Hey there!
We’re just a few days away from the release of my debut novel! I could not be more excited or more terrified.
Anyway, to the good stuff, this week’s sneak preview comes from chapter 3 and Juliet’s point of view. Take a look.
Juliet
Was that a hole? Had I actually worn a hole in the carpet? I bent down, inspecting further—no it was father’s cigar burn from a few years ago. Still, the pacing must stop, the formerly crimson rug was threadbare as it was; it did not require my assistance.
It was a wonder I had not worn the carpet down to strings these last days. Pacing, tapping, fluttering about; I did it all. With my stomach flipping, sinking, tossing every which way, and my heart stopping, pounding, and rushing, I was all but useless. If only I had a name for the pangs of guilt and unease, a cause. But there was nothing.
Three days ago, I blamed the jitters on the anticipation of my entry into society. But that was still weeks away, and there was no reason to expect it would be an eventful presentation. I would attract some notice as the daughter of an earl, of course. There were always title hunters. But I was just short of the label of spinster at two and twenty, which would certainly give some members of the ton pause. I was pretty enough. I would even go so far as to say my eyes were a striking shade of blue, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. My dowry was certain to attract no notice at all. And, of course, there was the other concern… No, I mustn’t think on that.
Worse still, whatever inexplicable disquiet had overcome me seemed to have spread to the entire household. Our footmen perpetually hovered just out of sight, straightening uniforms. Hannah, our maid, scrubbed the unused silver twice in a week. It was as though we were circus performers on one of those tight ropes, desperate to maintain the balance. My unease, my restless dread, was contagious—I was one misstep away from sending us all plummeting to our doom.
I was not a stranger to the feeling, but it had rarely been this extreme. The unnamed sense of dread, a twisted combination of sourceless guilt and uncertainty, called my periphery home. It may have been my oldest companion. I could not recall a time when I was without it. But this, this was beyond reason or convention. Something was coming. Soon.
My father made himself scarce throughout my turmoil. The only evidence of his existence were the missing tumblers each morning, presumably locked in his office. An ungenerous part of me laid the blame at his feet. But his presence was usually required to extract a price this high.
Day and night, I fought for some useful occupation. For months, I spent hours each day updating my late stepmother’s gowns to fit and suit. When father balked at my request for a line of credit at the modiste, I took matters into my own hands. I began letting out hems and pulling in busts. It was a substantial undertaking as Sophie’s gowns were suited to a married woman. They were darker in color and heavier in fabric than is appropriate for a debutant. Also, her lengthy confinement and subsequent illness meant they had all seen several seasons. But with this never-ending agitation, even the simplest of hems resulted in frustration, blood, and an uneven line. For every stitch I made, I had to rip two out and begin again. I was actively losing ground.
Even with all my fretting and vigilance, I was unprepared when the inevitable happened. A tentative knock at my sitting room door startled me, and I pricked my finger with the needle. Hannah poked her head around the open entry. “Your father is looking for you. He’s in the study, my lady.”
And I knew.
Blood ripped from my extremities, leaving them chilled and tremulous. My heart stopped before resuming its pounding with a vengeance. Air trapped in my lungs as they hitched, and my chest tightened with the pressure. I couldn’t breathe! My vision blackened to a pinhole. Sound drowned in the rushing of my ears. Desperately, I fought to remember Sophie’s words. Sophie. Remember….
Count! Sophie said to count breaths. One, two, three, four, five on inhale. Five, four, three, two, one on exhale. It took two attempts before my vision cleared. The rushing in my ears shifted to a more manageable ringing. Five, four, three, two—exhale. Three more counts before my lungs obeyed of their own volition. My chest was still hot and tight but leaving father waiting would do more harm than good.