I had to quell my excitement. No more sneaking to town to attend John Arden’s public lectures, trying to pass myself off as a Beverley girl. Now it would be truly mine: the handsome town with its chipper clatter of hooves on broad, clean streets, neat gardens, the assembly rooms in North Bar Within, rumors of better ones being built at Norwood, a playhouse in Lairgate, even talk of a circulating library! But best of all, I would be at school with Jane.

Eliza, reading my face, squinched her eyes and smiled. Everina clapped silently. Henry, subject to contagion of all kinds, followed suit. Imperial Ned looked to be calculating already the social ladder he would climb. But Mama looked worried when Father mentioned Whitsuntide come next May, not because it was known to be the acme of the social season, but because it revolved around horse racing—my father’s preferred occupation above all others. Beverley’s racetrack boasted a brand-new grandstand at Hurn, and had added a Gold Cup race, already the talk of the town.

“They have concerts, too, Mama, plays and fine dances every night during racing week. My friend Jane told me so.”

Father downed his second shot and took Mama’s waist, twirling her around. “Fine dances every night, do you hear, Elizabeth?” He was in a grandiose mood.

Mama pulled away from him and ran a finger along one brow. “I don’t have a proper dress, not that fits me.”

“But there are shops with everything one might wish for. Brocaded silks, ribbons, and hats, corsets, and shoes!” I said.

“I still have my French silk shoes somewhere. I’m sure I have.”

“Imagine, Mama, the finest dress to go with them, made just for you.” Me, always trying to ingratiate myself with her.

“For me too?” asked Eliza.

“Dresses for everyone!” Father toasted with a third shot.

“That will do, then,” Mama said. But I saw her look out the window, out past everything, where her own girlhood must have lived. “How many years it is since I’ve been to a ball.”

Mama had become isolated in our small cottage, and while she’d once imagined herself part of polite, cultivated society, it seemed she didn’t know her place in it anymore—what one did, exactly, to belong. I fancied that I could be indispensable to her—show her a Beverley that might bring her out again—and, for a moment, guessed she might even be grateful for it. It would be a coming-out for both of us. But for now I was glad to be the unintentional beneficiary of our father’s latest reinvention of himself.

Why shouldn’t I feel lightsome?