Chapter 1
The loud, vibrant notes of a waltz flowed out from the musicians’ corner. Bernadette narrowed her hazel-brown eyes at the pitch of the second violin. It was just slightly out of tune, and it set her teeth on edge.
He still has time to tune it between waltzes, she thought, distressed.
Bernadette had a good ear for music, her tutor had always said so, and it was not altogether a blessing. She suffered when things were out of tune, and nobody else understood what was troubling her.
She tucked a strand of brown hair behind one ear and took a breath to excuse herself.
“I’m going to go and join Viola,” she told Mama softly. Mama, who was talking with Lady Cobham, didn’t even turn around. Bernadette sighed inwardly.
Nobody seems to be paying me any heed at all.
Her throat tightened painfully. She hated balls, and always for the same reason—that terrible feeling of being overlooked, of seeming almost invisible. She glanced at her own hands—soft and pale, the fingers tapering yet strong from years at thepianoforte, they seemed perfectly visible. The rest of her must be likewise so. Oddly, that was reassuring. After two hours at Lady Cobham’s ball, she’d been ready to swear that nobody could see her.
She turned away from her mother and Lady Cobham and went to find Viola.
“Viola?” she called softly as she rounded the refreshments table.
“Ah! Bernadette! There you are! Lovely.” Viola turned around and offered Bernadette a grin.
Miss Viola Penning had thick sandy-blonde hair, dark eyes, and a thin, lively face. In a pale lavender gown, she looked beautiful. To Bernadette it seemed as though Viola was visible, whereas she herself, with brown hair and hazel eyes, blended into the rest of the room in her white gown. At twenty, Viola was three years younger than Bernadette, but her vitality probably arose from the fact that she was enjoying herself, whereas Bernadette was absolutely not. She hadn’t danced once all evening, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to. She was too shy.
“I’m coming to stand here with you,” Bernadette confided. “If I stand over there where the musicians are, I’m going to entirely lose my wits.”
Viola laughed. “It is loud in here,” she agreed.
“Not only the loudness. The pitch. That second violin has been steadily going out of tune all evening, and if he doesn’t dosomething to remedy it soon, I shall lose my mind.” Bernadette giggled distractedly.
“Is it that bad?” Viola asked. She paused, narrowing her gaze and Bernadette knew she was listening for the notes.
“It’s gone too low.”
“Yes!” Bernadette answered instantly, relieved. Her friend could hear it too. “Yes. It is by a semitone, at least. He has to fix it soon, or he’ll be harmonizing with the part he’s meant to perform.”
Viola chuckled aloud. Bernadette felt her spirits lifting. With Viola, it was possible to laugh and joke and to show her true nature. But Viola was the only person she talked to like that, and she’d known her for over ten years. She got to know people too slowly.
“Harmonizing! Yes...you’re probably right.” Viola nodded. “You have a good ear.”
“Thank you,” Bernadette murmured. Viola’s kind words threatened to make her cry. The ball had worn her down to the point that she had no regard for herself left. The ball, and Mama’s constant bickering.
“You need to try harder,” Mama always said. She had said it at luncheon just a few hours before.
“Mama...” Bernadette replied, attempting to be fair to herself. “It’s not a matter of trying. I just don’t seem to...”
“You need to shine more!” her mother insisted, cutting off her words abruptly. “It’s your fifth Season, Bernadette! Have you no sense of regard for your parents? No sense of duty? You’re the daughter of a baron, you know. You need to be respectable in society.”
Bernadette felt her heart twist painfully. That was pure cruelty. She loved and respected both her parents—how could Mama not see that? It wasn’t lack of love or respect that made it impossible to draw the eyes of others.
“Mama...that’s unfair,” she protested, but her mother interrupted her again.
“You need to get names on your dance-card! You never dance more than once or twice. And hold their eyes! You don’t have enough conversation. That’s what it is. You need to talk more. How can you expect to hold anyone’s attention when you hide away like a timid little creature?”
Bernadette had choked back tears and, as soon as she could, had fled to her room. Mama’s cruel words only made it harder to look anyone in the eye. Wherever she went, all she heard in her own mind was the things her mother called her.
Timid mouse, plain, uninteresting.
The words felt like ragged clothing that covered her wherever she went.
