It had been Peter’s promise of America that kept Mary going—the thought of a new life beyond servitude, beyond the endless polishing of silver and mending of lace.

In the carriage ride home, Juliet clutched the damning bouquet, her mind racing. Who would do this? Who wished to see her reputation in tatters? She had cultivated only friendships among the debutantes and had never given cause for jealousy or rivalry.

Charles was a master of his craft, known far and wide for his lush rose bushes and sprawling ivy. But there was one flower that had always eluded him—the delicate and elusive lady slipper orchid. Known for its unique beauty, the lady slipper was a flower that Charles had long dreamed of cultivating successfully.

Lady Agatha Farnsworth straightened her posture, the whalebone stays of her corset restricting any attempt at a comfortable position. “I assure you, Millicent, I witnessed it with my own eyes. Lord Pembrooke and that… that actress.” She whispered the final word as though it were a disease one might catch merely by speaking it aloud.

But that was just it, Eugenie didn’t want to be a lady, not in the way society demanded. Oh, she liked the dresses and the parties, yes. But she wondered what it would be like to live as the other half lived. To know real purpose, real connection.

With a reassuring smile, he led her to a stone bench along the riverbank. The moment they sat, a parade of ducks emerged from the water, waddling toward them with eager quacks.

Mary would rather be in the crowd of spectators listening to her father, and now her husband, rouse and move a crowd with passion and purpose. She groaned and let her head fall onto her arms, her hand cramping from the constant writing.