Pinnacle (ONGOING)

Chapter One

JUNE 1807 – ENGLAND

"Ho! The house!"

     The brawling call shook me from my nap where I sat in the carriage—across from my parents. I spied it in the late evening spring sunlight around a bend of bushy trees, a home of impressive size. All daffodil yellow with white pillars and a glow inside that promised my demise. We were late in the London season, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the respite to arrive come summer, when all this matchmaking business would be put to rest. A few more seasons of this, I ruminated, and Mama was sure to quit the ton, me being her only daughter, and a staunch blue stocking.

     Mama refrained from looking at me as we exited the carriage, as we'd been at odds since our fight two nights ago concerning an incident at Lord Randolph's ball. Suffice it to say, I'd dodged attentions from an elder duke in a way that did not befit a viscount's daughter.

     "You did not just 'politely' decline his conversation, Sophia, you ran away when he was not looking!" Mama had snapped at me not an hour ago. So there we were, a fight on our lips begging to be freed as we trudged along the stone path leading to the entrance of the house.

     Despite having little care for my appearance—and at times even going so far as to damper it for the purpose of dodging marriage—I foolishly caught myself wondering now if there was nothing beyond this plain gown and sober chignon. I thought I looked nice despite such things and stole a glance at a passing mirror once we were inside the cozy interior of the house. An odd event, I thought, this wanting to be desirable yet not wanting to be desirable. A definitive paradox, nonetheless, contradictory to my goals. I scowled. That's better.

     Mama didn't like it, and the look that she shot me over my father's shoulder could have killed an entire regiment in one fell swoop—yet, as quickly as her disapproval had come, she smiled and gestured that I follow suit. How someone could in a split-second switch from such a foul expression to one of easy delight could not be trusted, I thought. I resented it. I returned her smile with a sarcastic one of my own. We were led toward the ballroom, where Mama turned to pinch my cheeks before meeting the hosts. To her dismay, I was already gone, for in that instant, my curiosity had fueled me to commit my first social faux pas of the evening. As all wallflowers like me knew, there were certain advantages to be gained by eavesdropping.

     I knew how to skirt a room and blend in with the paint on the wall, as it were—moving silently through the procession without rousing suspicion. This was my good fortune because I could select conversations, abandoning the women's droll and choosing worldly discussions of men to which women had no access to.

     Of course, there was no room for input in the proceedings here without losing my anonymity, besides being the ill fate of my sex. But it would have to do as a satisfactory source, since newspapers were all politeness, prudence, and thickly veiled communiqué.

     I wanted something real.

     "The prince regent is rumored to be seen with yet another mistress . . ."

     I recognized the voice as Lord Agnew's, his huge mutton chops looking more like great tufts of cotton glued to his jowls. I continued listening and feigning interest in the paintings behind them. At times, men are as bad as women when it comes to a love of the damned hum.

     "Oh, Sophie!" Mama trilled from across the room, marching towards me with a faux-naif smile that did not meet her eyes.

     Normally, I would've been upset at being pulled away from capturing even a shred of news from the world outside of the feminine ignorance I was sentenced to, but I couldn't have cared less about the prince and his social improprieties.