If I Must

The Débutante.

After waiting a few minutes after the arrival of the last guests, it was time for the Princess's entry into society as a young woman, an eligible bachelorette. The curtains of the room she was in were drawn, and she began descending the stairs. Every pair of eyes in the room were trained on her splendour- the eyes of envious young ladies and hopeful potential husbands, friends and relatives, and other relevant members of high society.

An attendant was poised to take her hand and escort her around the room, but a young man stepped forward. "It would be my greatest pleasure if you allowed me, my lady," he said, his voice rich, his arm extended.

"Of course," she said, putting her hand on his, "I am Princess Margaret, the younger sister of Queen Elizabeth."

"I know that much, my lady. It would be a travesty if the most beautiful woman in this room were not, in fact, the Princess whom we have all travelled to see."

"Well, if you already know who I am, am I to know who the man that is so kindly escorting me is?"

"Indeed you are. I am Ferguson, Duke of Warrington and royal advisor to King Zlatan of Andellia."

"Andellia... did the king not recently marry a common woman from one of the colonies? Protea, I believe."

"That, he did. I cannot say that he always values and applies my advice. He was blinded by love and would not listen to a word that any of us had to say."

"I suppose that people in love are rarely rational enough to take anybody's advice, much like a rabid animal."

He laughed. "A strange comparison, but an apt one nonetheless. A person in love will hear no reason. I fear, after tonight, I may very well understand his situation."

"Perhaps. You may find a young lady here who turns you into an unreasoning and illogical man."

"Perhaps I am already looking at her," he said, looking straight into her eyes while placing a kiss on her hand, "but I'm afraid I will have to excuse myself for a moment, my lady. May I be so hopeful as to trust that you will save your first dance for me?"

"If that is what you would like, Sir, then I shall gladly oblige."

"Thank you, miss. I shall see you shortly."

-

Margaret spent the evening hoping to God that none of the men here had gotten it in their silly little minds that she would make a good wife. She had chortled obnoxiously whenever someone told a joke, spoken a little too loudly and a little too impolitely to every bachelor that came her way, and thread on the toes of any who still felt the need to ask her for a dance. She decided to retire to the ensuite sitting room for a bit.

"George!" She called for her attendant.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Get me my special tumbler, please, and the pack of cigarette on my dresser. Oh, and make sure no one comes in this room without my permission."

"Yes ma'am."

He returned moments later, cigarettes and tumbler covered discretely on a silver tray. "Thank you, George. Please stand at the doorway and prevent entry into this room."

She opened the flask that was kept on the table and emptied a third of its contents into her tumbler. Whiskey. Her sister would make an unnecessary fuss if she knew that she were having a drink during what was supposed to be her début, but this was all that could help her cope with the remaining hours of the ball.

The seat was a relief after hours spent on her feet, and she reclined and rested her arms on the rests. The whiskey warmed her throat as she took a sip, then opened the box of cigarettes. She had asked for her special tumbler so that she could light a cigarette as she drank, for she had had the good sense to glue matchboxes on the side of a few tumblers.

The smoke burned her throat as she inhaled, so she took another sip. Exhausted and frustrated, she threw her head back and let it hang over the edge of the couch. If only she could stay like this forever, if only her life could be this simple. The cigarette hanged loosely from her lips, the tumbler held precariously by her fingertips. George emerged.

"Ma'am, the Duke of Warrington wishes to come in."

She sighed. As much as she enjoyed his company, she just wanted to be alone in that immediate moment. "Send him in, please."

"Certainly, ma'am."

Surprise was visible on the Duke's expression as he walked in to see the Princess reclined on a little couch, her head thrown back, a cigarette in her mouth, a tumbler of what looked like whiskey in her hand.

"My lady, I have never seen a young lady smoking, or even drinking alcohol, for that matter."

"If you wish to tell me that it is unladylike, or unbecoming, or that I shall never find a husband if I keep these vices up, you may leave. I can make my own decisions, and I have decided to afford myself the liberties that you men often do. It is not scandalous, it is equality."

"No, I would never tell you how to conduct yourself, or what you are allowed to do. Most young ladies have the self-awareness necessary to decide what they want to do, and what they do not. Of course, not all men feel the same way, but that is probably because they're dominating women and dictating to them in order to sooth their fragile egos and hide their own insecurities."

"Finally, a man who knows not to tell me what to do," she mumbled, stubbing her cigarette in an ashtray as she looked up at him, "would you like a drink, Sir? I only have whiskey, and you will have to drink from the same glass I have used, but it shall certainly ease the throbbing headache that this ball is no doubt beginning to give you as it has for me."

"I shall not mind sharing a glass if it is you that I must share it with, Miss Margaret."

"Oh? Shall you no longer call me 'my lady'? Are we now to refer to each other by our names and not our titles, as is deemed appropriate by society?"

"Society is mad. It is a sham, a bunch of ridiculous rules made up by even more ridiculous men who have nothing else to do but tell others how to address each other."

She gasped playfully. "You cannot possibly be saying this to me, Sir, when we are both part of that ridiculous society, and I am a Princess thereof? How bold. I could have you beheaded."

"Miss Margaret, you could have me beheaded, indeed, but your feigned outrage indicates that you wish to do anything but. Please, do not call me 'Sir, you must call me 'Mr Ferguson' from now on."

"Of course, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir."

He laughed, and the light of the chandelier danced in his eyes, making him even more handsome than he already was. "You intrigue me, Miss Margaret. By retiring to this room, you have done a great service to the other debutantes who could not even get a man to look at them because all were looking at you. However, if you are not averse to it, I do hope you will see fit to return to the ballroom with me. I shall do my best to spend every second by your side so as not to allow the pathetic and dull men there to bore you out of your wits."

"How kind of you, Sir. Let us go," she set her tumbler down on the table and extended her hand to him. He kissed it before linking his arm with hers and leading her out of the room. The orchestra was just starting a lively waltz.

"Would you grant me this dance, Miss Margaret, as well as any others that you decide to enjoy?"

"It would be my pleasure, Sir."

The Duke was a great dancer, his footwork quick and precise. He never stepped on the toes of his partner. He also made for an amusing partner as he whispered about the Lords present and the various tidbits of gossip that he knew about them. Margaret was blushing by the end of the waltz, and she felt as if she might never be able to look the Lords in the eye again.

"Sister!" She heard Elizabeth call out in her painfully polite way. "Sister!" Elizabeth called again as she hurried, out of breath, to her side, "we have just received good news. The Prince of Buchanon has sent word. He has asked for your hand in marriage!"

This was not, in fact, good news. At least, not to Margaret.