Work Text:
May, 1963
☙-✿-❧
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a lady who has devoted herself to practice will in the end indeed be perfect. Or at least, Daphne Bridgerton hoped that it was true, as she smoothed her white gown for the third time in two minutes. Months of preparation for the Merryton Debutante Ball had all led to this moment, one that would define not only her reputation, but her family’s, for the foreseeable future. Standing alone in her bedroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror searching for any flaw. Was her hair perfectly in place? The pearls around her neck adjusted properly? Her mascara unsmudged, her lipstick unsmeared? She would be perfect. She had to be perfect.
“ DAPHNE! ” Elle’s shrill shout echoed through the house. “ Get a move on ! ” The urgency in her sister’s voice nearly sent her running until she remembered her hair and reigned in the impulse. She couldn’t afford to rush today. Instead she collected her purse and calmly, steadily, made her way down the stairs of the old farmhouse. The whole family was gathered in the living room, waiting for her in various states of impatience. Ben and Elle sprawled out on the couch with books in hand, Colin staring out the window. Fran petting the cat in the corner, Gregory and Hyacinth arguing over marbles, and their mother, Violet Bridgerton, anxiously watching the clock; all waiting for her. All but one.
“Where’s Anthony?” Daphne asked.
Mrs. Bridgerton finally turned away from the old grandfather clock, relief washing over her pale face at the sight of her eldest daughter. “Don’t you worry, dear,” she said. “He’ll be here.”
“You look beautiful, Daph,” Hyacinth chimed in, her little eyes wide. “Like a princess!”
There was a chorus of excited encouragement from Gregory and Fran while Elle simply rolled her eyes. “You look like a show pony to me. All ribbons and nonsense, and now they’re fixin’ to trot you around the pasture.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Mrs. Bridgerton said. She was positively beaming as she looked at her daughter. “You really do look beautiful. My darling girl, grown up faster than a fairy tale.” She squeezed Daphne’s hand tight. “You sure you got everything now? Gloves, lipstick, handkerchief?”
“Yes mama, everything’s in my purse. I checked.” Only twelve times, to be exact. But perhaps it couldn’t hurt to look once more.
“Well then all we’re missing is-”
The front door of the farmhouse swung open and Anthony burst in, his hair a mess and his boots muddy. “Alright, Bridgertons! Are we ready to go?”
Ben chuckled, rising from the couch where he was lounging beside Elle. “We’ve been ready, Anthony. Just waiting for the horse-drawn carriage to arrive.” The jab earned him laughter from the younger Bridgerton siblings and a stern, sideways glance from his eldest brother.
“This is a big day for Daphne - for all of us,” Anthony said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Well, you sure took your sweet time getting here,” Mrs. Bridgerton said stiffly, passing him the keys to the family’s station wagon.
Daphne watched as Anthony opened his mouth to retort, but before any words could get out he stiffly set his jaw and turned away from their mother. “Right then. We’d better get a move on.” The nine of them scrambled out of the house and down the porch, the early summer sun only just beginning its slow journey beyond the horizon. Ben, Colin, Elle, and Fran piled into the back-back while Gregory and Hyacinth sat with Daphne in the middle of the gray and wood-paneled car. She sat by the window, carefully smoothing her gown as they settled. The raucous laughter from her siblings drifted from the back, nearly drowning out the sharp whispers of mother and Anthony in front of her. Only bits and pieces were audible (- the man of the house, you need to act like it - I am doing the best that… Well your best isn’t… -think I know that?... If your fath… -ut he’s not…) before the sound of the station wagon’s engine turning over made them completely incomprehensible to her. Daphne glanced back at the house as Anthony started down the dirt driveway. It was the home she had known all her life, a whitewashed farmhouse with a long, wide porch, wisteria climbing up the side of the porch and dangling over the doorway. The rocking chairs beside the green front door that matched the shutters, the barns and gardens just to the south of the house where she could still spy some of the cows standing in the pasture. In that house she had passed her entire childhood, every birthday and holiday, and as they drove off she had the strangest feeling that this moment marked her official departure from childhood.
