My Mother's Daughter

Daphne England, 1884 Everyone knew Lady Beatrice Ashmond. The woman who struck her unfaithful husband across the face at a charity gala, sued for her entire dowry, won, and divorced him while carrying his child. Thirty years later, people still dropped their voices when they said her name. I was that child. I grew up as the scandal's daughter, and I swore I would never give anyone a reason to whisper about me. So I chose carefully. Felix Beaumont. Eldest son, perfect name, perfect manners, a family so proper it could have been carved in marble. Three years of marriage and not a single rumor. Tonight was our anniversary, and the Beaumont Annual Benevolence Ball, which I had planned for six weeks, happened to fall on the same night. I had made peace with that. A wife who could host a thousand guests on her own anniversary was a wife no one could ever find a blemish in. I started down the grand staircase of the Royal Conservatory Hall with my hand on the rail and my chin level. "Lady Beaumont." Lord Hartwell bowed at the bottom step. "Magnificent. Truly. I don't know how you manage it." "You are too kind, my lord." "Felix is a lucky man." I smiled. "I remind him daily." Lady Hartwell squeezed my glove. Two young wives drifted over to tell me about the flowers. An old banker said my name like it was worth money. I was halfway down, and the whole room felt like it was leaning toward me. This was what I had built. This was what my mother never had. Then the doors opened. I only noticed because the music seemed to get quieter. Then the voices went with it. One conversation died, then the next, like candles being pinched out down a long table. A woman stood in the doorway in emerald silk. Lady Camelia Beaumont. A cousin from some distant branch. I had met her twice. She had never been invited, because I wrote the invitations myself. She walked in like the floor belonged to her. And at her throat, catching the chandelier light, was the Beaumont sapphire necklace. The one Felix's grandmother wore in her portrait. The one Felix told me was locked in his father's vault. My fingers tightened around the rail. The whispers started low. I heard them anyway. "Is that the Beaumont necklace?" "On her?" "Well, she is a Beaumont." "Not that kind of Beaumont, dear." Somebody laughed behind a fan. My stomach turned over once, slowly, like something sinking. Felix was on the far side of the room. His eyes turned slowly to her, and the surprise I expected didn't grace his face. Instead, he set down his glass and crossed the floor straight to her, and he did not once look up at the stairs. At me. He took her arm. Then his hand settled at her waist, easy and familiar, the way a hand goes to a place it has been a hundred times. Heads turned. First to them, then up to me. Dozens of eyes, all of them patient. Nobody was whispering anymore. They were waiting. For the daughter of Beatrice Ashmond to do what Beatrice Ashmond did. My nails bit through my glove into my palm. I could feel my pulse in my teeth. My throat was so tight I wasn't sure I could swallow, and the pearls at my neck felt like a hand closing. Felix finally looked up. There was a glint in his eyes. A dare. He wanted to see what I would do. I smiled. I let my fist loosen, one finger at a time, and I walked down the last of the stairs. Every step was loud. Silk against marble. Somebody's glass clinked and stopped. I kept my eyes on Camelia and nowhere else, because if I looked at my husband I did not know what my face would do. "Lady Camelia," I said, and my voice came out warm. Warm. I almost didn't recognize it. "What a lovely surprise. I'm so glad you could come." She blinked. She had been ready for a slap. I could see it in the way her shoulders had set. I held out my hand, and after a second she took it. "The emerald suits you," I said. "And that necklace. It's been in the family so long. It's good to see it worn." The color left her face and came back angry. Her fingers went stiff in mine. She didn't understand. Neither did the room. I felt it behind me, the confusion rippling out, and then the disappointment. Then the first soft laugh. "Did you hear her?" "She's welcoming her." "Poor thing. She really doesn't know." "Beatrice's daughter. Imagine." I heard all of it. Every word went in and stayed. My face did not move. Felix introduced Camelia to Lord Ashby, and to the Dowager Lady Kerr, and to two bankers I had been trying to get into our drawing room for a year. People I had never once been presented to, though I was his wife. They all knew her name already. She laughed at a joke I hadn't heard. She knew which of his cousins drank. She knew he disliked the green room at the lodge. Three years, I thought. No. Longer than that. Felix leaned close to me then, his mouth near my ear, his voice low and even. "Don't make a scene, Daphne." My mother's face flashed in front of me. That slap. Thirty years of it, still ringing. I turned and looked at him. He was holding his breath. They all were. I smiled wider. Then I stepped in and slid my hand around his arm, slowly, all the way, my fingers curling over his sleeve until I was holding him the way a wife holds a husband she adores. His muscles went tight. Camelia's eyes dropped to my hand and I watched her jaw lock. "Lady Camelia, you must forgive us," I said sweetly. "My husband and I have guests to greet. Please, enjoy the evening. Have a wonderful time." I didn't wait for her answer. I turned Felix toward the ballroom, and he came with me, stunned, his arm warm under my fingers.