The Queen’s Invitation
From the moment she arrived and was waiting for them, Alma Harvey, wife of the American ambassador, received Mabel from Mildred.
Alma welcomed her with a smile, recalling how her late husband had once worked alongside the ambassador back when her own grandfather had still held the post.
The two women joined the procession of ostrich-feather fans and flowing dresses that stretched ahead.
On the grand staircase, a guard in red livery of the Tudor court stood at attention, halberd in hand, protecting the entrance to the Piano Nobile.
The long corridor leading to the ballroom was a dazzling, breathtaking scene of splendor.
Someone had fainted from nerves and been carried away; another sobbed as her torn train was gently lifted; withered petals had fallen from bouquets and ostrich feathers were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.
Mabel breathed deeply, steeling herself against the chaos. Nothing here could compare to the horrors Arthur had endured on the battlefield.
The debutantes ahead of her filed one by one into the ballroom.
At last, it was her turn. Standing at the wide-open entrance, she took in the entire scene at a glance. The brilliance stole her breath.
Dozens of crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, showering the room with diamond light. The white walls, heavy with gold ornamentation, were filled with elegantly dressed nobility.
Her heart thudded. Her mouth went dry. From somewhere came only the faint strains of music and murmured conversation; the ballroom itself was hushed.
Someone took the train of her gown and laid it neatly behind her. Too stunned to look, she managed only a soft, broken murmur of thanks.
Alma presented her invitation to the usher with perfect grace and introduced herself formally.
The usher carried the card to Lord Chamberlain.
Finally, the lord announced in the cultured royal accent:
“Miss Cornelia Mabel Darlington of New York, presented by Her Excellency, Mrs. George Harvey.”
Mabel walked forward with Alma and stopped exactly six feet from the royal couple.
Alma stepped back slowly, leaving her alone.
Do not make a mistake.
Mabel tightened her trembling legs and sank into a deep curtsy, right foot stepping back, left leg trailing, waist at forty-five degrees, knees brushing the floor. Head bowed, eyes on the carpet. When she rose she would not look directly at the King, only rise slowly from the front.
She performed the full curtsey flawlessly.
Relief flooded her. She took one step toward the Queen—when George V murmured, half question, half musing:
“Darlington of New York… I’ve heard the name somewhere.”
Mabel froze. The room grew so still that a single pin dropping would have been audible.
Lord Chamberlain hesitated, glancing at the King.
Debutantes were strictly forbidden from speaking to the royal couple. After the curtsey they were expected to step back and leave the ballroom at once.
Should I answer…?
Sweat prickled down her spine. After a moment she decided to follow protocol.
To ignore the King would be wrong; to break royal etiquette would make the Yankees laugh behind their fans. Either way, she would be blamed.
Mabel opened her mouth carefully, voice steady.
“My grandfather, Frederick Walter Darlington, served as Chargé d’Affaires of the United States to the Court of St. James from 1893 to 1897 and again from 1905 to 1908. In 1908, the late King conferred upon him the honor of Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Most Holy Order of St. Michael and St. George, Your Majesty.”
“Hmm.”
The King gave the smallest nod.
The conversation ended there.
Mabel stepped sideways, curtsied to the Queen, and rose. The Queen gave only a brief, silent nod in return.
She turned carefully, mindful of the train brushing her shoe, and retreated. Every thought was concentrated on not stepping on the fabric.
By the time she reached the exit, the usher lifted her train and draped it over her elbow.
Her knees began to tremble.
What if I made a fool of myself?
Did I ruin the Darlington name?
The moment she stepped out of the ballroom, Alma swept her into a laughing hug.
“Perfect! Congratulations, Mabel, on becoming a royal debutante!”
***
When they left Buckingham Palace, it was already near midnight.
Mabel was heading to Mayfair for the after-curfsey ball that Alma was giving for the American debutantes in her own house.
Exhausted, she leaned against the back of the carriage. Secretly she slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet inside the folds of her gown.
“The ambassador has invited only the most American-friendly noble families,” Mildred said, her usual wilted self surprisingly bright. “She has gathered every American businessman who attended the London Season.”
“I see.”
Mabel answered in a tired voice. The words “I want to go straight home” rose in her throat, but she swallowed them.
“Mabel, when you dance, write down every gentleman’s name who asks for a dance in your dance card. After the dance, remember the details and jot them down before you forget.”
“For what reason, ma’am?”
“That way, if someone later contacts you or sends a gift, you will know who it is.”
“Ah…”
Mabel hoped there would be few applicants for her dances.
“One more thing. Fill only half the dance card and mark the rest with X. If anyone asks why, say your uncle is strict and you can’t stay long. Do you understand?”
Yet Walter was snoring in the front seat.
Mabel frowned. “Why is that?”
“Just do as I say. We’re leaving the ball early.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The answer was odd, but Mabel obediently nodded. Leaving early was, at least, welcome news.
“We’re here. Get down.”
Mabel swallowed another yawn and forced her swollen feet into the narrow shoes.
***
Contrary to Alma’s description of a “small ball,” Carlton House Terrace’s grand ballroom was filled with more than three hundred guests. The dance floor was a vast matchmaking parlor bringing together European and American high society.
On the silver tray held by the usher at the door, stacks of dance cards made from Bristol board were neatly arranged.
Mildred took one card and handed it to Mabel. Mabel slipped the long satin ribbon over her wrist.
Alma spotted her group and approached, introducing them one by one to the noble youths and young businessmen.
“Miss Darlington, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Mabel showed the dance card with a strained smile. In only five minutes six dances had already been booked before the interval.
“I’m so sorry, but the card is already full. I must leave right after the interval.”
“Oh… I am too late.”
The man looked genuinely disappointed.
Mabel was overwhelmed by the sudden flood of attention. It was both burdensome and frightening.
She had heard London society was called a “marriage market,” but she had never imagined it would be so overt.
“I see that there are people more beautiful than the English Rose,” the first man said, eyes gleaming.
“Y-yes, you are… stunningly beautiful!”
Mabel managed an awkward smile and lowered her eyes politely. She could not tell whether the praise was sincere or merely polite.
When the orchestra began the first waltz, some man appeared as partner one and led her onto the floor.
Halfway through, someone tapped the man on the shoulder. He stopped, frowning.
Mabel looked back and forth between the two men in confusion. Then she remembered the rules of dance etiquette.
If a woman cut in during a dance, the man was expected to hand the lady over to the new partner. The woman must not refuse.
The same thing happened at the second dance, and at the third the partner changed twice. Each time the stares felt mortifying and embarrassing. Her feet were aching badly; she could hardly wait for the interval.
The last partner was a balding American businessman.
He pulled her far too close for comfort. With an oily smile he kept up a constant stream of chatter while his fingers slid slowly up and down her side.
Mabel’s skin crawled. She tried to pull away. But he tightened his grip on her waist and drew her even closer. Her body went rigid with an unfamiliar discomfort; her steps faltered.
Just then someone tapped the man on the shoulder from behind. He kept dancing, pretending not to notice.
Mabel stopped at once.
Whoever it is, please remove this man!