True, it had been many years since she really felt like a child. Daphne had to grow up too quickly, but there had still been a safety net, an innocence to her youth. Other people, on the whole, had still treated her like a child. From this day forward, they would recognize her as a lady. She straightened up in the leather seat, her heart beating a little faster at the thought. Did she look the part? A glance in the window beside her revealed little, her reflection intertwined with the scenery as they drove past the gates covered in Virginia creeper and honeysuckle, as though she too were a wild thing that had grown up from the land, as though she were made up of it.
Anthony switched on the radio, even though she doubted he could hear it over the chatter of the car. Still, Daphne was happy to let anything drown out the fears of failure floating at the forefront of her mind. The annual Debutante Ball was the talk of the town - as far as Merryton, Virginia could be considered a town. There was a downtown of course, a main street area lined with storefronts and shops and the mayor’s office. But Merryton itself was more of a sprawling association of loosely connected homesteads, family farms, and near-neighborhoods than it was a true town. The boundaries for where Merryton ended and where the rest of Rhimes County began were mere suggestions in the minds of those who lived there, vague borders that could be adjusted to suit the whims of those within them. It was a place of deep roots, tucked between the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains. Families who lived there had called the region home for generations. Merryton was a place where reputations mattered, where promises carried weight, and where gossip was a crucial pastime.
No event held as much potential for gossip as the Ball. How Daphne performed today would reflect not only on her, but on her entire family. She had a legacy to protect, and with all the Bridgertons had endured in the last few years she knew full well that all eyes would be on her today.
☙-✿-❧
George Hanover was the richest man in the county – let alone in Merryton. After inheriting a fortune, but before building his own, he had married Charlotte Hanover – a tall, elegant woman with deep brown skin whom everyone called “Queenie.” She had a knack for throwing parties and he was always happy to indulge her; and so every year at the end of spring they opened their doors to anyone who considered themselves a resident of Merryton, and even some who didn’t, to celebrate the formal introduction of the young ladies of the town into adult society. It marked the beginning of the summer social season, and girls would spend months preparing for the Merryton Debutante Ball in etiquette classes and formal lessons in order to ensure their debut would be a shining moment.
Hanover House was a magnificent sight to behold, even for the wealthiest residents of the town. It was an antebellum, sprawling mansion with terraces and balconies, gorgeous wide windows that seemed to glow, and a long driveway lined with towering oaks from which Spanish Moss dangled, dogwood trees in full bloom, and technicolor hydrangeas. When the station wagon reached the end of the drive, Anthony urged the family out of the car while he sped off to park in the gravel yard. Daphne walked through the grand entrance of the house as she had year after year, but crossing the threshold felt different this time. Rather than following her mother through the foyer she was directed by a butler up a winding staircase and down a long hallway to the room where all the debutantes were gathered, waiting in the wings.
She couldn’t help but think of cows, all the white dress debutantes and their escorts in black tuxedos herded together in this pen waiting to be let out. Show ponies, she thought, stifling a giggle at the memory of Elle’s comment. All this pomp and circumstance as though they were prized horses at the county fair. But it wasn’t ladylike to think of such things, and she was about to be a lady in the eyes of society now.
The room was full of familiar faces, girls she had gone to school with or sat in etiquette classes alongside – Cissy Cowper, Mary Ann Hallewell, and both Prudence and Pippa Featherington. Their fathers stood beside them, fussing with cufflinks or hovering anxiously. Susan Chen’s daddy tucked tiny flowers in his daughter’s hair, smiling sweetly at her as he did so. Susan’s eyes lit up as Mr. Chen placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and Daphne felt that familiar ache in her chest as she watched them together. It was so easy to picture her own father doing the same thing for her. Without thinking she moved to tuck her hair behind her ears, thinking for a moment that she could imagine the gloved hands doing so belonged to someone else. And when a strong hand wrapped around her wrist she half expected to turn around and see him standing there.
