ON HOLD
Persephone Featherington Hated everything to do with being a Featherington. She hated the gowns, the mocking, and her Tactless mama. she was very pleased to find that not many would believe she was a Featherington. she had long brown locks a...
The time has come to place our bets for the upcoming social season. Perhaps one resides within the household of a certain Baron Featherington. Should one have a bracket for a face? Four misses. Foisted upon the marriage market this season like sorrowful sows by their tasteless, tactless dear mama -- the luckless souls. But with the quiet Persephone debuting there is always room for a change Or perhaps one is more fortunate. Admirably proportioned, impressively refined? Then perhaps... One is a Bridgerton... A total of eight children in this most prolific of broods. The rather industrious viscountess and late viscount have produced four perfectly handsome sons and four perfectly beautiful daughters. Yes. Perfect, indeed.
-- Lady Whistledown
In the midst of the engrossing drama and romantic entanglements of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, my mother's outraged shrieks pierce the air, dragging me abruptly from the world of Austen and into the reality of our own drawing room.
"Oh, the havoc you've wreaked! I cannot, I will not, permit my daughters to be tarnished with the label of spinsterhood! Children, descend this instant!" The command, infused with a mixture of desperation and determination, sends my sisters and me hurrying down the grand staircase, our footsteps echoing through the opulent halls of our family estate. In the sitting room, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight filtering through lace curtains, Mama eyes us with a hawk-like intensity, her piercing gaze lingering on me for an extended moment, her thoughts clearly visible in her furrowed brow.
"You absolutely must find suitable matches this season! Nothing less than perfection will satisfy me, young lady!" Her words, laden with expectations and societal pressures, hang heavy in the air, the weight of our family's reputation resting squarely on our shoulders."Come, come, my dears, we must prepare for your presentations," she clucks, her movements as graceful as a swan gliding across a serene pond, albeit with a touch more urgency. With that, she leads the way, her silk skirts rustling softly as she heads toward the door, her resolve unyielding as ever.
As Mama informs us of our imminent visit to Madam Delequa's renowned dress emporium, her plans for our wardrobes spill forth like a waterfall of silk and satin. For me, it's to be the perennial choice of brown, a color that has become synonymous with my identity within the family, much to my chagrin. (My apologies to the admirers of brown, but it fails to set my heart alight with excitement.) As my mother's voice drones on, my mind drifts into the realm of rebellion, weaving intricate fantasies of escape from the predictable confines of the brown dress. Fantasies I know, deep down, are as fragile as gossamer threads. Unless...
-At the Enchanting Atelier of Madam Delequa, the Eminent Seamstress-
Within the hallowed halls of Madam Delequa's boutique, a sanctuary of silks, satins, and dreams, my sisters take their turns under the scrutinizing eyes of the attendants. Prudence emerges in a daring creation, an audacious blend of orange silk and hot pink feathers, a testament to her bold spirit. Following her, Phillipa dazzles in a gown that seems to have borrowed its hues from a blazing sunset, its surface adorned with intricate beadwork resembling the scales of exotic fish. Finally, sweet Penelope, in her unassuming demeanor, finds herself adorned in a dress reminiscent of a sun-kissed garden, its vibrant yellow fabric blooming with delicate orange flowers.
In a fleeting moment of daring, I seize Mama's gloved hand, pulling her aside, a silent plea in my eyes. She shoots me a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, clearly intrigued by my audacity.Alone in the luxurious confines of the changing room, I gather my courage and present my proposition, the words tumbling forth in a rush, fueled by desperation and a flicker of hope.
"Mama, please, hear me out. I propose a bargain," I implore, my voice steadier than I expected. "Allow me to wear a dress of my own choosing to the presentation. If, by some twist of fate, I receive a compliment from Her Majesty, I shall decide the rest of my wardrobe for the season. However, if my efforts are met with silence or, Heaven forbid, dismissal, I pledge to comply with your wishes, unquestioningly, for the remainder of the social season." The gravity of my words hangs in the air, the implications sinking in.
"...If we were to enter such an arrangement, it must remain a secret between us," she states, her tone cautious, her eyes searching mine for any signs of deceit. I nod solemnly, my heart pounding with anticipation. "I accept," she says, her voice firm yet tinged with a hint of uncertainty. I suppress a squeal of triumph, mindful of the delicate nature of our agreement.
"Now, my dear," she continues, curiosity gleaming in her eyes, "what vision do you have for this dress?" With a newfound sense of purpose, I rush out of the room, eager to reveal my plan, my mind already weaving a tapestry of fabrics, colors, and possibilities.
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