“At fifteen you would send her off to market? When you yourself just yesterday decried your deep unhappiness—”

“Oh, that was me being self-pitying. I’ve had a think on the pillow, and reminded myself that we Kingsborough women are not made for happiness, but breeding.”

“Why not wait until she’s sixteen, at least?”

“Because Caroline is prettier! Much prettier! It will take time to find a suitor for Margaret. We cannot risk Caroline being spotted first.”

Margaret was desperate when she found out. She buried her face in my collar and wept like a squall. “I don’t even like boys. Why would I wed one? Please, Mary, can’t you stop this?”

“I’m afraid she’s quite determined.”

“Why can’t Caroline go first? She’s prettier; everyone says so. I want to be a spinster, like you.”

“‘Spinster’ is a cruel word, said in that way. I choose not to marry.”

“Then why can’t I?”

Margaret had become like a daughter to me, my favorite of the girls, the one most like me, every bit as headstrong. But there was no way to stop the ball, planned with all the precision of a military campaign. The week before, even the kitchen maid and I were drawn into the important business of preparing wreaths of roses for Margaret’s dress, stitching her fate prick by prick. We had no time for our morning walks, our lessons. Margaret and Caroline were consumed with dancing, singing, and piano lessons, all in preparation for the grand event. I expected Margaret to become more adamant and fiery as the day approached, but instead she was taciturn, almost tame, and I worried that she felt I’d betrayed her.

She made me promise I’d attend her coming-out. I had refused all of Lady K’s invitations to balls and masquerades of the season, arguing I could afford neither the expense of a gown nor the hairdressing, Dubliners being expert in the fashions of Paris and London. But when Lady K offered me a present of a poplin gown and a petticoat, I couldn’t refuse. Margaret needed me, if only to bear witness to her public humiliation.

On the evening of the ball, I visited Margaret in her bedroom. She was suffering through the finishings, the tying of her corset, her hair being tightly curled.

“I cannot breathe, Mary. How can I be expected to dance? To speak?”

She looked at herself in the mirror, lamenting her fate. I put a hand on her shoulder and assured her that her suffering would soon be over.

“I’m afraid,” she said, putting her hand on mine, “this is where my suffering begins.”