“When Father caught the breeze of your dilemma, well, he seemed most concerned for your circumstance, and I’ve persuaded him to write a letter to your mother. She should have it this afternoon. You mustn’t miss the ball, Mary, not this one. It will change everything, I promise you,” she said, as if all was forgotten between us.

Mama sat up in her bed and seemed oddly flattered by the letter when it arrived. John Arden, in his sincere, gentlemanly way, asked after her health, offered to chaperone me and Eliza, assuring her that he had a keen eye for virtue, and would guard it with his honor. She consented, having lost the will to object to anything at all, but so like her, thrust me a warning: “I’m only letting you go in hopes you’ll find you and your sister a husband.”

It was the best of all worlds. I wouldn’t have to fuss about Mama or worry about her, make conversation. I would be with Jane. Now that Whit week was upon us, Father no longer cared what anyone thought. He didn’t wash or change clothes, rushing off to the cockfights and horse races, early morning, late night, and drank in between, I supposed, at any inn that would have him. We were free of them both, just as I’d hoped to be, on our own.

Eliza and I, with Everina’s keen help, began our dressing at half-three the day of the ball, in order to move about in our gowns and grow easy in our steps. My dress was too big in places, but Eliza pulled it tight and secured it with a few straight pins, making doubly sure they didn’t poke me. We curled our hair and put on our gloves. We each had two dances we could be sure of pulling off, a Scottish reel and a minuet, which struck terror, I knew, in many hearts, as it was usually the first dance, performed by one couple alone, with everyone else looking on. It would show, more than any other, that we were worthy of Beverley society. Mama complained of a headache and retreated to her bed, which allowed us to practice our steps in the parlor, all three of us sisters merry.

But it wasn’t to last. A light commotion outside the front door alerted us to Henry sitting on the steps with his bag of clothes at his feet, running dirty fingers through his mop of hair, blubbering.

“Henry! What are you doing here?” I pulled him to standing, a rag doll with a tearstained face. “What’s wrong?”

“The other boys,” Henry said. “They told me to do it. I’m sorry, Mary. I’m sorry.”