Sam cleans up surprisingly well from mechanic to chauffeur. His dark blue coat has gold buttons on either side and his flat cap is very smart, lending him a certain military air I did not notice before.

“Were you in the army, Sam?”

“Retired Sergent, Miss. But that was a few years ago. Just a simple mechanic, now.”

I watch him a moment longer. About an inch taller than myself, his eyes that I’d have sworn were brown just a few minutes ago have turned a grayish shade of blue now he’s changed into his chauffeur’s uniform. He smiles at me. A different sort of smile than I am used to. Not distracted, dismissive or forced. I’m not sure what it means. He opens the car door for me and I seat myself inside.

 It’s a drive of more than half an hour into town. If it were our old chauffeur Earl he’d be gabbing at me the whole way, regaling me with his old stories and making me laugh, but Sam drives in silence. I find it a little uncomfortable.

I do my best to look out the window, to daydream as I often do. But my thoughts are a bit jumbled today for some reason. I glance in the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of Sam’s face. He looks serious, seems very focused on his task. Then he glances in the mirror, and our eyes meet. I drop mine quickly and return my gaze out the window.

It’s a beautiful autumn day. The sky is unbelievably blue, and the maple trees that line the road are a rich reddish gold. I guess I’ll forgive the almanac for lying to me. Though I prefer the rain, I can’t deny this is the perfect weather for a drive.

As we crest the hill I see the town of Beskart up ahead. It’s then I notice I grabbed the wrong handbag, and that my money is in my other purse. No matter.

“Stop by the bank first.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Sam stops in front of the big stone building and hurries around to get the door for me. As I’m getting out, I notice he’s tipping his hat to another man on the sidewalk.

“Father?”

“Frances,” he looks startled, definitely annoyed to see me. “The devil are you doing here?”

“I needed a new dress for Louise’s party, so I—”

“Yes, well,” he cuts me off, blinking rapidly, a clear indication he’s got something more pressing on his mind. “Remind me to speak to you about that later.”

“About what?”

“Your savings, of course, all that money you’ve got gathering dust in the bank. Thick-headed girl,” he adds in a mutter, perhaps thinking I will not hear.

“Yes, Father,” I murmur.

“Edith,” he calls to his secretary lingering on the bank steps. “Lets go, we’ll be late.”

“Yes, Mr. Porter.”

I watch them climb back into the Benz and take off without so much as another glance my way. Then I make my way inside the bank.

Though it’s technically not open on Saturday, as he did for my father, the bank’s owner Mr. Hemsworth is happy to entertain my visit. I make a small withdrawal and leave with the receipt in my hand.

It is no modest sum I hold in my bank account. With over $20,000 saved up from the allowance I’ve collected over the years, I could easily afford a comfortable townhouse and a small staff to keep it for me. I could move away from my family and start a real life of my own. It all sounds very nice, but really, I wouldn’t know where or how to even begin.

Life baffles me. So many people coming and going, being and doing. As I watch the people on the street, they all seem to know exactly where they’re headed. Not so, with me. I am a woman without direction, without a clear vision of what I want from the future.

I went to finishing school, of course. After that, I attended University on the western continent and got my Masters in Music. Playing piano was the one thing society ever recognized me for, so it seemed the right course to pursue. Armed with this degree, I thought I might try playing at being an adult, but such ambitions proved too lofty for me.

As far as my skill goes, I can play a concerto with the best of them, but it brings me little joy playing frilly classical pieces to an audience who’s heard them all a hundred times before. And the kind of music I’d like to play, the dark, dramatic pieces I’ve composed myself, no one would ever listen to. 

Realizing too late I’d sunk all of my time and money into a degree that did not suit me, I considered going back to school, but I couldn’t decide for what. And so I remained at the Porter house, unwanted, invisible except for when I’m being despised. Not that I blame them. I despise myself for living such a life, but don’t know how to change. Don’t know how to be anything but what I am. A big, ugly, gloomy parasitic cowbird…

“Miss Porter?”

I look up, startled. Sam’s watching me again in the rear view mirror.

“We’ve arrived, Miss. The boutique.”

“Oh,” I gasp, a little flustered.

“I’ll get the door.”

