“I already apologized to everyone!”
“I am not speaking of this incident alone. For the past four years, you have wreaked havoc for no apparent reason than to make my life difficult.”
“For the last time, stepmother, Julianna—”
“I will hear none of it! Playing pranks as a young lady is most unbecoming. You are almost seventeen, Amarante. It is time to grow up and act like a gentleman’s daughter.”
I crossed my arms. “Papa is a merchant, not a gentleman.”
“He is as good as a gentleman with the wealth he has provided us. Must you be so contrary?” Lydia rubbed her temples. “You and Genevieve are of marriageable age. I will see both of you settled. Genevieve will be no problem, of course. Whether she marries or not, she still has the makings of a great artist. But you. What am I to do with you?”
I poked my embroidery with the needle. My flowers looked like shrimp on green sticks.
I had never been good at embroidery. I had never been good at anything except causing trouble, as my stepmother told me countless times. A part of me knew it was true and was ashamed of it.
Dread churned in my gut at the thought of Genevieve married or painting landscapes for wealthy ladies in a foreign country. I would be all alone, left for Lydia to throw at every possible suitor. Papa was rarely home. He would not be there to stop it.
Lydia finally stopped pacing. “I know. You will attend the Season.”
I pricked myself with the needle. “What?”
“Yes. You will attend with Genevieve,” Lydia said, punctuating her sentence with a nod. “Duchess Wilhelmina is hosting the Season this year. I don’t expect you to be her favorite, not after you destroyed her gift to Julianna. But it will do you good to have a strict mentor and well-mannered peers. All the better if you find a young man willing to marry you.”
I sputtered at the prospect. “But stepmother, I’m much too young to attend—”
“Nonsense! You will be seventeen in three months. What better age to come out?” she said. “The welcome banquet for debutantes is in a week. That is plenty of time to send your name to the palace.”
There was a spring in her step as she headed out the parlor, humming to herself.
A drop of blood soaked into my embroidery, but I could only stare at Lydia’s retreating figure.
Me? A debutante?
“IT’S ALL JULIANNA’S fault!” I said, fuming as Theodora helped me into my nightgown.
Despite being a house away, Julianna’s operatic singing reverberated through my walls. I had learned to tolerate her singing lessons for the past twelve years, but tonight I found her voice especially irritating as she went up and down the scale.
Rowena fluffed my pillow. “It’s partly your fault too,” she said, tucking a stray curl into her bonnet. “Freshly fertilized dirt in tea? Honestly, Amarante. You’re depriving my rose bushes.”
Theodora began combing my hair. The scent of this morning’s raspberry tarts lingered on her apron. Both of them had shirked their duties in the kitchen and garden to see me to bed for the past two days. They usually did when I was upset or in trouble, or both. I was immensely grateful. There was comfort in Theodora’s steady hands and Rowena’s jokes. It reminded me of my childhood, when the two had been my nannies.
“Your stepmother never goes through with her punishments,” Theodora said, meeting my eye in the mirror.
“She seems serious this time.” I slumped my shoulders, brushing a speck of dust off my vanity.
“Don’t fret, dear,” she said. “You’re too young to attend.”
I shook my head. “I’m turning seventeen in three months.”
Theodora dropped the comb with a clack. “What?”
I repeated myself.
Rowena sucked in a breath. “Seventeen? Already?”
The two of them exchanged a glance. Julianna hit the highest note of the scale and held it with a strong vibrato.
“Exactly. I am old enough to attend.” I hopped onto my bed and sunk into the freshly fluffed pillows with a sigh. “If only Papa were here.”
Papa always prevented my punishments, like the time he stopped Lydia from shipping me off to a boarding school for troubled young ladies. But even boarding school seemed tame compared to the Season. Attending would mean passing the threshold from girlhood to womanhood. And there was no going back after that.
“Yes, of course!” Theodora exclaimed, pacing the room with sudden energy. “We will write to him immediately.”
Rowena nodded. “Not a moment to lose.” She gave the bedsheets one final tug and kissed the top of my head. “Sleep tight, dear.”
With that, she exited my room just as Julianna began practicing her trills.
I gave Theodora a questioning look. She, however, was too busy pacing to respond.
“Theodora, you really don’t have to worry at my expense,” I said at last. “I’m sure Papa will change Lydia’s mind.”
She patted my cheek. “Of course, dear,” she said, sounding distracted. “Rowena and I will write to him immediately.”
I was about to tell her that I could write to Papa myself, but the words died in my throat when the door clicked shut.
THE NEXT DAY, LYDIA ordered me to help Rowena with the marigold bushes along the fence, which were ruffled after Fred’s hasty escape. I knew my stepmother would assign me a more unpleasant task if she knew I actually enjoyed gardening.
Still, last night’s conversation with Lydia weighed heavily upon my shoulders, making it difficult to enjoy anything at all. Even Theodora’s raspberry tarts tasted bland that morning.
I heaved a sigh as I packed in the loose dirt with a shovel.
“Theodora sent the letter this morning. I’m sure your Papa will get it soon,” Rowena said, sweeping away the fallen marigold petals. They burned fiery yellow against the brown and green debris.
“How can you be sure?” I squatted and picked at the weeds around the bushes. Papa had yet to reply to the letters I sent him three months ago. The postman told me they must’ve been lost at
