“I was only fifteen years old when I was presented with my future husband, only one year older than I was. Our pairing made us the largest landowners, the wealthiest people in the country. But we were children, Mary, terrified children, forced into each other’s arms, and beds, with no regard, no real desire—I could have been a post for all he cared. I was well pregnant by the time we were married, bore him three children before I was nineteen, without love, or sincere affection of any kind, while he has dalliances with whomever he pleases, wherever he likes—even under our own roof. All I have is my money, and the occasional attentions of good-looking men, who at least are acknowledged to be clever, so that their light might reflect on me, though it is harder and harder to get them to flock—”

“You have your children,” I said.

“Who do not love me.”

“Maybe they don’t know how to love.”

“How could they know? I was never loved one day of my life. Except by my dogs, who need me, lick my face, sleep in my arms like little angels, and follow me everywhere.”

“It needn’t be that way.”

“But it is. This is my life.”

“And you think mine is better?”

“I know what you think of me, Mary. That my femininity is factitious, my intellect blunted, my heart stupid. While you wear what you want, think what you like, say what’s on your mind.”

“You overestimate my freedom. I cannot move about in the world as a woman alone. My options are … circumscribed.”

“As are mine, Mary. As are mine.”

She wiped a tear, gathered her skirts, and stood. She walked to the door, unsteady, pulling her shoulders back, as if to remind her head to stay high. When she got to the door, she turned to me.

“I’m not an idiot. I know that George Ogle visits you when I’m away.”

“And sometimes his wife.”

“Yes, I think they’re both quite in love with you.” She made a pouty face, like the fifteen-year-old girl she must have been. “But why not with me?”

I tossed through the night, wondering if I’d misjudged her, but the next day she greeted me in the hallway as if the day before had never happened. She had the light of an idea in her eyes, and fresh rouge on her cheeks.

“Mary, when I woke this morning, I knew precisely what would cheer me, what would cheer us all. I’m to host a ball—in honor of my own Margaret. It will be her coming-out!”

I stuttered at first, unprepared for this turn. “I do not think Margaret wishes to come out, not yet.”

“I am her mother, and I deem her sufficiently accomplished, thanks to your efforts, in the skills she will need to be an asset to a husband.”