He’s up from his seat and coming around to this side of the car. I feel oddly self-conscious as he helps me out.

“Do you need me to follow you inside, Miss? I can hold your things if you like.”

“I can manage, thank you.”

Sam tips his hat at me and I hurry inside, somehow imagining his eyes remain on my back, following me all the way through the door.

Just like my visit to the bank, at my entry the proprietresses rush to help me, working determinedly to find a gown that suits me as soon as I explain the reason for my visit.

Their task is not a simple one. They must find an elegant garden party gown, one big enough—and long enough—to accommodate my oversized frame.

After searching for several minutes, at last they settle on a forest green dress belted low on the waist that seems to meet all the necessary specifications. I try it on and I’m happy enough with the fit, though I wonder if the color’s too dark like the rest of my wardrobe. I step out of the changing room and the proprietress finishes the look with a rust orange and green paisley silk scarf tie. She knots it fashionably around my throat and I walk around the shop, observing my reflection in the many mirrors.

The scarf does brighten the ensemble somewhat. And I do like it. But I’m worried it’s still too dark. That’s when I notice our Model T Ford parked outside the big shop window. Sam leans against it, smoking a cigarette. For some reason I stop when our eyes meet. He watches me a moment through the window with an unreadable expression. Then, very subtly, he looks me up and down, giving just the faintest nod of approval.

Heartbeat rushing in my throat, I turn quickly back to the shop owner.

“I’ll take it.”

I wear the dress outside. On seeing me, Sam drops his cigarette and rubs it out with his toe in the sidewalk. Then he offers to take the bag with my old clothes which I surrender, and he opens the door for me.

“Anymore stops today, Miss Porter?”

Miss Porter, he calls me, not Miss Frances like the rest of the staff. Is it because he’s new? I’m not used to this kind of respect.

“No, that will be all.”

“You sure you don’t need some refreshment before heading back?”

His innocuous question puts a lump of nostalgia in my throat. Earl always used to take me to a little tea shop whenever we went into town together; he even insisted on paying.

Tea does sound nice, I think. But I’d feel rude, leaving my driver in the street while I went inside to eat. And somehow, the thought of bringing this man so much nearer my own age inside with me is a bit…

“Miss Porter?”

“Perhaps next time. I don’t want to be late to Louise’s party.”

We ride back in silence. I’m looking out the window, distracted by the scenery, the beautiful autumn colors of the Rettonian countryside when the car suddenly swerves. I scream in surprise as Sam just barely maneuvers to miss a deer that’s darted unexpectedly into the road. It’s a heart-stopping scene, over in a moment, and we’re already back on our way.

“Are you alright, Miss Porter?”

“Only startled. Thank God for your reflexes.”

“Yes, well,” his keen eyes meet mine briefly in the rear view mirror, “all part of the job.”

Back at the house Sam drops me off in front of the door. I politely refuse his offer to carry my bag upstairs, leaving him to his business of parking and caring for the car. I watch him drive away with a peculiar sort of feeling. Then I turn my attention to the activity on the lawn.

Outside the front garden has been transformed with party decorations. Everywhere I look servants are running here and there, making last minute preparations while from the gazebo comes a cacophony of discordant notes as a band warms up their instruments. In the midst of all this chaos stands Louise in full makeup and a lavender colored designer gown, cutting everyone down with even more vitriol than usual.

“Really, Spencer?” she berates the head butler. “Look at these flowers! I can’t believe you let those florists walk out of here after delivering such pathetic bouquets. Just look how sparse they are. And no peonies! I specifically told you I wanted peonies!”

“The florists said their shipment of peonies were wilted on arrival. I thought the white roses they gave us in their place looked very—”

“Rubbish! They’re all rubbish! I can’t believe you let them get away with it! I’ll be humiliated at my own pre-engagement party party! And what is this?!” she demands as more servants attempt to get past her carrying an enormous crystal bowl filled with a pinkish orange liquid. “Is that supposed to be the punch? It looks like something Mother vomited on the carpet last night! Take it back and tell Mrs. Agate to do it right of I’ll see her fat ass on the street!”

