Excerpt of The Tempestuous Debutante by Becky Lower

This was it.

The one.

The dress that—with a few of her embellishments—would
make
her, Jasmine
Fitzpatrick, the belle of the cotillion ball.

Of course, after last season’s debacle, she’d need all
the
help she could
get.

Jasmine picked up her copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book and
bounced down the
staircase of the family brownstone, stopping at the
first-
floor landing to
take a deep breath. Today was the day she would confront
her
parents. Each
time she had tried to broach the subject of the ball
during
the past couple
weeks, they had studiously avoided it or given her
excuses
about needing to
cut out extraneous expenses. Her mother had even
cancelled a
planned
shopping trip for the two of them last week. But time was
growing short.
After all, the ball was only three months away.

She moved from the hallway to the front parlor, where her
parents usually
relaxed on a Saturday afternoon. Her mother, Charlotte,
was
sitting on the
loveseat and stitching a piece of embroidery while
Jasmine’s
father,
George, sat nearby in a tan leather chair, reading his
daily
newspaper.
There was a low buzz of conversation between them that
Jasmine couldn’t
quite make out, but she did catch an expression of worry
on
her mother’s
face. Undeterred, she plunged into the room, waving the
fashion book.

“Look what I just found! The perfect debutante gown for
the
cotillion ball
in April. Look, Mother. Don’t you think it’s delightful?
Or
at least it
will be when I add some glass beads to catch the light,
and
maybe some lace
trim . . .” She laid the open book in her mother’s lap
and
then took a seat
opposite them.

Jasmine caught the quick wrinkling of her father’s brow
and
began to get an
uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was
not
right.

Her mother ran a hand down the front of her throat. “We
were
just talking
about the upcoming season, dear.”

Jasmine let out the breath she’d been holding. “Well,
good.
We’re thinking
along the same lines, then. It’s imperative we begin
assembling my
wardrobe, and I need to get some new slippers to replace
the
treacherous
ones Monsieur Louboutin made for me last year.”

Her mother reached over and patted Jasmine’s hand. “We
may
both have had
the same topic on our minds, but we are definitely not
thinking along the
same lines. To begin with, you don’t need a white
debutante
gown, since you
were introduced to society last year.”

Jasmine’s uneasy stomach turned over. “But . . .but . .
.no!” She leapt to
her feet and began to pace the room. “I was a debutante
for
all of fifteen
minutes last season, before I fell and broke my ankle. I
demand to start
over. There are other nineteen-year-olds who are among
those
to be
introduced this year.”