“There you are!” It was Anthony’s voice, not Pa’s. And it was Anthony standing there when she turned around, hastily adjusting his bow tie. “It’s hard to spot you when y’all look so damn similar.” His muddied boots had been replaced with shiny black shoes, a proper jacket and cumberbund to match his slightly wrinkled shirt, finally looking like a gentleman.
“Well you’d better get used to it,” Daphne said, reaching up to smooth his hair. “You’ll be doing this three more times, at least.”
“That’s assuming Elle lets Mama wrangle her into this without a fight,” Anthony chuckled.
“I expect nothing less from her than World War Three.” Then in the quiet cacophony of the crowded room she asked, “Do I look alright? My lipstick isn’t smudged? And my hair’s still in place?”
Anthony adjusted the string of pearls around her neck with a gentle hand. “You look perfect, Daph.” He smiled at her, more sweetly than he had in ages, and the softness in his eyes took her aback. “Pa would be real proud of you.”
The ache in her chest throbbed once more, but she managed to return the smile as Mrs. Langham began to call them to line up for the big event, ordering them first by age and then alphabetically by last name. They found themselves towards the middle of the pack, moving swiftly out of the room and down yet another long hallway in two straight lines; debutantes on the right and escorts on the left. Through the heavy curtains hiding them from the banisters that overlooked the Hanover’s ballroom she could hear faint laughter and chatter, all of which fell silent as one distant voice began to speak loudly. And then there was the sound of piano, violins, harps, flutes; followed by the steady call of names, girls and their fathers in pairs. At the halfway point, each girl was given a bouquet of white roses to hold, each escort a single white rose to pin on his lapel. The line of pairs before them dwindling as they inched closer and closer until they were at the precipice, the very edge of the curtain beside yet another butler holding a paper full of names and notes.
Anthony squeezed her hand once and then –
“Miss Daphne Bridgerton and her escort, Mr. Anthony Bridgerton!”
As the voice of the butler echoed through the ballroom, the rest of the world seemed to fall silent as she stepped out beyond the curtain. Though blinded by the bright lights, she knew what awaited her – a grand marble staircase with a red carpet leading down the ballroom floor where all of Merryton was gathered, huddled around the stage upon which Queenie Hanover and the Merryton Junior League board members sat, watching, judging each debutante’s attempt at the traditional Texas Dip.
After a customary pause alone at the top of the stairs, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders. Anthony took his place beside her once more and took her hand. As they started down the stairs, Daphne kept her eyes on the stage focusing simply on breathing in and out, stepping right foot and then left. She was the picture of poise, gliding down the staircase in her white dress, and nobody who watched her would have suspected that her heart was racing nearly as quickly as her thoughts. And suddenly they were at the bottom, and suddenly there she was before the stage, all eyes on her for the Texas Dip.
Daphne raised her arms, bouquet in her right hand, and crossed her right leg behind her left as she had practiced a few thousand times, sinking slowly and smoothly down onto one knee. Her breathing steady, her smile bright, she kept her torso parallel to the floor as she seemed to melt into her white gown. Hold it, hold it, she told herself. Steady as a Sunday afternoon. And then she carefully rose upwards. Anthony’s hand was outstretched ready for her to take, but Daphne was determined to finish the curtsy in full. It was the only way to be perfect. With precision she stood tall and raised her chin, only then daring to take her brother’s gloved hand.
Queenie studied her intensely before standing from her chair. As she made her way down the stage, the sweeping train of her ball gown trailing behind her, Daphne tried not to panic - had she dipped too long? Had the flower petals fallen? But then Queenie smiled - smiled! And time slowed down as she reached out to tilt Daphne’s chin up to meet her eyes. The gloves on her hands were the softest silk as she said, “Flawless, my dear.” She leaned in to place a kiss of Daphne’s forehead, the sweet scent of jasmine perfume carried with her.
It was all she could do to nod in polite acknowledgement before allowing Anthony to lead her away into the crowd.
