I returned to perfecting my appearance. I preferred her not being there when I concentrated on all this. Despite everything I had taught her, she wouldn’t know what to emphasize and what not, and I would have to spend and waste time explaining why little things mattered.

My mother was adamant about me not tinting my cheeks, but that was fine. With my youthful complexion and a little trick pinching them before I entered the gala, I was confident it wouldn’t matter.

When it came to preparing my hair, I was already far better at it than my mother was at doing her own. I wore it in a high coiffure. My mother wasn’t going to lend me any of her jewelry, but when I asked her again in front of my father, he insisted that she should.

“I won’t have her looking underdressed, Rosemary. Either lend her what’s appropriate, or I’ll buy her what’s appropriate.”

Seeing he was serious, my mother reluctantly offered me a double row of pearls for my necklace and a gold brooch with pearls to wear at the center of my neckline. However, she didn’t give me any of it until the day of the gala, claiming I might dare to wear something away from the house and lose it, especially if I wore it riding my bicycle.

I didn’t argue. I concentrated on my complete appearance without the jewelry daily, however. Right after they had bought my dress, they had bought my shoes. I loved the gold satin slippers with pointed toes trimmed with rosettes of mousseline de soie, very large and full. Even my mother was impressed when I told the saleslady exactly what I wanted. My father first thought my mother had explained that much about fashion, but he quickly understood I knew it all myself.

“Maybe I’ll start having her choose my clothes,” he said, half kidding.

Now overwhelmed herself, my mother quickly volunteered to give me one of her evening cloaks. My father would have told her to anyway. I asked for her velvet full shoulder cape.

“I was going to wear that,” my mother said, almost wailed. I didn’t change expression. “Oh, well. I’ll do something else.”

I smiled. Seemingly, there was no stopping me now, and I knew I just had to take advantage of every opportunity.

When I stepped out of her room and joined my parents in the study the night of the gala, my father broke into the proudest, warmest smile I could recall.

“Who is this young lady?” he said, pretending he really didn’t know me. He turned to my mother and growled, “Why do you surprise me with strangers in my own home?”

My mother raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “Please, Harrington,” she said.

“What, ‘please’? I do believe she’ll steal the evening from Lucy Wexler.”

I beamed, but my mother shook her head and scowled.

“What dreadful thoughts are you stuffing into her already swollen ego? It is quite, quite impolite to steal away the evening from Lucy Wexler on the occasion of her anniversary, Harrington.”