Penelope sighed, burying the thought immediately. "And a mask," She murmured, the sudden realization striking her. "I must have one."
Mary nodded at once. "The market on Brook Street may still have fine masks, if we go before noon."
Penelope's fingers tightened around the card. It is a masquerade ball.Definitely, she needed a mask, something to hide behind, something that might, for one night, allow her to be someone other than the woman society believed her to be.
If this night granted her that wish, Penelope hoped it would also grant her the courage to hunt, just like the other debutantes. But different in the sense of desperation.
"Have the carriage prepared," She said, a spark of resolve settling into her voice. "I shall go myself,"
Mary blinked, surprised, but still nodded nevertheless. "Right away, Miss."
***
By the time the carriage rolled to a halt along Brook Street, the morning had already given way to the soft bustle of noon.
Penelope stepped down carefully, one gloved hand resting on her footman's as he helped her onto the pavement. The street was alive with movement—ladies beneath parasols, gentlemen in dark coats, the clatter of carriage wheels, and the low hum of conversation drifting through the spring air.
It was obvious the invitations had drawn quite a few attentions, as everyone seemed to have a thing or two about it. Giggles, and little laughter filled the air, carrying an unmistakable air of excitement.
For a moment, Penelope drew her shawl a little closer. It had been some time since she had ventured out alone for anything beyond necessity. Too many eyes in society had a habit of lingering where they ought not. Yet still, tonight was no ordinary night, which thankfully, took away a lot of people's attention.
"We shall first find the mask." She said, gracefully arranging the small folds of her dress as a result of her seating position.
Mary inclined her head and led the way toward a small boutique tucked between the apothecary and the glove-maker's shop.
The window display glittered with delicate creations like ivory masks edged in pearls, black velvet trimmed with silver, and pale gold designs adorned with feathers.
Penelope paused at once, staring at the velvet stand where a silver mask rested unlike the rest. Its surface shimmered faintly in the light, intricate vines curling across the edges, with tiny crystal droplets that caught the sun like frost.
"It's beautiful," She breathed and stepped closer, obviously drawn to it. Even on a closer look, it appeared ethereal.
"An excellent taste, Miss," The shopkeeper spoke, emerging from behind the counter with a practiced smile. "May I?"
Penelope gave a small nod, enthralled by its beauty, but even more concerned about its cost. She could only hope the little she had would be able to cover the expenses.
The bitter truth still lingered between her and Mary as the shopkeeper carefully wrapped the silver mask in tissue, ignorant of the uncertainty between the two women. Before he could speak further, the bell above the door chimed, and both ladies turned.
A woman swept into the boutique with all the practised poise of someone accustomed to being noticed, her daughter following half a step behind in a gown of pale lilac silk.
The elder lady's chin was lifted ever so slightly, her expression already sharpened by the familiar air of superiority that seemed to follow her everywhere.
Penelope recognized them at once. They were her neighbors, Lady Whitmore and Miss Ceila Whitmore.
Of course, she thought. Can the day get any worse?
"I want this one! And this one—Oh, this one!" The enthusiasm of the young lady was like a pollution in the air, instantly shifting the mood of the room.
Everyone knew who Lady Whitmore and her daughters were. The spoiled brat and materialistic mother. Two fitted birds.
"Good radiance," Mary muttered, rolling her eyes at the barbarity of the young woman.
For the briefest moment, Penelope's gaze drifted to the elegant card peeling from her reticule. So the entire neighborhood was to attend, she thought.
How comforting.
Lady Whitmore's eyes swept the boutique with mild interest before settling upon Penelope. The moment recognition dawned, her brows lifted, and her lips curved into something dangerously close to amusement.
"Miss Anderson," Lady Whitmore said at last, her voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp, her sudden distaste switching into curiosity. "What an unexpected sight."
Penelope inclined her head with a practiced calm, feigning the same realization. "Lady Whitmore. Miss Whitmore. Good afternoon."
Ceila's gaze flickered over Penelope's attire, then to Mary beside her, and finally to the modest selection of lace and ribbon laid upon by he counter.
"How... surprising," She said lightly. "I had not expected to find you in a boutique."
The implication landed exactly as intended as Penelope's fingers tightened ever so slightly at her sides.
Mary who stood beside her gritted her teeth and opened her mouth to speak, only for Penelope to raise her hand, a gentle sign to withhold from interfering. The last time she did, it almost cost Mary her job. She didn't want any more problems this time.
Lady Whitmore offered a smile that did not reach her eyes, looking down at the lowly servant who almost dared to interfere, before her eyes found the miss. "Indeed. One would think such establishments had become rather… beyond reach for some families of late,"
Penelope felt the jab pierce her soul, but she forced herself to maintain composure.
Celia tilted her head, feigning innocence, though clearly pleased with the reaction she was receiving. "Though perhaps you are here for your sister? It is only natural that younger ladies still have occasion for such things," The barb was delivered with perfect sweetness. "I heard she'd returned, hasn't she?"
Penelope felt the heat of aggravation rise beneath her composed exterior, but her expression remained serenely pleasant.
How easy it would be to lash out. How satisfying. How relieving. But instead, she smiled, hoping to all ages that it didn't appear threatening.
Thankfully, it was a calm, measured smile that made both women pause; obviously, someone accustomed to mockery worse than this. "Actually," Penelope said softly, her voice nothing but proud. "I am here on my own account."