“There is nothing to interrupt,” Sophie said. “Unless you are opposed to a respite from a crowded ballroom.”
“Come in and make yourself welcome!” Miss Miller said with a wave.
Miss Kirby stepped inside, closing the library door. She gave a polite nod and greeted each of the women in turn.
She was tall, her movements extremely graceful, and surely one of the loveliest women Sophie knew. A few years older than Sophie, Miss Kirby was a studious person who seemed to keep to herself. From the comfortable way she moved along the shelves, Sophie decided that visiting a library during a ball was perhaps a regular occurrence for the woman. The few encounters they’d shared had given Sophie the impression of a socially awkward person who always wanted to discuss the latest scientific discovery.
Miss Kirby looked closer at a particular volume. “Sir Humphry Davy. I wonder if this includes his writings on electrochemistry,” she muttered, lifting the heavy book.
As the women settled in, half of them chatting and half of them reading, Sophie considered the gathering—four women of a similar age and status, while well-connected, didn’t quite fit the mold to which Society would have them conform. She felt a rush of warmth, a feeling of camaraderie with the group. Though they were all quite different in temperament and interests, these women were just like her.
“Oh, what have we here?” Miss Miller pushed aside the pile to pull out a broadsheet. “The Illustrated London News. And my cousin’s face is right on the front page.” She turned the paper toward Sophie. “Is this your artwork, Lady Sophronia?”
“It is.” Sophie automatically tightened her shoulders, bracing for criticism.
“A very good likeness,” Miss Thornton said, crossing the room for a closer look. “You have quite a talent.”
Miss Kirby looked up from her book and tipped her head, studying the picture. “I agree. I’ve always considered your illustrations to be exceptional. Though, I admit, I rarely care for the content of the articles.”
“Neither do I,” Sophie said, not the least bit put off by the woman’s direct comment. She’d take honesty over manners any day. “My hope is working for the society column will lead to a position as a news reporter.”
“That is indeed a worthy cause,” Miss Miller said. “You could report on the plight of the poor, the residents of the rookeries whose homes are being demolished to make way for the railroad, or the lack of women represented in local government.” She shook the paper and tapped it with her finger. “This, this is all nonsense. In two months will anyone bother to recall which hat Dahlia wore to the Queen’s garden reception, whether her underskirts were trimmed with French or English lace, or who accompanied her to the opera? Of course they won’t. Society only cares about the latest scandal, not the true suffering directly beneath their noses.” She scowled. “But I hope to change that, to do something more, just like you, Lady Sophronia. I intend to establish a finishing school for underprivileged young ladies. Poor children miss so many opportunities, as their entire purpose is survival. They have few chances of bettering their situations, especially the young girls.”
“I hope for more as well,” Miss Kirby said. “Unfortunately, the scientific and academic communities rarely acknowledge a woman’s work. If I could—”
Her words cut off when the door opened and Dahlia Lancaster herself burst into the library.
The four ladies stared, and Miss Kirby fell silent.
Miss Lancaster’s eyes were frantic as she looked from woman to woman and finally rested her gaze on her cousin. “Oh, Elizabeth, here you are.” Her shoulders slumped, and her voice came out as a whine. “Oh, whatever am I to do?”
Miss Miller blinked and put the broadsheet behind her back. “Cousin, this is the library. Surely you’ve made a mistake. Your friends—”
“Friends!” Miss Lancaster’s voice was dangerously close to a shriek. “How can you call them my friends?” She rushed across the room and dropped onto the sofa, burying her face against the arm and sobbing.
Sophie could guess what the others were thinking as they looked between one another and then at their weeping intruder: Why was the young lady alone? Sophie didn’t think she’d ever seen her without Prissy and the rest of their group of close friends, the Darling Debs—Sophie had bestowed the nickname for the group in her articles, and just like the West End Casanovas, the name had been adopted happily by those it referred to—so where were the other ladies? And even more pressing and bewildering questions arose: Why wasn’t Miss Lancaster in the ballroom for the announcement of her engagement? What had happened?
Miss Miller folded the broadsheet and set it on the side table, then sat beside her cousin, putting an arm around her shoulders, and voiced Sophie’s thoughts. “Cousin, whatever is the matter? Where is Lord Ruben? Shouldn’t you be—?”
“He’s marrying Lorene.” Miss Lancaster’s voice was muffled as she spoke against the sofa arm.
“I don’t . . .” Miss Miller glanced at the others. “What do you mean, dear?”
Miss Lancaster lifted her head and wiped tears from her cheeks. Her eyes were red. “Lord Ruben, my Lord Ruben, is engaged to Lady Lorene Stanhope. The marquess announced it just now.”
Sophie and Miss Thornton gasped.
Miss Miller put a hand to her mouth.
Miss Kirby watched Miss Lancaster thoughtfully.
“Had you any idea?” Miss Miller said after a lengthy and rather uncomfortable pause.
Miss Lancaster shook her head. “None. He . . . we . . . I thought we . . . that I . . .” Her lip quivered and her face crumpled. She laid her head back on her arms and cried.
Though not titled, Dahlia Lancaster’s family was old and wealthy, and all of Society considered her to be not only the most beautiful debutante but also the most accomplished. That she would be Lord Ruben’s wife had been taken for granted. Sophie’s heart sank. Even though Miss Lancaster certainly wasn’t one of her favorite people, she couldn’t imagine the humiliation the young lady must have endured standing in the ballroom while the engagement was announced.
“Those arrogant Casanovas.” Miss Miller scowled.
“I am sorry, Miss Lancaster,” Miss Kirby said.
Sophie sat in a leather wing chair on one side of the couch. Miss Thornton, from her matching chair on the other side, lifted a hand as if she might pat Miss Lancaster’s head, but lowered it again. She bit her lip, and her expression mirrored the others’ confusion at how to console the young lady.
Miss Lancaster spoke after a long bout of weeping. “I don’t understand. What am I to do now?” She took Miss Miller’s offered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “My heart is shattered, and I . . . I simply can’t go on.” She choked on a sob. “I just can’t.”