The moment they reached the rest of the family, Mrs. Bridgerton pulled her into a tight embrace.“I’m so proud of you, darling!”
“Did that really just happen?” Daphne asked in a daze.
“You were perfect,” her mother said. “Absolutely perfect.”
☙-✿-❧
Daphne hardly noticed the rest of the debut procession, still stunned by Queenie’s praise. When the customary Waltz of the Flowers began, she was practically moving in cruise control as Anthony led them across the floor, performing the same steps she had practiced over and over again. Her focus didn’t fully return until he leaned in and said, “I suppose I should thank you for forcing me to rehearse this a million times with you. I’d be making a fool of myself otherwise.”
Daphne laughed. “I told you so.” They spun across the ballroom with the other debutantes and escorts in the formal transition between the procession and the rest of the party. “And thank you, for being my escort tonight.”
“It’s my job,” he said simply. He accompanied her as they walked around the room, making friendly conversation with the other revelers. The ball was quite a sight from the floor. Thousands of paper flowers hanging from the walls, a dazzling web of fairy lights draped above them, everyone decked out in the nicest clothes they had to offer. She saw Elle chatting in a corner by the dessert tables with Penelope Featherington, and Colin laughing with friends from school. Mrs. Bridgerton was deep in conversation with Widow Danbury, whose black walking cane gleamed in the light of the party. At the center of it all, of course, was Queenie. Her hair was natural this year, an afro that seemed to circle her head like a halo, decorated with dozens of glittering gemstones. Her elaborate ball gown made Daphne think of Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, the picture of poise and sophistication.
There were brief moments to grab snacks or chat with their siblings between the dances required for each debutante, but after the foxtrot Anthony announced he needed a moment and slipped away from the crowd. She fought the impulse to immediately flee to her mother’s side - this was a social event, after all, and wasn’t she a lady now? An independent adult. The trouble was being independent in a setting that required her to be with other people. Most of the guests were with their families or close friends watching the debuts or enjoying refreshments. There were other debutantes relaxing in the break of course, but what was she supposed to say to them? Despite going to school with most of the other girls, she hardly knew them. Or maybe it was that they didn’t know her. After making polite small talk with Mary Ann and the Featherington sisters, she stood awkwardly at the edge of a circle of young women listening to Cissy talk about cosmetology school.
When a woman from the Junior League announced it was time for the cotillion, inviting guests and debutantes the floor once more, the flock of girls in white gowns quickly dispersed with hurried hand squeezes and ‘see you in a minute’s exchanged with everyone but her. Daphne swallowed her disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She had still been flawless. She had still been perfect. That was all she needed to do tonight. She looked around, expecting to see Anthony making his way towards her, but he was nowhere to be found.
A smoke break shouldn’t have taken him that long. She started towards the edge of the crowd, craning her neck to spot the rest of her family, but Anthony wasn’t with any of the other Bridgertons, not even with the group of loudly laughing young men Colin had aligned himself with. Without an escort, she couldn’t dance, and if she didn’t dance her perfect debut would be worthless. Anthony knew that. So where was he? Maybe he was looking for her on the other side of the room. Whirling around she found not her brother, but a rather solid figure she smacked right into. Stumbling in her white heels, Daphne looked up at the man in her path. He was a complete stranger, several inches taller, with tan skin and the most striking jawline.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I, um, I seem to have lost my escort.” The band was setting back up on stage and she began to panic. The red suit jacket indicated he wasn’t an escort himself, but he was around her age, and the silk tie and impeccable posture suggested he was likely to know his way around society. “Do you dance?” she asked.
He regarded her curiously. “I beg your pardon?” The haughtiness in his voice struck her, a deep low voice that held a faint drawl but none of the twang that marked the tones of Merryton residents.
“The cotillion. I need a partner and my escort is–”
He crossed his arms. “Is this the kind of gimmick they teach debutantes now?” It was as if he was affronted by the very fact that she had dared to speak to him. “To beg strangers when you could just dance with your daddy like everyone else?”
