaret hoped she would one day feel herself. Every inch of freckled brown skin was fully at home within the heavy court dress and—despite the warmth of the room—ermine cape. She was perfectly suited to her deceptively airy-looking crown.
Stuart made his bow with good grace, and then remembered to wait until the Queen nodded before taking three backwards steps and turning to his left to escape the attention of everyone in the room. There was some muffled clapping as he did so, indicating that his parents were understandably impressed with him.
They proceeded through the alphabet, the crowd around them winnowing down as each young man or woman bowed, and retreated to the sidelines to watch. Half a dozen boys and two girls were in military uniform, all for the Navy, and they each gave a salute to the Prince Consort in addition to the bow.
At the first salute, a smile tugged at the corner of Edmund Claremont’s mouth. The girl’s naval uniform brought to his mind that moment in his own youth when he’d bowed to the king’s representative with no expectation of ever standing before a member of the Royal Family again. All expectation had been upended when Victoria-Elizabeth’s agreed-upon match had died suddenly, of course. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to wonder—not worry—about what unexpected things his Margaret would find along her path after the careful choreography of tonight, but he owed these youngsters his full attention, and so he did not linger.
There was dead silence after the herald called for Elizabeth Highcastle to come forward, and thunderous applause after her exceptionally graceful curtsey. When Helena was called, Margaret sought out the young man in the crowd again. His expression matched the one Helena had worn when she’d seen him upon entering, and for some reason it made Margaret unreasonably happy. She remembered to look back in time to see Helena’s curtsey, and noted that the girl acquitted herself with at least as much poise as Elizabeth had.
The parade went on, until only a few others remained with Margaret. At last, the herald reached the Ss.
“Margaret Sandwich,” he said. “Niece of Admiral and Lady Highcastle.”
It was customary for debuts to be introduced in relation to their most prestigious family members, so everyone present would assume that Margaret’s own parents were less famous than her aunt and uncle. The idea made her smile every time she thought it, and so it was that when she faced Queen and Consort, she did so with a not-altogether regal expression on her face.
She pulled herself together quickly, though, and without bending a single vertebra, sank into the full curtsey she had been practicing for weeks, knowing she’d never use it again for the rest of her life. She stayed in the curtsey for a heartbeat longer than was necessary, working up the courage to look her parents full in the face when she straightened.
If ever there was a moment when a careful observer might have guessed Margaret’s true identity, this was it. With or without a wig, Margaret and her mother bore a strong resemblance to each other. Fortunately, careful observation gives way to half-blind sentimentality where finely attired young men and women on the doorstep of adulthood are concerned, and the hundreds of partygoers saw nothing more than the hopes and dreams they wanted to see.
She stood, her head held high, and waited for her mother to dismiss her. It was entirely possible that the tears in her mother’s eyes were the result of the carefully arranged spotlights, but Margaret liked to think she knew better, because the tears in her own eyes came from some other source entirely.