Pandora held her tongue, although she didn’t agree. Approximately a year ago, her older sister Helen had married Mr. Rhys Winterborne, a common-born Welshman, and they were exceedingly happy. So were Cousin Devon and his wife Kathleen. Love matches might be rare, but they certainly weren’t impossible.
Even so, Pandora found it impossible to imagine that kind of future for herself. Unlike Cassandra, who was a romantic, she had never dreamed of marrying and having children. She didn’t want to belong to anyone, and she especially didn’t want anyone to belong to her. No matter how she had tried to make herself want what she should want, she knew she would never be happy in a conventional life.
Lady Berwick sighed and sat beside her, her spine a rigid parallel to the back of the chair. “The month of May has just begun. Do you remember what I told you about that?”
“It’s the most important month of the Season, when all the great events are held.”
“Correct.” Lady Berwick handed the dance card back to her. “After tonight, I expect you to make an effort. You owe it to Lord and Lady Trenear, and to yourself. I daresay you owe it to me as well, after all my efforts to improve you.”
“You’re right,” Pandora said quietly. “And I’m sorry—truly sorry—for the trouble I’ve caused you. But it’s become clear to me that I’m not meant for any of this. I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ve made plans to support myself and live independently. With any luck I’ll be successful, and no one will have to worry about me any longer.”
“You’re referring to that parlor game nonsense?” the countess asked, her tone inflected with scorn.
“It’s not nonsense. It’s real. I’ve just been granted a patent. Ask Mr. Winterborne.”
Last year, Pandora, who had always loved toys and parlor amusements, had designed a board game. With Mr. Winterborne’s encouragement, she had filed for a patent and intended to produce and distribute the game. Mr. Winterborne owned the largest department store in the world, and had already agreed to place an order for five hundred copies. The game was a guaranteed success, if for no other reason than that there was hardly any competition: Whereas the board game industry was flourishing in America, thanks to the efforts of the Milton Bradley company, it was still in its infancy here in Britain. Pandora had already developed two more games and was almost ready to file patents for them. Someday she would earn enough money to make her own way in the world.
“As fond as I am of Mr. Winterborne,” Lady Berwick said dourly, “I fault him for encouraging you in this folly.”
“He thinks I have the makings of an excellent business woman.”
The countess twitched as if she’d been stung by a wasp. “Pandora, you were born an earl’s daughter. It would be appalling enough if you married a merchant or manufacturer, but to become one yourself is unthinkable. You wouldn’t be received anywhere. You would be ostracized.”
“Why should any of these people”—Pandora cast a quick, wary glance at the crowd in the ballroom—“care what I choose to do?”
“Because you are one of them. A fact that, assuredly, pleases them no more than it does you.” The countess shook her head. “I can’t pretend to understand you, my girl. Your brain has always seemed to me like those fireworks—what are the ones that spin so madly?”
“Catherine wheels.”
“Yes. Whirling and sparking, all light and noise. You make judgments without bothering to find out the particulars. It’s a fine thing to be clever, but too much cleverness usually produces the same result as ignorance. Do you think you can willfully disregard the world’s opinion? Do you expect people to admire you for being different?”
“Of course not.” Pandora fiddled with her empty dance card, fanning it open and closing it repeatedly. “But they might at least try to be accepting.”
“Foolish, cross-grained girl, why should they? Nonconformity is nothing but self-interest in disguise.” Although it was obvious the countess would have liked to deliver a full-blown lecture, she snapped her mouth shut and rose to her feet. “We will continue this discussion later.” Turning away, Lady Berwick headed for a brood of sharp-eyed, vinegar-blooded dowagers at the side of the room.
A metallic sound began in Pandora’s left ear, like a vibrating copper wire, as it sometimes did when she was in distress. To her horror, the stinging pressure of frustrated tears rose behind her eyes. Oh God, that would be the ultimate humiliation: eccentric, clumsy, Pandora-the-wallflower crying in the corner of the ballroom. No, it would not happen. She stood with such haste that her chair nearly toppled backward.
“Pandora,” came an urgent voice from nearby. “I need you to help me.”