Daphne cursed herself for bumping into him. If she hadn’t been panicking, she could’ve found Ben and begged him to dance with her. Instead she was stuck accosting the most uppity man in the room. The opening interlude began to play and she knew it was now or never. “It’s not a gimmick,” she hissed. “My daddy’s dead, and since my whole family’s reputation is riding on my debut I have to be perfect. Which means participating in every debutante dance tonight as expected, but I can’t find my brother - who was supposed to be escorting me! So please tell me, do you dance?”
After a heartbeat in which it seemed certain she was doomed, the man offered her a gloved hand. To accept it was an immense relief, stepping with this stranger onto the ballroom floor as the rest of the crowd began the dance. Daphne followed his steady lead, stepping and spinning in tune, moving elegantly around the other pairs. She tried to focus on the music and the moment, to look anywhere other than at the handsome stranger, with his thick eyebrows and those deep, dark eyes that she could feel staring at her. If she didn’t look at him, she wouldn’t overthink the fact that she was waltzing with a man she’d just met instead of her brother, or even her father.
But the stranger was a better dancer than Anthony, his lead a little less stiff, his grip on her more comfortable despite their lack of acquaintance. He was a little taller than Anthony, a little sturdier. And, when she allowed herself to sneak glances at his face, stupidly handsome. But being pretty didn’t give him permission to turn his nose up at everyone else.
Then again, he had agreed in the end, hadn’t he? He could have left her stranded, but here he was, begrudgingly dancing with her. Was it even begrudging? Every move he made was flawless, never once faltering in the steps and the turns as they moved in practiced circles around the other couples. Each time his hands found hers once more, she felt an immediate warmth. Long fingers wrapped around her right hand, his shoulder beneath her left, the material of his suit smooth to the touch. His right hand rested now on her back, keeping her close to him. He smelled like summer, woody and warm, a trace of cavendish tobacco on his clothes, and that hand on her back slipping subtly lower. Every centimeter he shifted she was keenly aware of.
All too soon the song came to an end and he pulled away from her. The awareness of his touch became an awareness of absence as she tried to catch her breath from a dance that had never left her feeling winded before. She felt those dark eyes on her once more, staring her down. Heat rose in her cheeks as she forced herself to meet his gaze.
“Thank you,” she said. “Really, thank you. I – I didn’t get your name, by the way.”
He frowned at her. “Am I really supposed to believe that you don’t know?”
“Well, I don’t.” The pointedness of his question took her aback. He was a complete stranger, why was her unfamiliarity such an affront?
“ Hastings? ”
At the sound of Anthony’s voice, the man turned, grinning. “Bridgerton!” he called, opening his arms to exchange a quick pat of a hug that carried more warmth than she had imagined the stranger capable of just moments ago. “It’s been too damn long. How are you?”
“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” Anthony laughed. Serious once more, he added, “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Don’t be,” the man said with a shrug.
Anthony’s gaze drifted and he spotted Daphne watching them. “Oh, and I see you’ve met my sister.”
“Your sister?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, Daphne’s my oldest sister. Daph, this is the infamous Duke Simon Hastings the Third.”
“Just Simon,” he corrected, a trace of weariness in his voice at Anthony’s mock bravado.
Daphne held his eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Just Simon.” It was impossible to tell if the flicker in his expression was amusement or annoyance.
“Hastings and I were at UVA together,” Anthony explained. “He was in the pledge class below me in Rho Upsilon Lambda.” Suddenly it all made sense - Simon’s aloofness, his regal appearance, his barely-there accent. This was a man who came from money, from privilege, from somewhere far away from Merryton. Someone who could afford to spend his time lounging in fraternities at university, the sort of man Anthony had tried so hard to emulate.
“The loyal Rhoyals,” Simon said wistfully.
“Those were the days,” Anthony agreed. “Not that you’ve forgotten, I mean you just graduated.”
