“What?” I couldn’t have possibly heard her correctly. 

“Your debut is to occur in one month, my lady,” Mary says again. “Your mother’s very own lady-in-waiting will arrive shortly to go over things. We must hurry and get you ready.”

I had heard correctly. My stomach sinks, making me wish I hadn’t just eaten. 

“Send for some tea. Make sure everything is ready for her arrival.”

Out of all the maids in the annex, Mary has been the most kind and competent; therefore, I have adopted her as my personal maid. She helps me into one of my new dresses—a dozen have already been made, with a few more in the works—along with all the necessary undergarments and accessories I was missing.  

Just as she finishes tying my hair back with a ribbon, a knock on the door summons me to the sitting room. The annex, while considerably smaller than the mansion, still boasts a library, a sitting room, a drawing room, a formal dining room, and a small ballroom. 

Madam Rosanna rises from the settee when I enter from the sitting room and dips a shallow curtsy, craning her neck at a perfectly arched angle of elegance. 

“Good morning, Madam,” I greet her. “I’m not sure if you remember me, since the last time you would’ve seen me, I was but a child. I’m Florence LaVelle.”

“Greetings, Lady Florence,” she replies. “Indeed, I do remember you with fondness. I am Rosanna Windsor. You may call me Madam Rosanna.”

We sit and chat about the tea while preparing our cups. She recalls a story about me from when I was very young—something I have no memory of. I smile and nod along, pretending I can recall the odd encounter she describes. Why has she brought it up?

Finally, we get to the purpose of her presence. Madam Rosanna sets down her teacup.

“Lady Florence,” she says, shifting her tone. “We have but one month to accomplish many things. Please, correct me if I’m wrong, but you will need instructions on dancing, etiquette, high society, current events, and politics, not to mention a custom debut gown and ensemble.”

She looks at me expectantly, one white-blonde brow raised delicately.

Darn, that’s a lot! Too much. Far too much. 

“If that is what you were told, then that is correct,” I say. 

“We will have our work cut out for us, then,” she replies. “It will be intense, but I believe it will be possible. You will have lessons every day. Myself and Gerald will arrange everything—your tutors, your practice partners, the seamstresses—everything.”

I stare at her as her words sink in. Every day? 

“Now,” she says, looking at my hair with a sour expression. “Let’s discuss how we will take care of that.”

♥♥⸸

The lessons start immediately after lunch. Madam Rosanna herself is a master of etiquette, so that is where my lessons begin.

“Tell me,” she says, standing in a ray of sunlight coming in through the library window, “what do you remember from your lessons when you were a child?”

Her question should be answered easily, but it’s not. Since waking up, I’ve realized that my perception of time passing while I was in the hellscape versus the actual time passing was off substantially. Years had passed in my mind, yet when I woke up, it only felt like a long nightmare. 

When you’re asleep, you don’t know how long you’re asleep. Therefore, one might assume my memories as a twelve-year-old should be fresh. But most of them weren’t. 

Still, etiquette is something children are taught starting at a young age, so much of what I learned was ingrained in my brain. I’m just clumsy about it. 

“May I demonstrate?” 

She nods. 

I find it easier to pantomime various encounters, playing both parts of the interaction. 

“Enough!” she says after a few minutes. “I have seen all I need to. You may sit.”

She arches a brow at how I take my seat, so I adjust until I am in the correct position. 

This is so uncomfortable! Why do people put up with this? 

“You seem to have most of the correct language memorized, but your delivery, your carriage, and your tone are unacceptable.

“First…

And so the afternoon goes, with Madam Rosanna criticizing everything I do. 

It’s only my first day of lessons and I already feel defeated

♥♥⸸

“Report,” Duke LaVelle commanded from behind his desk.

Madam Rosanna rose from her curtsy. 

“I do not want to mislead you, Your Grace, and say she is promising. Truthfully, I will be surprised if we can polish her in one month. She behaves like a child—the way she speaks and moves lack the grace and refinement necessary to persevere in society.”

The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose. It’s not as if he expected any better news than this, but it was disappointing all the same. His youngest daughter was a runt at age nineteen, through no fault of her own. The circumstances were beyond their control. At the end of the month, they must debut Florence, whether she was ready or not. 

“I appreciate your candor, Madam. You have my permission to work Florence as hard as you need to to prepare her. If she needs punishment to motivate her progress, so be it. I expect your best effort, do you understand? The LaVelle reputation is at stake during this debut.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Madam Rosanna replied, dipping another curtsy.

“You’re dismissed,” he said, then sniffed. From his desk drawer, he pulled out a Kirvan cigar and lit it. 

Florence, he thought, leaning his head back in his chair and blowing smoke up toward the ceiling. Pity and anger warred within him whenever he thought of his youngest daughter. There might have been a little affection had he thought a little more deeply about it, but he never did. Florence, damn it all, the LaVelle name is in your hands. 

Across the grounds, soaking in a tub of warm water, Florence felt a sudden chill.