Finger Food

“That’s your salad fork, Elizabeth,” Alexandra hissed at her sister, who all but dropped the offending utensil and seized the correct one for her mackerel.

Cheeks burning, the younger sibling lowered her eyes to the tastefully charred fish before her and wished to the heavens they could switch places. The little dead thing had no idea how lucky it was.

An inquiry directed her way made her glance up and blush anew. Reginald, her pompous cousin, was looking expectantly at her with eyebrows raised.

Panic surged through her.

“F-forgive me cousin, I fear I was distracted,” she answered, eyes wide and voice shaking. “Pray, please repeat your question.”

A ripple of derision ran through the company like a fast-acting ailment.

The table held a good dozen people each dressed luxuriously in fine gowns or crisp, red uniforms with well-polished boots and brass buckles. Each female was the picture of affluent civility; hair was done up in elegant piles and jewelry glittered on throats and fingers. To them conversation came easily, as apparently did the knowledge of which fork to use for their fish.

In this part of the country etiquette and tradition were put before all else and was of the strictest importance. Anything that strayed even slightly from the preordained path of politeness and purity was considered strange, and asking someone to repeat a well-articulated question was a near insult.

“We were discussing the ball tomorrow week,” Reginald replied stiffly, “and my query was with whom you will be attending.”

Of course, they could be talking of nothing but bane of her existence, the dreaded ball. As if she could forget. It had been the single topic of discussion within her family’s social circle since it had been announced nearly four months ago.

The annual event where an individual’s status and prestige was flaunted openly like a prized animal held a place of utmost terror in her heart. Unlike every other maiden who deemed balls as the very pinnacle of existence, Elizabeth recoiled at the very thought of them. Crowds of any sort - including ones gathered around dinner tables – made her anxious and the added pressure of dancing in the midst of one while expected to look perfect was positively petrifying.

“I, ah, am not engaged of yet,” she answered with as much nonchalance as possible although she did not fail to miss the second round of disapproval that passed through the group at her response. Her heart began to pound with mortification.

Not having a partner so close to the date of the ball was unbecoming at best; Alexandra had been secured for weeks by the captain of the regiment, Sir Harrowsby, an honor that had made her the delight of the house. Indeed, they had been inseparable since and had spent a good portion of the night indulged in gossip. The man seemed unable to pry his eyes from Alexandra’s golden curls and sky blue eyes as if amazed he had snared himself such a fine trophy.

Elizabeth had known she would not be so lucky. With her uncharacteristic black hair, dark eyes, and tendency for solitude she knew her company was not readily sought. Her appearance alone categorized her as strange and her love for literature and isolation further singled her out, which in this particular household was definitely not a good thing.

“Perhaps a book shall be accompanying her instead,” her brother Edward chimed in. The jab earned him a disapproving look from their father, who sat at the head of the table like a great silent owl, but the damage had been done. Suppressed snickers and smirks ricocheted around the party.

“It is no surprise she has not been asked if the candidates are anything like you lot,” Alexandra defended, which quieted most of the chirruping but Elizabeth knew they had a point.

To attend a ball without a partner was highly improper. Only widowers and young people being introduced into society were allowed to go unaccompanied; being alone for the reason that no one made the effort to ask you was downright humiliating. She would not want to bother showing her face at that point, although ignoring the invitation would be seen as a slight to the hosting family and the height of discourtesy.

There was no way out – she was trapped by tradition and bound by protocol.

She somehow made it through the rest of dinner without incident, although it took effort to remain composed. A bubble of fear and anxiety was expanding behind her ribs and growing larger with every disapproving glance cast her way. The bone corset cinched around her waist amplified the sensation until breathing became difficult. Why couldn’t she just do what she wanted and be left alone?

By the time dessert was over (some kind of glazed sponge cake that she barely touched), Elizabeth could barely restrain the shaking in her hands. The conversation around her sounded distorted and she no longer knew nor cared whether or not any of it was directed at her.

Scenarios were flying through her head unbidden, all of which revolved around becoming a prisoner within her own body, forced to become society’s doll. Dress like this, behave like that, dance flawlessly when asked and always look beautiful. Marry well and have copious amounts of children. No free will, always under the watchful eye of someone else to make sure she knew which utensil to use. (In this case, the small dessert fork.)

As soon she felt it was acceptable to leave she excused herself. One moment further spent in this room and she was liable to go mad. Stumbling from the area with the grace of a peasant, she managed to gather her skirts before she tripped and made a further fool of herself. Modeling a black eye would do nothing for her already shredded reputation. With that happy thought, she hurried to her bed chambers. All she wanted around her was four walls full of silence. No more talking, no more being judged.

The labyrinth of corridors and stairways of her family’s estate flew by in a blur as she fled to the familiar wing where her sanctuary was located. Once inside, she only dared let out a sob when the door was securely shut and locked behind her. The servants had lit the candles and prepared the fire in the hearth as usual and she caught sight of her flickering reflection in the dark glass of the windows opposite her.

Fear and distress had transformed her into a different person. A few strands of her black hair had fallen in her face, stark contrast to the whiteness of her skin, and her cheeks and eyes held a hollowness that had nothing to do with being tired. The colorless gown she wore further fed the image of an apparition and the tight binding around her middle served just as well as chains. One thought of the bloody ball and it constricted a little further.

The only silver lining to the cursed evening made it bearable – there would be ample finger food.