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THE FOLLOWING MORNING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN BUSTLED ABOUT GROSVENOR SQUARE, prepared to depart for their dear debutant's presentation to Her Majesty the Queen. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, its warmth kissed their skin and reflected off the intricate beading of their frocks. Along with the soft breeze rustling the trees, there was a certain excitement, as well as a sense of dread lingering in the air. Perhaps it was due to the dire importance of the day, for the Queen's opinion had the power to lure a bountiful of suitors to a debutant or none at all. For some, the Queen may be the one thing preventing them from finding a match that social season.
While Elizabeth felt excitement and dread, most of all she felt fear. She wanted nothing more than for Beatrice to find a match so fuelled by love that it becomes a tale told for centuries. Beatrice was beautiful on the outside, however, there was an unmatched beauty within, one of kindness and mischief, one that deserved far more attention. Elizabeth only wished for her sister to find a match who not only appreciated her exterior beauty, but also the one so prominent inside. She did not want her sister to settle, not like she had to.
A few servants bustled about and Mary, Beatrice's lady's maid, carried the train of Beatrice's white dress, preventing it from ruin as the second-eldest Beautmont daughter descended the front steps. Despite the beaming sun in the sky, Beatrice was another source of light that morning — a brighter one. In her updo, her golden curls glistened, appearing as if it were rich honey and the faint rosiness coating her cheeks further accentuated the softness of her features. She shone, elegant and regal, and all Elizabeth could think was how much her little sister, who was a mere eighteen months her junior, had grown. The little girl who Elizabeth once read to at night and held while she cried was hidden beneath the beaded frock and her aged features.
Beatrice was debuting into society. She was a lady.
Biting the inside of her cheek, Elizabeth refused to become emotional.
Beatrice halted a few feet from Elizabeth and grimaced, "I feel ill. Oh no, what if I become ill at the Queen's feet? Lizzie, I cannot do this. I will become ill and I shall die a spinster—"
Elizabeth cupped her sister's cheeks, her thumb rubbing gentle circles on the soft skin. Her expression softened and a hint of a comforting smile appeared on her mouth. She had experienced similar sentiments a year ago. "I know, Bea. I know. You mustn't worry about whatever may come this season, all you ought to do today is focus on walking down the aisle. One foot in front of the other."
"Lizzie, where is your fiancé?" Frederica asked out of the blue.
"Hm?" Elizabeth hummed, preoccupied with the defiant blonde ringlet that had fallen from Beatrice's intricate updo. After pinning the strand back in place, she whispered, "You are perfect, Beatrice. Should the Queen not see it, well, I suppose Her Majesty may be blind."