“Now just a minute, young lady,” the head cook, and perhaps the only person in this house with the guts to stand up to Louise, strides onto the lawn with a rather menacing looking ladle gripped in her meaty fist. “That punch was prepared according to your specifications—”

Side-stepping the irate cook, Louise finds someone else to pick on as a servant carrying a towering stack of champagne glasses passes by.

“Stop, let me look at those. Are these the good crystal?”

“Yes, Miss Louise,” he grunts.

“If I find even one speck on them—”

“Young Miss Louise,” the belligerent Mrs. Agate, refusing to suffer insult or be brushed aside, butts her way in past the poor servant balancing the glasses who just barely avoids catastrophe, miraculously managing to deliver them safely to the table at the last moment. “Now, I realize this is an important day for you, but if you think for one moment I’m going to tolerate this kind of insult—”

“Shut up, Fatty! Drink the punch yourself, if you like it so much—just see to it a fresh batch is made!”

“Oh, that does it—”

From the other side of the yard, the jazz band strikes up a lively tune, the cheerful sound a startling contrast to the frantic hollering of the servants who struggle to hold Mrs. Agate back from walloping the ungrateful Louise with her ladle.

Unable to stomach another moment of this, I turn to go inside just as Spencer is mounting the steps.

To the passing butler, I ask, “What time is the party, Spencer?”

“One o’clock, Miss. I expect the first guests will be arriving shortly.”

I smile at him a little piteously. “I’m sure everything will go off just fine, Spencer.”

“I do hope so, Miss Frances. For all our sakes,” he adds, casting a backwards glance at the screaming women.

With a shudder I follow after Spencer who’s holding the door for me, letting out a faint sigh of relief when I hear it click into place behind me, effectively stopping the noise outside.

“It’s going to be a long afternoon,” I murmur, only to realize I’m not the only one in the main hall. I start at his appearance, a small, balding man of sixty something with a neat pencil mustache, he’s dressed smartly all in gray with his signature alligator shoes.

"Harrison?” I gasp when I see him.

“Frances!”

I rush forward excitedly to meet his enthusiastic embrace.

Harrison Squire, I’ve known him all my life. From my earliest memories, he’d always visit us, twice a year like clockwork. A businessman, he always came to speak with Father first, then stayed to entertain me for a few days. I’ve never really questioned our relationship, why he comes or what business he does with Father behind closed doors. To me, he’s always been just Harrison, cheerful and friendly, a kind uncle figure who doted on me whenever he came around.

“But what are you doing here?” I ask when we part, looking down on this man a few inches shorter than myself. “You never come this time of year. Oh, but of course. Louise’s party.”

“Actually, that was a happy coincidence. No, I came to speak to your father, my child. But I’m told he’s off with that secretary of his.”

“I saw them earlier at the bank.”

“The bank, you say? Wasn’t trying to dip into your savings, was he?” he teases. I laugh, though at the back of my mind I’m reminded Father did say something about wanting to discuss my savings…

“At any rate, Duane had best get back soon, or he’ll miss his daughter’s party.”

“Louise will never let him hear the end of it if he doesn’t show,” I answer and he chuckles. “But you must tell me of all you’ve been up to since I saw you last. Where have you gone? Last time you said you were going to Egypt. You must tell me all about it!”

“Later, my child, I promise,” he says, patting my hand good-naturedly. “Right now I must make myself presentable for the garden party of the century. The little heiress of Porter Chocolates marrying the son of the Secretary of Commerce—with any luck we’ll make a cameo in the front page news, tomorrow, eh Frances?”

“Let’s hope not.”

Taking my cue from Harrison I make my way upstairs to deposit my old dress and check my appearance in front of the vanity. I remove my hat and brush my black bob flat. Then I consider my face.

I don’t often wear makeup, but I’m not completely ignorant of it, either. With a careful hand, I take my time lining my eyes with a black grease pencil. I dust my eyelids with a dark shade of green and use a thick, waxy color to create a bee-stung look on my lips, a reddish orange tint that perfectly compliments my outfit. Then I sit back to consider the effect.

Well, it’s not bad, I decide. I’m no Louise Porter, but I think this look at least won’t embarrass my sister on her big day.

A glance out the window tells me several guests have already arrived. The clock on the wall prompts me as well.

I suppose there’s no getting around it.

As the eldest Porter sister, it’s time I made my appearance.