“Worse, she openly flouted the styles of the day.” My grandmother’s friend, Diana, chimes in. “She prided herself on wearing absolutely enormous diamonds. It was obscene.”

Short of the leashed lion—which just seems cruel—I like everything I know of Isabella Gardner. Flouting societal norms, paving her own way? She was brave.

“I enjoy her museum,” I say, speaking for the first time since the topic was broached.

Every gaze swivels to me as silence falls over the group.

What a feat—I’ve managed to steal everyone’s tongues.

In lieu of agreeing with me, they choose to stay mum and merely exchange glances, determining what the general consensus will be in response to my comment before they dare speak up, which just goes to show how annoyingly dull these people can be. It’s as if no one has a brain of their own. I’m not trying to defend Banksy’s contribution to contemporary art—though I would love to. I haven’t said anything controversial. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is world-famous. It houses some of the finest paintings and sculptures in North America, featuring artists that range from Titian, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and Botticelli to Manet, Degas, Whistler, and Sargent. For God’s sake, the very first Matisse to enter an American collection is there on display. To belittle its importance is juvenile and petty. It’s not as if Isabella can hear them chiding her. What does it matter now if we approve of her or not?

“I prefer the Museum of Fine Arts,” Diana says, shifting the conversation.

My errant remark is already forgotten.

The night whirls on.

The following evening, Margaret picks a Tom Ford dress with a Loulou chain bag by Yves Saint Laurent, along with Chloe heels. We attend a tasting hosted by the Boston Landmarks Commission. The chef, an up-and-coming name in the Boston foodie scene, tries to lure me into a flirtatious conversation, and my grandmother puts a stop to it right away.

“Lainey, come take your seat.”

Wednesday evening, we’re invited to a small concert at Diana’s home. She’s managed to pluck a quartet of musicians from the Boston Symphony Orchestra to play just for her and her invited guests. To enjoy the music, we crowd into her sitting room as waiters pass around hors d'oeuvres and signature cocktails. For the evening, Margaret chose a custom Valentino cocktail dress and Valentino heels that bite into my feet every time I take a step. I’m sandwiched between my grandmother and Diana, so even if I wanted to talk to the few guests in attendance closer to my age, I can’t.

Thursday night, I’m granted a reprieve. I stay up in my room reading a romance novel I have to hide from my grandmother. It’s not that she can forbid me from reading it, it’s that I don’t want to suffer the discomfort of a disappointed glare or reproachful shake of her head if I can avoid it. When the sun has fully set, Jacobs, my grandmother’s head butler, knocks on my door to deliver a tray of tea, and I tuck the book deep under my covers before I tell him to come in.