Darker Still by Leanna Renee Hieber

more of an evening dress than a day dress. I’m sure you’ve not many dresses, but it’s best if you know the difference. The one you wore out with Auntie and me would’ve been better.”
    My cheeks burned bright red. That’s why the girls had looked at me so curiously. Surely they thought me an unfortunate in more ways than one. I’d thought about wearing the dress Maggie had suggested, but I didn’t want her to see that I only had a few. I scribbled in my notebook: “I could go change.”
    Maggie batted her hand at me. “Don’t worry, we’re not out to prove anything or catch any particular eyes today.” She rummaged in a closet by the door and pulled out a thin, summery shawl and a parasol. “Here.” I took the items and followed, feeling shamed.
    A sour-faced housekeeper trundled us into the carriage, the folds of our skirts all touching, which gave the others more time to evaluate my green taffeta and wonder how much mending had had to be done. Their dresses were all laces and muslins, satin ribbons and light embroidery. Lovely summer flowers, each of the girls. And all I could do was stare out the window as the open spaces, clumps of trees, and sculpted knolls of the park came into view, hoping that my silence would, as it usually did, return me to simply not being noticed. It would seem that I’d fare better that way in this crowd.
    The chatter was nonstop, high pitched, and in a language I hardly knew. Some of the names they tossed about I knew well from the papers, but as for the turnings of the societal wheels down to the movement of each and every cog, such details were lost on me. It was as if they were spies, these girls, knowing details I’d thought only a butler would or should know. And the plotting! Which eligible bachelor would be where and how one might catch his eye and ensnare him by trickery, wit, or, shockingly, pregnancy. Nothing seemed off limits in the making of a name, a fortune, and a housewife. I had been sheltered indeed.
    We were trundled just as awkwardly, amid doubled skirts and crinolines, back out of the carriage by the housekeeper, whose name I overheard was Mrs. Ford—not that she’d been introduced. Elsie was quick to pick an open spot near both the avenue and a confluence of walking paths, an area shaded but widely visible. Clearly the girls wanted to see and be seen, as they kept glancing over their shoulders at any well-dressed passerby or particularly fine carriage, instinctively smoothing their skirts like preening birds.
    The ceaseless flow of plotting continued without pause or even a breath as we spread the blankets, dove into the confections brought from a basket, and poured tea from a latched decanter into small teacups. The three of them were perfect princesses, and I found myself glancing at Mrs. Ford, the designated chaperone, who was watching from afar by the parked carriage. Her hard gaze softened after watching me for a while.
    Perhaps I looked like I belonged better with the help. Not, clearly, one of the princesses. I wasn’t in the right costume, and I could not talk, let alone speak their language, so how could I ever have held court? They all spoke so swiftly that even if I did have something to add, they wouldn’t have waited for me to write it.
    I do have to give Maggie credit for attempting to include me. At one point, the unending tide of gossip turned to what possibly could have happened to the real Lord Denbury: if he’d had any lady friends, what would happen to his fortune, and if he was really and truly dead or if it was all a ruse.
    Despite my flare of jealousy and my keen desire to offer up this diary as an account of what had really happened to Denbury and to scandalize the living daylights out of each of them, I smiled at Maggie when she turned to me and said: “Natalie sees it too. It’s truly like the painting is alive, isn’t it, Natalie?”
    I nodded in agreement. Oh, if only they knew.
    And just as soon as I’d been included,