They arrived in London at the end of April. Mrs. Breen did not make an appearance at the Royal Academy’s Exhibition the next week, preferring instead the privacy of their home on Eaton Place. The Season—no, her life—stretched away before her, illimitable as the Saharan wasteland, and as empty of oasis. She did not ride on Rotten Row. She made no calls, and received none. A new governess, Miss Bell, was hired and Mrs. Breen did not so often have the consolation of her daughter. In the mornings, she slept late; in the evenings, she retreated to her chamber early. And in the afternoons, while Sophie was at her lessons, she wept.
She could see no future. She wanted to die.
The messenger arrived two weeks before First Feast, on Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Breen was in the parlor with Sophie, looking at a picture book, when the footman handed her the envelope. At the sight of the crest stamped into the wax seal, she felt rise up the ghost of her humiliation in Grosvenor Square. Worse yet, she felt the faintest wisp of hope—and that she could not afford. She would expect nothing, she told herself. Most of all, she would not hope.
“Please take Sophie away, Miss Bell,” she said to the governess, and when Sophie protested, Mrs. Breen said, “Mama is busy now, darling.” Her tone brooked no opposition. Miss Bell whisked the child out of the room, leaving Mrs. Breen to unseal the envelope with trembling fingers. She read the note inside in disbelief, then read it again.
“Is the messenger still here?” she asked the footman.
“Yes, madam.”
At her desk, Mrs. Breen wrote a hasty reply, sealed the envelope, and handed it to the footman. “Please have him return this to Lady Donner. And please inform Mr. Breen that I wish to see him.”
“Of course,” the footman said.
Alone, Mrs. Breen read—and re-read—the note yet again. She felt much as she had felt that afternoon in Grosvenor Square: as though reality had shifted in some fundamental and unexpected way, as though everything she had known and believed had to be calibrated anew.
Mr. Breen had been right.
Lady Donner had with a stroke of her pen restored them.
Mr. Breen also had to read the missive twice:
Lord and Lady Donner request the pleasure of the company of Mr. and Mrs. Breen at First Feast on Saturday, May 29th, 18—, 7:30 p.m. RSVP
Below that, in beautiful script, Lady Donner had inscribed a personal note:
Please join us, Alice. We so missed your company last spring. And do bring Sophie.
Mr. Breen slipped the note into the envelope and placed it upon Mrs. Breen’s desk.
“Have you replied?”
“By Lady Donner’s messenger.”
“I trust you have acted with more wisdom this year.”
She turned her face away from him. “Of course.”
“Very well, then. You shall require a new dress, I suppose.”
“Sophie as well.”
“Can it be done in two weeks?”
“I do not know. Perhaps with sufficient inducement.”
“I shall see that the dressmaker calls in the morning. Is there anything else?”
“The milliner, I should think,” she said. “And the tailor for yourself.”
Mr. Breen nodded.
The next morning, the dressmaker arrived as promised. Two dresses! he exclaimed, pronouncing the schedule impossible. His emolument was increased. Perhaps it could be done, he conceded, but it would be very difficult. When presented with still further inducement, he acceded that with Herculean effort he would certainly be able to complete the task. It would require additional seamstresses, of course—
Further terms were agreed to.
The dressmaker made his measurements, clucking in satisfaction. The milliner called, the tailor and the haberdasher. It was all impossible, of course. Such a thing could not be done. Yet each was finally persuaded to view the matter in a different light, and each afterward departed in secret satisfaction, congratulating himself on having negotiated such a generous fee.
The days whirled by. Consultations over fabrics and colors followed. Additional measurements and fittings were required. Mrs. Breen rejoiced in the attention of the couturiers. Her spirits lifted and her beauty, much attenuated by despair, returned almost overnight. Mr. Breen, who had little interest in bespoke clothing and less patience with it, endured the attentions of his tailor. Sophie shook her petticoats in fury and stood upon the dressmaker’s stool, protesting that she did not want to lift her arms or turn around or (most of all) hold still. Miss Bell was reprimanded and told to take a sterner line with the child.
Despite all this, Mrs. Breen was occasionally stricken with anxiety. What if the dresses weren’t ready or proved in some way unsatisfactory?
All will be well, Mr. Breen assured her.
She envied his cool certainty.
The clothes arrived the Friday morning prior to the feast: a simple white dress with sapphire accents for Sophie; a striking gown of midnight blue, lightly bustled, for Mrs. Breen.
Secretly pleased, Mrs. Breen modeled it for her husband—though not without trepidation. Perhaps it was insufficiently modest for such a sober occasion.
All will be well, Mr. Breen assured her.
And then it was Saturday.
Mrs. Breen woke to a late breakfast and afterward bathed and dressed at her leisure. Her maid pinned up her hair in an elaborate coiffure and helped her into her corset. It was late in the afternoon when she at last donned her gown, and later still—they were on the verge of departing—when Miss Bell presented Sophie for her approval.
They stood in the foyer of the great house, Mr. and Mrs. Breen, and Miss Bell, and the child herself—the latter looking, Mr. Breen said with unaccustomed tenderness, as lovely as a star fallen to the Earth. Sophie giggled with delight at this fancy. Yet there was some missing touch to perfect the child’s appearance, Mrs. Breen thought, studying Sophie’s child’s white habiliments with their sapphire accents.
“Shall we go, then?” Mr. Breen said.
“Not quite yet,” Mrs. Breen said.
“My dear—”
Mrs. Breen ignored him. She studied the child’s blonde ringlets. A moment came to her: Lady Donner tying up Sophie’s hair with a deep blue ribbon of embroidered mulberry silk. With excuses to her husband, who made a show of removing his watch from its pocket and checking the time, Mrs. Breen returned to her chamber. She opened her carven wooden box of keepsakes. She found the ribbon folded carefully away among the other treasures she had been unable to look at in the era of her exile: a program from her first opera and a single dried rose from her wedding bouquet, which she had once reckoned the happiest day of her life—before Lady Breen’s First Feast invitation (also present) and the taste of human flesh that it had occasioned. She smoothed the luxuriant silk between her fingers, recalling Lady Donner’s words while the child had admired herself in the gilt mirror.
She partakes of her mother’s beauty.
Mrs. Breen blinked back tears—it would not do to cry—and hastened downstairs, where she tied the ribbon into Sophie’s hair. Mr. Breen paced impatiently as she perfected the bow.
“There,” Mrs. Breen said, with a final adjustment. “Don’t you look lovely?”
Sophie smiled, dimpling her checks, and took her mother’s hand.
“Shall we?” Mr. Breen said, ushering them out the door to the street, where the coachman awaited.
They arrived promptly at seven-thirty.
Sophie spilled out of the carriage the moment the footman opened the door.
“Wait, Sophie,” Mrs. Breen said. “Slowly. Comport yourself as a lady.” She knelt to rub an imaginary speck from the child’s forehead and once again adjusted the bow. “There you go. Perfect. You are the very picture of beauty. Can you promise to be very good for Mama?”