Daphne straightened up, looking between the two of them. “From what I’ve heard I’m surprised either of you remember them in the first place.” That comment earned her a half-hearted glare from Anthony. “Well, thanks again, Simon.”
“What for?” Anthony asked.
“You disappeared right before the cotillion. I needed a partner and your… friend here stepped in.”
“Ah,” said Anthony, his smile faltering. “I see. Right, thanks for looking out for her, Hastings. We should probably go make our rounds before the next dance, but give me a call if you’re staying in town.” Anthony led her away into the throes of the crowd, offering polite greetings to various neighbors and Junior League members.
“Do you know who Simon is?” he asked once they were out of earshot. Daphne shook her head. “Duke Hastings’ Racehorses. It’s the family business, and it brings in a fortune. They’ve practically made an empire breeding and training racehorses, dressage, jumpers, you name it. And Simon is the heir to it.”
With the context, the name did sound familiar, a fleeting echo in memories of her brothers listening to the Kentucky Derby or the Preakness Stakes on the radio. It made sense too, Simon’s odd questions. While she had never been one to pay attention to the equestrian world, a man whose name signaled such wealth and prestige would naturally be on guard in a room full of parents eager to marry off their daughters and secure jobs for their sons.
“And Daph,” Anthony added. “Most importantly, you should stay far away from him. He’s not exactly known for being, uh, well, a gentleman .”
“Neither are you.”
“That’s the point. I know Hastings. I’d throw a punch for him any day, but I’d never trust him with my sisters.”
Once more she felt her skin prickle slightly and she glanced over her shoulder to catch one last glimpse of Simon Hastings watching her. Daphne turned away. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not interested,” she said.
☙-✿-❧
“And all they want to talk about is Daphne’s debut and how pretty she was and how well it reflects on the family. God, I mean, who cares about that! Socials are the worst part of summer,” Elle sighed, pulling at the sleeve of her flannel shirt. She sat in the Featherington’s kitchen across the table from her best friend, who she’d hoped would be just as passionate about the injustice of social expectations as she was.
But Penelope just shrugged. “I don’t know, I kinda like getting to see everybody dance. They seem real happy. There’s good people watching. And getting dressed up ain’t so bad - or, at least, it wouldn’t be if Mama weren’t always pushing me to wear clothes that make me look like a lemon or something.” It was true, Mrs. Featherington wasn’t exactly known for her taste, forcing her daughters into citrus-colored clothing whenever she had the occasion. The Featherington home was just another victim to her unusual sensibilities, the walls painted a garish lime green that didn’t match the hot pink tablecloth and kitchenwares in the slightest, and decorated with odd still-life paintings and floral-patterned drawings of animals.
“Oh, come on.” Elle sat up, reaching over the table to pour herself more pink lemonade from the pitcher on the kitchen table. “The purpose of summer is to read as many books as possible and get into as much trouble as we can. I mean, this might be our last real summer, Pen! Next year we might be stuck writing college applications and then how are you gonna feel about wasting your time at socials and dances?”
Penelope was the one person in all of Merryton who Elle could relate to, never one to moon over boys or fret over becoming a debutante. They were both misfits, Penelope with her family and Elle with her tomboyish style and outspokenness. They’d been best friends for as long as either of them could remember, two bookworms with dreams far beyond the farms. It was all planned out – they’d get into liberal arts colleges on full-rides and live in big cities and publish books that were read far and wide. Be the two who really made it out of this town, who did something with their lives. The time before was simply a necessary state of limbo for them to fill with library books, The Ed Sullivan Show , and general mischief.
“I might not have much time this summer anyways,” Penelope said. “With our cousin coming up from Carolina, Mama wants us to show her around and such. Take her to all the dances. Maybe she’ll like reading, too!”
Before Elle could respond to the suggestion of turning their duo into a trio, Penelope’s oldest sister came running into the kitchen. “Have you read the paper yet?” Prudence asked, clutching a copy of The Merryton Dispatch in her hand.
“Since when do you read the paper?” Elle quipped, sipping her lemonade.
Prudence narrowed her eyes. “Since it got interesting .”
