A/N: This is only a vignette, borne of a current obsession with nineteenth century literature

A/N: This is only a vignette, borne of a current obsession with nineteenth century literature. It was fun to write, but there won’t be any more of it. For one thing, I’m not sure I’d want to do anything else with the character.

It's my first party in quite some time - I have been out of society for nearly sixteen years after all, though it seems longer. I simply must make a good impression, at least on the hostess and perhaps a few of the guests - I want to be invited back. I have missed good gossip and company so!

I give out that I am a widow of some five years and have dressed accordingly, not that I am in the least tempted by the flimsy gowns of today's girls. It seems that fashion has taken a turn for the worse since I have been away, though of course I am not so vain as to think myself the only bastion of good taste. I do think, however, that the coincidence cannot be ignored.

I chat amicably enough here and there, even indulging in a little genteel flirtation with a bachelor ten years my senior, whose lack of youth is more than made up for by a charming demeanor and a respectable level of accomplishment. I do think he ought to have a lady in his house, and I do not mean the housekeeper. As the curates say, it is not good for man to be alone.

Then the butler announces his name, and though he must have seen me, of course he shows no sign of recognition - and why should he? It has been years and I have changed more than my name - I consider pleading a headache and taking my leave. I have no need for scandal to ruin all my efforts to regain a place in society as my own self and not as daughter, sister, or wife of.

The woman on his arm is such a plain thing. She has a great potato of a nose, mousy hair that I just know hangs in strings after one set of dancing, and two little piggy eyes that almost disappear in the folds of fat pinkish flesh. He is as handsome as ever, rake that he is, though I suppose a little more dignified, no doubt due only to the silver in that rich chestnut hair and not to any real improvement in temperament. I wonder how he managed to outlast the scandal. Perhaps he said that I died, as my imaginary husband did. (A pity it is not true!) Naturally, he must have done something of the sort, or he wouldn't dare show his face in polite company with that sow.

I wonder - yes, he has brought them both, and graceful creatures of sixteen and eighteen they are. It comes of my family, though of course beauty will be the curse to them that it always was to me. I know I ought to be sure they do not see me - children always know their real mother - and yet I cannot help myself.

My eldest is talking to some fine young soldier, but the other stands well off to the side, and it is not so unusual for a young lady to receive counsel and advice from a more experienced woman, especially when her own mother is gone. It is somewhat less usual for that woman to be her true mother returned again, but that will be our little secret.

She does not seem to know me right off, but I imagine she will realize soon enough. I think I should take them with me this time - I fancy they would have quite an allowance if they should desire to travel on the continent, and I do not suppose he would care all that much if they decided to leave him behind. He certainly forgot me soon enough and chose an absolutely hideous replacement at that. Not that I want anything to do with him, but my girls are of course a different matter entirely.

Perhaps I shall make the suggestion when I have had a chance to speak to both of them.

Here is my eldest. She knows me, I can tell. She was always a clever child --

They call that deceitful, hideous hag MOTHER!?

I cannot believe it. I simply cannot. Do they not know me?

No, they answer. Their mother is their father's wife. And sweetly they excuse themselves, for it seems that she wants them, the shrewish, spiteful witch. She knows who I am, that is certain, and she knows the claim I have on them.

I return to my distinguished bachelor, or rather he returns to me, bringing a glass of punch as an offering. As if I asked him for one or want it, but it would be rude to refuse, and I am never rude. I decide to pick up where I left off, and wait for my girls to realize the enormity of the opportunity they have, but a voice intrudes. His voice. What can he possibly want?

For me to leave? But that is quite impossible, for I am pleasantly occupied with this gentleman, and I simply cannot abandon him.

The fiend takes my bachelor aside for a 'word in his ear.' I can see the puzzlement on his unintelligent face turn to startlement, then to shock, and all the interest dissipates. Of course he leaves, after being fed such poison, and he takes my unfinished drink with him!

What was that for? I am doing the gentleman no harm.

Spare him? So that wretch did realize what a prize he had driven away, even if only for a few years.

I am a what!? Well, of all the nerve, sir. Of course I shall leave. There are only disagreeable persons here anyway.