Decembers were, traditionally, the most eventful month for Grace. She was a Christmassy person by nature, enjoying the holiday displays and the warmth of the fireplace on a chilly night, but she had not been afforded the opportunity to enjoy her holidays last year, and it didn't seem like that was poised to change this year. She had not worn any colors but grey and black since her fathers passing one year ago to the date, and today would be the same—but the next morning, she would rise to find a colorful dress, hopefully the pretty blue one she saw every morning in her armoire, laid out for her. The prospect of abandoning her mourning dress came with a flurry of emotions: happy that she was no longer weighed down by mourning conventions, but also ashamed, because returning to her colorful dresses made it seem like she was pushing her father from memory.
She took longer than usual to dress, but then it was a return to her routine. She scurried down the stairs and ate her breakfast before retreating into the parlor with her embroidery materials in-hand. She was not alone for long; soon she was joined by her brother, who seemed to be on the same wavelength as her that morning.
"I've gotten used to it," she admitted as she brushed a hand the fabric of her skirt, and in truth had found the color to be something of a security blanket. She did want to debut, but she was not blind to her own social ineptness and knew that the road ahead would not be without its bumps. The black—the mourning—was a way to procrastinate. "It will make no difference, though. It's still half a year 'til the season." And what a season it would be with both her and Verity vying for an eligible bachelor in a rather limited market.
She took longer than usual to dress, but then it was a return to her routine. She scurried down the stairs and ate her breakfast before retreating into the parlor with her embroidery materials in-hand. She was not alone for long; soon she was joined by her brother, who seemed to be on the same wavelength as her that morning.
"I've gotten used to it," she admitted as she brushed a hand the fabric of her skirt, and in truth had found the color to be something of a security blanket. She did want to debut, but she was not blind to her own social ineptness and knew that the road ahead would not be without its bumps. The black—the mourning—was a way to procrastinate. "It will make no difference, though. It's still half a year 'til the season." And what a season it would be with both her and Verity vying for an eligible bachelor in a rather limited market.
