Jack was here. Why hadn’t she considered that Jack might have been here? They had first met here, years ago – he had not-asked her for a dance and then had been far too gracious about it, even with her a stammering, rambling mess.
It had been bad enough before she had noticed him – busy dancing with debutantes, of course he was, she had refused him and he had not written back – but now other people’s looks and whispers and every conversation that began with congratulations on her marriage (however sincere, however pointed) felt like pressing on a wound.
She had hoped that coming back into society at the start of a new season would be the fresh start they so desperately needed, for herself and her reputation and for the rest of the Greengrasses’, too; for February’s scandals to have faded in the face of... well, all these new faces. She had always imagined society would be fun as a married woman, with all the pressure gone and only friends to see. Maybe if she gave it time, she thought forlornly. She had danced much less tonight than she had as a debutante – bad form for gentlemen to dance with hussies, probably – and her real friends did not outnumber the false ones, no matter how she clung to them.
So she had been left adrift again – at least until Ford found her. He had brought her a pastry. Jemima found this absurdly touching. She could have kissed him just for that. There were perks to having a husband, she supposed, even one who had been threatened and coerced into the position. She took a bite of the pastry to stop herself spiralling again – and nearly choked on it at that comment, covering her mouth with a hand. The noise she made in her throat came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob – she had been teetering on the edge of hysteria either way – but Jemima let the die fall towards the former, since they were very much in public. She swallowed and lowered her hand again, a corner of her mouth twitching. Yes, this was unbearable; but at least that remark had finally dragged her from the torture chamber of her own mind. “I should say don’t remind anyone,” Jemima returned quietly, her faux-chastisement twisting into wryness, “but I don’t think anyone’s actually forgotten yet, so it probably couldn’t make things any worse.” Unless she had just received the worst of it, and he had been having a very different night.
It had been bad enough before she had noticed him – busy dancing with debutantes, of course he was, she had refused him and he had not written back – but now other people’s looks and whispers and every conversation that began with congratulations on her marriage (however sincere, however pointed) felt like pressing on a wound.
She had hoped that coming back into society at the start of a new season would be the fresh start they so desperately needed, for herself and her reputation and for the rest of the Greengrasses’, too; for February’s scandals to have faded in the face of... well, all these new faces. She had always imagined society would be fun as a married woman, with all the pressure gone and only friends to see. Maybe if she gave it time, she thought forlornly. She had danced much less tonight than she had as a debutante – bad form for gentlemen to dance with hussies, probably – and her real friends did not outnumber the false ones, no matter how she clung to them.
So she had been left adrift again – at least until Ford found her. He had brought her a pastry. Jemima found this absurdly touching. She could have kissed him just for that. There were perks to having a husband, she supposed, even one who had been threatened and coerced into the position. She took a bite of the pastry to stop herself spiralling again – and nearly choked on it at that comment, covering her mouth with a hand. The noise she made in her throat came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob – she had been teetering on the edge of hysteria either way – but Jemima let the die fall towards the former, since they were very much in public. She swallowed and lowered her hand again, a corner of her mouth twitching. Yes, this was unbearable; but at least that remark had finally dragged her from the torture chamber of her own mind. “I should say don’t remind anyone,” Jemima returned quietly, her faux-chastisement twisting into wryness, “but I don’t think anyone’s actually forgotten yet, so it probably couldn’t make things any worse.” Unless she had just received the worst of it, and he had been having a very different night.
