After selling his ancestral estate, Archibald Colston decides to exchange the pastoral serenity of country society for a chance to make a new life for the Colston family in the wealthy elite of New York City. Upon their arrival, Archibald and his si...
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The curious package, tied up with a black and white striped ribbon, arrived as Olivia was dressing for Daphne Vanderberg's cotillion. She had chosen an emerald satin gown with a great tiered bustle for the occasion. Trimmed in black Venetian lace and adorned in black jet beads on a silk overlay, the dress was sure to suit her well. It had been incredibly kind of Miss Vanderberg to invite her, a newcomer and outsider. She thought it best to arrive turned out in the height of fashion to deserve the honor of such an extension of friendship.
Having ordered nothing since their arrival in New York, Olivia wondered if the long white box had been delivered to them by mistake. Still, her curiosity wouldn't be sated if she didn't at least take a peek before the cotillion. She unknotted the ribbon and, after lifting the lid, found a card addressed to herself atop folds of pale green tissue paper.
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The card was of thick stock with a delicate emblem letterpressed at the top. Olivia's stomach knotted and before she could stop it, her lips turned up into a smile: it was Mr. De Rosier's label. Her stomach jumped into her throat. The note read in cramped, nearly illegible writing,
"Dear Miss Colston, I am truly sorry for the events that occurred which lead to the destruction of your father's favorite ornament. I regret that I played a part in them and I regret even more the distress I have unwittingly caused you. Please accept this gift as a token of my friendship. I hold you in the highest of esteem and I would hate for there to be any disharmony between us. Your most contrite friend, Harry."
Olivia's hands trembled as she read the letter once more for good measure, before folding it closed and placing it aside. Her thoughts were almost too many to account for—the fact that he had been so affected by their encounter in the drawing room that he felt the need to apologize to her when she was entirely in the wrong. Then she wondered if he might have suspected her true feelings for him. At this a violent blush flew to her cheeks in her mortification. If he had somehow discovered her infatuation, how every thud of her heart called out for him, how torturous every moment with him was on her, then this letter surely meant he did not return those feelings—judging by the multiple mentions of friendship. Her heart hammered in her chest with agonizing fervor as she pulled aside layers of thin paper to reveal what Mr. De Rosier had thought right to gift her. From the green paper she pulled something long and white and cotton and lace. Her blush deepened, the rush of blood bringing a pulsing blossom of warmth to her cheeks, her lips, her throat. She swallowed the tingling sensation as she laid out the nightgown to examine it.
