Pressing her nose against the glass of the carriage window, Miss Permilia Griswold felt her stomach begin to churn as she took note of the throngs of people lining Fifth Avenue. Even though darkness had descended over the city hours before, the lure of witnessing New York society trundling down the street in their fancy carriages, on their way to Mr. and Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt’s costume ball, was apparently enough of a spectacle to keep people out and about on a chilly spring night.
That her father’s carriage was still blocks away from their destination of 660 Fifth Avenue and yet crowds were pressed three deep in and around the sidewalk, gave clear testimony to the importance of this particular ball and to the interest New Yorkers had for its highest society members.
Even though Permilia was included on the invitation list for the most important societal events in the city, she’d not grown up within the cosseted inner circles of society, which exactly explained why her stomach was churning.
She was uncomfortable in social situations, had yet to master all the rules that went with being a member of New York society, and . . .
“You’re fogging up the window, Permilia, which is obscuring my view and making all the people outside our carriage appear to be little more than ghosts wobbling about. It’s a most unnerving sight.”
Tearing her attention away from a crowd she could see perfectly fine through the merest trace of fog on the window, Permilia settled it on her stepmother, Ida Griswold. “Forgive me, stepmother. That was most inconsiderate of me.” Turning back to the window, Permilia began swiping at the mist with a gloved hand, stopping midswipe when Ida suddenly took to tsking.
“A lady must never use her glove in such a common fashion,” Ida said, her words having Permilia’s hand dropping into her lap. “And”—Ida’s gaze swept over Permilia’s form—“you’ve taken to slouching again. On my word, if you’d simply remember to maintain a proper posture at all times, I’m quite certain you wouldn’t find yourself cast in the troubling role of wallflower season after season.”
Swallowing the sigh she longed to emit, Permilia forced a smile instead. “Contrary to the prevalent thought of the day, I’m not a lady who feels as if my life has been ruined simply because I’ve obtained the somewhat undesirable label of wallflower.”
“Of course your life has been ruined,” Ida countered. “You’re twenty-something years old, have never taken within society, nor have you ever attracted the devotion of a gentleman. Why, even your own stepsister doesn’t care to spend time in your company.”
“I believe that has more to do with the fact that Lucy and I have nothing in common than my tendency to slouch upon occasion.” Permilia switched her gaze to her stepsister, Miss Lucy Webster, who was sitting ramrod straight on the seat opposite her, staunchly ignoring the conversation as she waved to the crowds gathered along the street.
Leaning forward, Permilia looked out the window Lucy sat beside. The crowd on Lucy’s side of the street was obviously enjoying Lucy’s waves, given the cheers they were sending her stepsister’s way. Permilia couldn’t say she blamed them for their enthusiasm.
Lucy had been chosen to perform in one of the many quadrilles Alva Vanderbilt had planned for the evening. And because Lucy was to be in the Mother Goose Quadrille, she was dressed to perfection as Little Bo Peep and looked absolutely delightful. Her honey-colored curls peeked out from under her cap, and her figure was shown to advantage with the low-cut neckline of her gown, her rather bountiful charms accentuated by the diamond necklace she was wearing. That Lucy had perfected a royal wave, moving her hand back and forth exactly so, had the corners of Permilia’s lips curving up.
“It is such a shame that your father is still out of the city and couldn’t attend this ball, dear,” Ida continued. “He would have enjoyed seeing you looking so well turned out tonight.”
Permilia’s lips stopped curving at once as she settled back against the carriage seat. “I may have a propensity to slouch upon occasion, stepmother, and to not adhere to every society rule, but even you must admit that I’m always well turned out. Modesty aside, I do believe I possess a distinct flare for fashion.”
Lucy immediately stopped her waving. Turning a head that sat on a remarkably graceful neck, she pinned Permilia beneath the glare of an emerald-green eye. “How can you make the claim that you’re always well turned out? You purchase your clothing from stores that cater to working women and have less than desirable locations.”