Maggie was grateful for the security of her friend’s grasp. Jane and her Aunt Harriet were each in possession of one of George’s arms, but Maggie had no such support.

She passed through the receiving line and into the ballroom. A sea of faces greeted her, both familiar and unfamiliar. It had been many years since she’d last appeared at such a grand event. Beasley Park was a long way from Chiswick, and even if Maggie had been in London for more than a flying visit, her health wouldn’t have permitted attendance. Crowded ballrooms were anathema to invalids, and dancing was all but out of the question.

“Heavens.” The plumes on Aunt Harriet’s fashionable turban quivered as she looked about the crowded room. “So many people.”

“We shall find you a comfortable chair, Aunt,” George said.

Jane craned her neck. Her own modest dress—a dove-gray creation, trimmed with a pattern of seed pearls—made her look every bit the mature, elegant lady. “There, George. I see Lady Featherstone and Mrs. Herron by the window. You’ll wish to sit with them, won’t you, Aunt?”

“Mrs. Herron?” Aunt Harriet brightened. “Oh yes. Do take me to her, my love.”

After leaving his elderly aunt with her friends, George offered his free arm to Maggie. The orchestra was tuning up for the first dance. A country dance, by the sound of it. “Miss Honeywell? May I have the honor?”

Jane opened her mouth to object only to shut it again. She’d promised not to be too much of a mother hen this evening. Not that she hadn’t clucked aplenty during the days since Dr. Hart’s visit, warning Maggie to take things slowly.

Maggie supposed she had been pushing herself. But her health wasn’t so easily recovered. It was going to take time. More time than she had at her disposal during this particular visit. “Best not,” she said. “I must save my strength.”

“How about you, m’dear?” he asked Jane.

Jane hesitated. “I don’t like to leave Margaret on her own.”

“Nonsense,” Maggie said, urging her friend off. “I’ll not permit you to play nursemaid.”

Jane departed with George to line up at the center of the ballroom. Maggie remained at the edge of the floor. The music commenced with a swell of violins, and the dance began. Maggie stood to watch awhile. As she did so, her excitement over the evening was briefly dampened by a weight of self-pity.

Before the influenza, she’d loved to dance. Indeed, in her memory, her come-out season was one long string of country dances, cotillions, and scotch reels. The music had sung in her veins, and as she’d had no particular attachment to anyone, dancing had been the chief pleasure of every ball she’d attended.