Candice was of the opinion that a proper lady was often a boring one, but she reluctantly obeyed her governess on all her accounts of behaving with propriety rather than indulging in what she truly enjoyed doing, which was often known as freely expressing herself.
Since the death of her beloved mother, the governess, Miss Harcourt, had taken care of her and raised her like she would her own daughter. As for her father, she knew not who he was nor what he looked like, having heard brief accounts and stories of him. She wondered why she should bother since he had abandoned her at birth. Abandoned but provided well for.
Miss Harcourt cleared her throat.
It was a very deliberate sound and Candice knew better than to ignore it. Unfortunately, she was currently balanced on the arm of a brocade chair, one slipper dangling from her toes as she attempted to retrieve a fallen book with the tip of her parasol.
She looked up guiltily to find her governess peering down at her.
"Candice," Miss Harcourt said, with dangerous calm, "tell me you are not using your late mother's parasol as a fishing rod."
Candice slowly stood up, parasol snapping back to its proper position. "I prefer to think of it as an extension of myself to reach my book."
Miss Harcourt sighed, the long, suffering sigh of a woman who had raised a child entirely on her own patience. "You are twenty years old."
"Yes," Candice agreed cheerfully. "A great age for innovation."
"A great age," Miss Harcourt replied, coming to stand close to her, "to know better."
She plucked the book from the carpet and eyed Candice over the rims of her spectacles. "Why are you not seated properly on the divan?"
"I was seated," Candice said. "This is merely a different position."
"This," Miss Harcourt said, tapping the chair arm Candice had occupied like a roosting bird, "is how boys sit. Sailors, too and occasionally, the fae folk."
Candice slid down obediently, smoothing her skirts. "If it comforts you, I had no intention of inviting any sailors or the fae folk into the drawing room."
"That is a relief," Miss Harcourt said dryly. Then her mouth softened despite herself. She reached out and adjusted Candice's sleeve. "What would your mother say if she saw you like this?"
Candice's smiled but only briefly. "She would laugh," she said. "And then tell you not to let me climb the furniture."
Miss Harcourt huffed. "Your mother had a mischievous streak entirely, she was most unsuited for marriage."
"And yet she married," Candice pointed out.
"Yes, well," Miss Harcourt muttered, "the world is full of surprising things."
She circled Candice, inspecting her with the air of someone pretending sternness while checking for loose buttons. "You have ink on your fingers."
"I was writing."
"On the floor."
"It encourages thought."
Miss Harcourt pinched the bridge of her nose. "Candice, my dear girl, society already finds you… unusual. If you persist on lounging like an overgrown kitten, they will conclude I raised you without a sense of propriety."
Candice took Miss Harcourt's hand without thinking. "You raised me wonderfully."
Miss Harcourt stilled, then patted Candice's fingers briskly. "I raised you to survive. Becoming proper was meant to come afterwards."
She drew back, straightening. "Now. Sit. Like a lady. Both feet on the floor. Back straight."
Candice complied, briefly. "May I sigh?"
"No."
"May I blink rebelliously?"
"Candice."
She laughed and settled into stillness, eyes sparkling. Miss Harcourt watched her for a moment longer than necessary, her sternness melting into something fond and quietly proud.
"Very well," Miss Harcourt said. "We shall call this an improvement."
Candice smiled. "High praise."
"Do not let it go to your head," Miss Harcourt warned, though she smiled too. "Heaven knows it is already full of ideas."
Miss Harcourt consulted her reticule with unnecessary precision.
"Now that you have mastered the art of sitting without alarming the furniture," she said, "we are going out."
Candice brightened immediately. "Outside?"
"To the dressmaker."
Candice's expression fell. "Inside, then."
Miss Harcourt ignored this. "Mrs Pembroke has secured us an appointment, which means she expects punctuality, decisiveness, and a complete absence of theatrics."
Candice rose. "I excel at punctuality."
"You excel at arriving," Miss Harcourt corrected. "Punctuality is an entirely different form of discipline."
They set off down the street together, Candice wearing gloves but restless, Miss Harcourt brisk and purposeful, her arm looped through Candice's with proprietary pride. The dressmaker's was halfway down the road with tall windows crowded with mannequins dressed in silks so stiff they appeared personally jealous by movement of the people outside.
Candice slowed. "Do I truly need so many gowns?"
"You are entering society," Miss Harcourt said. "You will require morning dresses, walking dresses, visiting dresses, dinner gowns, evening gowns, and at least one dress designed to suggest grace, beauty and elegance without being overworked."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is," Miss Harcourt agreed. "For the observer."
Mrs. Pembroke descended upon them the moment they entered, all enthusiasm and with measuring tape ready. "Miss Whitcombe! My dear Miss Harcourt! London is buzzing about the debutants this season."
Candice leaned toward her governess. "Is it?"
"It will be," Miss Harcourt said, "once we arrive."
Swatches were produced. Fabrics unfurled. Candice was ushered onto a small platform and turned, lifted, and assessed like a promising but unruly painting.
"This blue," Mrs. Pembroke said, holding it up. "Very fashionable."
Candice peered at it. "It looks like it would judge me."
"It looks refined," Miss Harcourt said firmly.
"And this green?" Candice asked, touching a softer fabric. "It looks forgiving."
Miss Harcourt gave her a look. "Society is not."
Candice sighed. "Could we not compromise?"
Mrs. Pembroke smiled brightly. "The young ladies always say that."
"They always lose," Miss Harcourt added.
Measurements were taken. Pins appeared. Candice attempted stillness with visible suffering.
"Do stop fidgeting," Miss Harcourt admonished.
"I am being stabbed for the sake of modesty," Candice whispered back. "Surely that warrants movement."
At last she was released, Candice collapsed into a chair. "Must I truly debut?"
Miss Harcourt sat beside her, holding Candice's glove. "You must be seen," she said gently. "Your mother would have wanted the world to know you well."
Candice smiled, softer now. "She would have hated the blue silk"
Miss Harcourt's lips curved. "She would have insisted on it anyway."
They left with orders placed, gowns promised, and Candice glancing back at the shop with wary anticipation.
"London, will be surprised."
Miss Harcourt squeezed her arm. "London always is."