Chapter 5:
Invitation to the Ball
IT WAS THE DAY of the queen’s royal ball, and it was chaos in Fiona’s room at the Clayburn barony.
“Mmph! P-please, no more… I can’t…”
“Oh, no you don’t. Come on, big breath out! One, two, three!”
Her pleas rejected, Fiona obediently surrendered the air from her lungs. The woman pulling the strings of her corset so tight it defied the laws of physics was Marianne, who had become a seamstress at Maison de Michele’s shop.
“What do you think, my lady? I can still pull it tighter.”
“M-Marianne, I’m done!”
“Yes, I think we can leave her there,” Mrs. Bennett said, bringing an end to the torture. Fiona sighed in relief.
That day, there was a real struggle to determine who would help Fiona get ready for the ball. For the royal commendation, the Marchioness Heyward and Giles’s older sister, Miranda, had gleefully taken Fiona under their wing and beautified her, but they would attend the ball as guests themselves. They had their own preparations to attend to and could not devote their time to Fiona. When the two of them bickered over who would get the honors anyway—with Miranda offering to send her maids and then the Marchioness Heyward insisting she did have time to personally attend to Fiona after all—Mrs. Bennett gracefully pushed her way past both of them to save the day. “I know you’ll show off my dress more beautifully than anyone else,” she’d declared confidently, setting the wheels in motion.
On the day of the ball, Mrs. Bennett had arrived at the Clayburn house with one of her seamstresses and Marianne in tow. They were now in the process of dressing Fiona. Unfortunately, Fiona was already exhausted, and all they’d done so far was get her underthings on. Getting dressed for the royal commendation was a similar ordeal, but this is brutal!
During her stay at Heyward march, she had grown accustomed to the feel of corsets, but when it came time for her fitting, the dressmaker showed her no mercy. Fiona was not so constricted that she might faint, but according to Marianne, most people wore their corsets even tighter.
Fiona had lost her mother at a young age and grown up free in the countryside, so she’d had nobody around to scold her for not dressing like a proper lady. Moreover, her greatly beloved late-mother’s dresses had been designed to be gentle on the body. Having never had any real reason to change the way she dressed, Fiona could hardly be blamed for being uncomfortable with the conventional styles. She’d known the dress would be uncomfortable to wear, but even so, this dressing process was hard on her.
“Oh, Sister, you’re going to be so beautiful,” Cecelia cooed.
“That’s right, dear, suck it in!”
“Cecelia… Olga… You two are having fun at my expense, aren’t you?”
Fiona beseeched them with tears in her eyes, but her friend and little sister were unmoved. They sat there like spectators of a sport.
“Well, it is fun!” Olga chirped. “Right, Cecelia?”
“Oh yes, very!”
Meanwhile, I can hardly breathe, Fiona grumbled silently.
The daughter of a small baron attending a royal ball for the highest of the nobility was as unprecedented an event as they came. Only the carefree smiles of her two companions kept Fiona positive when all she felt like doing was withering away.
Mrs. Bennett gave her seamstress instructions on corsage placement, then weighed in on the argument. “Dressing up is a way of satisfying our innate desire to be in the spotlight, not just to show off our family’s good standing. Of course, I can’t say that I’m not also keen on the good publicity you’ll give Maison.”
“Yes, I understand,” Fiona said. Just as Mrs. Bennett said, beautiful clothing held a deeper significance that transcended the institution of fashion. An event was colored, and its success influenced, by the fineries its attendees wore. To dress elegantly was also a symbol of loyalty and devotion to the host—the queen—and to the royal family as a whole.
Mrs. Bennett, Marianne, and the seamstress were also taking their time to construct a perfect appearance for Fiona out of consideration for her confidence. She understood this and was grateful for it.
Mrs. Bennett glanced at the clock. “Oh dear, look at the time. Let’s take a short break.”
“Good idea,” said Marianne. “Fiona, you should get something to eat now while you can.” Draping a dressing gown over Fiona’s shoulders and loosening her corset slightly, she looked like a goddess to Fiona.
As if on cue, Olga produced a basket. “I’ve brought some biscuits and sandwiches. I cut them small so they’d be easy to eat.”
“Ooh! Thanks, Olga.”
“I’ll go make some tea,” said Cecilia.
“Cecelia, could you go check on Flora for me?” Fiona asked. Marianne’s husband, Kyle, was away on business, so Marianne had brought their daughter, Flora, with her. Flora was in the parlor on the first floor, being cared for by the baron and Fiona’s uncle—under Hans’s supervision, of course.
“Flora’s fine,” Marianne assured Ceceila, adopting a motherly tone. “I heard her babbling happily earlier.” Cecilia scurried out of the room all the same.
The dressing room had, in fact, been graced occasionally by the baby’s happy squeals and snippets of the counting songs Fiona’s father was singing to the baby. Flora’s shyness had proved an issue only at first. Thankfully, she recognized the baron’s face, making the babysitting an easy affair without any anguished crying.
“But won’t she be missing her mommy about now?” Fiona asked.
“She actually seems to prefer her grandpa,” Marianne replied. Ever since their reunion at the Clayburn house, Marianne had paid frequent visits to her father Talbott’s home, and her father’s dedicated, albeit clumsy, attempts at pampering Flora had won her heart. Fiona and Marianne exchanged amused grins, each picturing the sour-faced Talbott in the domestic role of grandfather. “I really owe everything to you, Fiona.”
Fiona cocked her head dubiously. “But I haven’t done anything. I only gave you a space to meet.”
Marianne and Mrs. Bennett rolled their eyes at each other. “Fiona, you could stand to be less modest,” Lady Bennet told her.
“But I’m hardly a pinnacle of altruism and integrity.”
“I’m not suggesting you’re a selfless martyr. It’s not your actions, it’s your philosophy. In your career and in your personal life.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Fiona knew that Mrs. Bennett meant well, but the compliment still made her feel a little guilty. Fiona had cooked up a fake romance to avoid getting engaged to Norman; in her view, she was selfishness personified.
But even Olga was nodding in heartfelt agreement. “Absolutely. You aren’t exactly naive, so I’m sure you aren’t an easy target for deception, but you can be oddly reckless at times, Fiona. Just try not to get yourself caught up in something strange. Here, have a sandwich.”
“Um… Uh… Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Did you make these, Olga? They look scrumptious.”