“How do you mean?” asked Penelope.
Prudence, delighted to be asked, hurried over to the table and opened the spread.“It’s a new column in the social section, right next to the Mrs. Merry one. Only this one is much better.”
Elle turned to get a better view, staring at the pages. “Huh. Lady Whistledown. Never heard of it.”
☙-✿-❧
FROM THE DESK OF LADY WHISTLEDOWN
The famed Mark Twain claimed there are three things men can do with women - love them, suffer them, or turn them into literature. This author wonders why men should get to have all the fun when there are such saucy tales to be exposed. My name is Lady Whistledown. I know what you’re thinking, dear reader, but let me assure you that you don’t know me. In fact, you never will; but if you’re reading this paper, I certainly know you .
In fact, I know you better than you know yourselves.Take the Featherington family, for example. You’d think that owning a pub would mean they knew all the town gossip, but thanks to the tactless matriarch, they always seem to find themselves the subject of it instead. Then there’s the Cowpers, who have ironically always refused to become cattle farmers. You have to wonder if Cressida is going to cosmetology school to make up for something else. And of course, the illustrious Bridgertons with their idyllic family farm that is sure to be maintained by their eight children – alphabetically named of course (how tacky).
But enough with introductions - allow this author to give you something to truly sink your teeth into.
The Ball. Last night’s Debutante Ball had all the trappings of a traditional Hanover affair - perhaps a little too traditional. Where is the excitement in the expected? Mr. Archie Featherington could be found enjoying a little too much of the Hanover’s brandy. Miss Cressida Cowper’s maquillage was a bit too heavy-handed (let’s hope that beauty school pays off). Mrs. Aisleen Robinson was spotted getting awful friendly with Reverend Fox, visiting from Warwick for his own daughter’s debut. And Mrs. Maureen Davey looked about ready to pitch a fit when her oldest daughter’s Texas Dip ended in a face-plant rather than a full court bow. Among the droves of young ladies in drab white dresses, one stood above the crowd: Miss Daphne Bridgerton. Between her perfect presentation and “flawless” full court bow (a compliment bestowed by Queenie Hanover herself), it’s clear Miss Bridgerton is this summer’s Incomparable debutante. A diamond of the first water! But it wasn’t just the diamond’s debut that drew attention - during the cotillion, she could be seen dancing with the most interesting man of the evening, Duke Hastings III.
The Duke. Former equestrian, UVA track star, and heir to the Hastings Racehorses empire. With the passing of his father, Duke Hastings Jr., we can expect his crowning as CEO any day now, making him the most eligible bachelor in all of Merryton. But let’s not put the cart before the horse – rumor has it he’d prefer to remain a perpetual bachelor, having sworn off marriage or any suggestion of settling down. I suppose not all wild stallions can be tamed.
The Hosts. Queenie Hanover has hosted the Merryton Debutante Ball each year. Sure, the Rhimes County Junior League is there too, but we all know the Hanovers do the heavy financial lifting. This author has to wonder what ulterior motives may lie beneath such an act of social charity. Is it to flaunt their wealth? To maintain control over the local hierarchy by determining which young women deserve the chance to climb the social ladder? Or maybe that big house is just too lonely without a party. The Hanovers have no children to speak of, and Mr. George Hanover has been noticeably absent from this year’s Ball, just as he was the last two. Curious and curiouser…
The Grapevine. If your thirst for gossip hasn’t been quenched, don’t fret. This is just the beginning. I’ll be keeping an ear out for the juiciest secrets all summer long. This is only the beginning.
Sincerely yours,
Lady Whistledown
☙-✿-❧
Daphne and her mother were nearly done making lunch when Elle burst through the front door waving the newspaper over her head like it was a winning lottery ticket and demanding they drop everything to read it. Apparently there was a brand new gossip column, one that named names – including theirs. Mrs. Bridgerton had surrendered and taken the paper while Daphne continued slicing deviled eggs.
