Belladonna

ONLY A SINGLE NIGHT HAD PASSED SINCE BLYTHE HAD TAKEN THE Calabar bean, and already she was making miraculous improvement.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the doctor said as Blythe spooned porridge into her mouth. “What miracle is this?”

Percy stood with his arms crossed and eyes perplexed. “A miracle, indeed.”

Blythe wouldn’t be joining them for the Christmas ball or even a stroll around the manor anytime soon, but the antidote was working. And Signa knew that any day now, she’d find the one responsible for hurting her. She replayed Percy’s words over and over again in her mind, relaxing into them. A miracle, indeed.

Signa slipped away from the sickroom to ready herself for breakfast, hoping to eat quickly and find a few moments to continue her search for the source of Blythe’s poison and her research over the logs that Sylas had delivered. They hadn’t proven helpful thus far, though she certainly knew more than she ever cared to about the staff and their behavior. Except for Sylas, of course. It hadn’t slipped her notice that he’d purposefully left his logs from the stack.

Signa was seated at her vanity, not yet finished with her hair, when Marjorie arrived with a letter in hand.

“It’s from Lord Everett Wakefield.” She handed Signa a small white envelope. Signa’s name was written on the front in careful, elegant script. Though Signa had anticipated excitement from her governess, Marjorie took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful” was all Marjorie said before she picked up a brush and combed through Signa’s hair.

“With Lord Wakefield?” Signa asked, incredulous.

“With all of them.”

Understanding the firmness in the woman’s voice, Signa kept herself stoic as she drew the letter close to her chest and opened it without flourish.

Dear Miss Farrow,

I could not convince myself to wait even a moment longer to speak with you again. I would very much like to see you—today, if you’ll have me? It’s a lovely day for a ride upon the moors.

With regard,

Everett Wakefield

Signa looked up at Marjorie’s reflection in the mirror. “He wishes to meet with me.”

Marjorie gave no reaction as she began to pin Signa’s hair back at her neck, twisting it into loose, flowing curls that cascaded down one shoulder. “And do you wish to meet with him?”

Signa brushed her thumb over her written name, surprised to realize she’d not thought of Lord Wakefield since they’d had tea. At first she supposed it was because she’d been so busy with Blythe and had plenty else to occupy her mind. Though that hadn’t stopped her from thinking of Death, she realized. Or even of how she longed for another ride with Sylas. “I’ll soon be twenty, and Lord Wakefield is a kind, successful man,” she said, each word tense. “Shouldn’t I want him to call upon me?”

“It’s perfectly respectable to deny his request,” Marjorie said. “We can blame your refusal on Elijah if you wish and tell Lord Wakefield that you’ll not be receiving until your season. It would give you more time to ready yourself.”

Signa leaned back in her seat, trying to collect her thoughts. “Do you not think I should see him?”

Marjorie was quick to admonish her. “I want you to be wise. All the men I’ve known were born with clever lies upon their tongues. They will speak dishonesties, or words sweeter than nectar, to take the things they want. You’ve a fortune to your name. It would be safer, I think, to debut and then host suitors here at Thorn Grove after you’ve come out for the season. You’ve no reason to come when called, and it would do you well to know your options.”

There was no denying Everett’s intentions. Had he arrived a month earlier, Signa would have allowed him to call upon her in a heartbeat. His was the face that Signa pictured when she shut her eyes and imagined her life in society. He was handsome and wealthy and charismatic. Together they would have a grand estate where they would host magnificent parties. And whenever they weren’t hosting, they’d be expected to attend balls and the opera, and tea—and Signa would never again want for companionship.

So why couldn’t she bring herself to accept his offer?

“Why didn’t you ever marry?” Signa asked suddenly. Perhaps it wasn’t the kindest question, and perhaps she was pressing her luck, but she needed another push. Another nudge to reassure herself that she wouldn’t be dooming herself forever by refusing Everett.

Even if Marjorie hadn’t a penny to her name, surely she would draw the attention of many respectable men. She was beautiful. “You were courted,” Signa added, “weren’t you?”

“My family wasn’t high in social status, but we weren’t horribly low, either. And I had my looks, and my hair, which many men have an eye for.” Marjorie tousled one of her soft waves and chuckled quietly to herself. “So yes, Signa, I was courted wildly. And you will be, too. I won’t tell you that you shouldn’t marry, but there’s no need for you to rush. Accept calling cards if you like, but whatever you do, proceed slowly with the men that you meet.”

Signa didn’t need to be experienced to know what Marjorie was alluding to, and she thought of all she’d almost done with Death the night before. Her etiquette book talked about relationships with men as though they were a transaction. As though she, as a woman, had to maintain each and every aspect of herself—virginity included—else she’d be thought of as impure. As dirty.

A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette was starting to feel less like her saving grace and more like a nuisance. A grim reminder that because she couldn’t master the rules—because they exhausted her so—she would never be good enough, or perfect enough, or deserving enough. It was silly, she thought, for a book to make her feel such loathing for herself. She was better than that, more than that.

“Did you not like any of the men you met?” There was little avoiding the fact that Marjorie was an unmarried woman in service. It was a good living, but still. Someone with her looks, Signa thought, could have been the lady of an estate like Thorn Grove.

Marjorie took a seat in a reading chair. “On the contrary, I fell in love with a man who never had any intention of loving me back. And for that, I paid the price.”

Signa recalled the way Marjorie behaved around Elijah. The way she’d touched his shoulder, and the way she spoke to him so freely. “What happened to him?”

“I believed we would be together for the rest of our lives,” she said. “But he fell in love with another woman, and the two of them were soon engaged. I had given myself to him wholly, but he left me without explanation.” Her eyes were distant as she wandered into the depths of her memories.

“Could you not find someone else?”

Marjorie folded her hands upon her lap. “In the eyes of society, I was already ruined. My parents rejected me. It was fortunate that I was able to find work here at Thorn Grove when there were many worse places I could have ended up.”

Marjorie had done nothing wrong by falling in love, and yet she was condemned for it. Tossed out of society like she was rotten, and like that rottenness might somehow spread. Like love or desire for someone was an infection. Would society do the same to her? If Signa made one wrong move, would she be forever cast aside by the people she was working so hard to please? And if the answer was yes… Did she ever really matter to them at all? She could follow all the rules of the etiquette book until her mind was numb and her will gone. She could masquerade every day, just as she had been, but for what reason? To be liked by those who would condemn her the moment she stepped out of line?

Signa set the envelope down upon her vanity. “And Mr. Hawthorne… he treats you well?”

With a smile, Marjorie stood. “Very well indeed, Miss Farrow, but enough about me. Have you made your decision?”

Signa returned her attention to the mirror, inspecting the glossiness of her hair and the fullness of her cheeks. Her time at Thorn Grove was doing her well, and there were more important things than to jeopardize it over a handsome face. And so she smiled up at Marjorie’s reflection and said, “Tell Lord Wakefield that I’ll see him Christmas Eve, for the masquerade ball.”