“She says you were simply incomparable this year,” Mrs. Bridgerton said from her seat at the table. “ A diamond of the first water. ”
“Diamond of the first water? What on earth does that mean?” Daphne asked, peering over her mother’s shoulder.
“It’s an old way to evaluate diamonds,” Elle said. “That’s what Penelope’s mama said. The clearer and the more like water one is, the more it’s worth. A diamond of the first water is flawless.”
“And that’s just what Queenie called you, isn’t it?”
Daphne straightened up, forcing herself to reign in the grin threatening to spread across her face. Out of all the debutantes, Queenie Hanover said she was flawless. And this Lady Whistledown, whoever she was and however she mocked the residents of Merryton, agreed.
“I’ll bet those other girls are pitching a hissy fit right now reading it. People always say the best debutantes have the best marriage prospects,” Elle said. She reached for an egg only for Daphne to swat her hand away. “Cissy Cowper might try to poison you just to improve her chances.”
“Then they’ll be happy to know marriage is the least of my concerns right now,” Daphne said. “I want to have a teaching job lined up first. That way I can focus on my studies.”
“Please, it’s a teacher’s training college, how hard can it be? You go for two years and only learn how to do one thing.”
“ Eloise .”
“It’s fine, Mama,” Daphne said. Still riding the emotional high of last night, she refused to let anything spoil her mood; not Elle, not the humidity, and not Simon Hastings and his inexplicable rudeness. “I’ll consider it part of my practical training on dealing with rebellious pupils. Elle, I’ll give you an egg if you shut up.” Elle considered it a moment before rolling her eyes and sticking out her hand. “Good job. Keep it up and maybe I’ll give you a gold star.”
☙-✿-❧
With Elle gone home, Penelope was stuck at home trying to read A Wrinkle in Time despite her mother’s interjections. All night and all morning had been filled with Portia fussing over Prudence and Pippa’s debuts, while lunchtime was filled with her criticisms of this Lady Whistledown and her column. And now, as afternoon spun on, she was dramatically lecturing the three of them on how to behave around their cousin as they waited for their father to return with her from the train station.
“Now remember, we have to be kind,” she said. “This girl has lived on a farm her whole life.”
Pippa raised her hand from the couch, as though answering a question in class. “But Mama, most people we know live on farms.”
“It’s obviously a different kind of farm, Pippa,” Portia replied stiffly. “A poor farm. Actually, the whole town is dirt poor, so don’t make fun of her clothes or how she looks,” she said. “And don’t be too surprised if she’s not very sophisticated. For all I know, she might not even know how to read.” Penelope couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her mother’s tone of mock concern, dripping with condescension. “It’ll be hard for her to fit in, bless her heart, but we’ll do our best to make Marina Thompson feel welcome, won’t we girls?”
They could hear the sound of the car coming up the drive, and Portia smiled broadly. “That must be them. Remember now, charity is a virtue. The good Lord calls us to open our hearts to the less fortunate, so we’ll be strong in taking on this burden.”
The front door swung open and their father strode in carrying two suitcases. Before anyone could welcome him home, a young woman entered behind him. Even at first glance, she was beautiful. Light brown skin that seemed to glow, wide dark eyes with long lashes, and dark coiled hair that fell around her face in effortless perfection.
“Girls,” Archie said, “this is Marina.”
“Hi.” Marina smiled and even in a plain white dress and obviously tired from travel her presence filled the room. “It’s nice to finally meet y’all. Thank you for letting me stay with you, it’s mighty kind.”
Penelope watched as her mother’s face fell ever so slightly, clearly disappointed by Marina’s beauty. She wasn’t exactly the dirty farm girl Portia had been expecting. But like any good Southern hostess, she quickly recovered, welcoming Marina and introducing her to her daughters.
“Oh,” Marina said, spotting the book in Penelope’s hands. “That’s the new Madeleine L’Engle book? I’ve just been dying to read it.” Penelope couldn’t help but grin. It was only just beginning, but this summer was proving to be more interesting than even she had expected.