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unfashionable ivorycolored gown, last seen at a victory ball after the War. She said it only had a few stains and fit well. At least she didn't run to fat like some she could name. That was that.
    Finding the proper clothes for me was another matter entirely. I could wear my church petticoat, but I needed a proper short gown to cover the bodice. My one
    fancy short gown was too small, and I hadn't filled out enough to wear any of Mother's castoffs.
    "You'll have to wear the old one," she said. "I'll let out the side seams as far as they can go. Perhaps Eliza can do something with your hair."
    "You are determined to make this as unpleasant as possible, aren't you?" I asked.
    For once, my short-tempered answer did not rile her. "Pretend you're in France, dear," she said lightly. "The ladies there always do their hair."
    Eliza's idea of a hairstyle began with brushing me bald. The more I whimpered, the harder she tugged. In the end, I bit my lip and sulked.
    "I'll sit nicely at the table," I said. "But you can't force me to talk to their young Edward."
    "Hush." Mother stitched my dress as fast as she could, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric like a bumblebee darting through flowers. "It's not too early to search for a suitable man. With your manners, it could take years. Edward Ogilvie has four older brothers. A bride with an established business, like the coffeehouse, is the best he can hope for."
    "You make it sound like I'm one of Mrs. Epler's chickens, ready for market. Ow, Eliza, won't you be finished soon?"
    "Have patience and keep your head still," she said. "If you cared for your hair properly, I wouldn't have to wrestle it."
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    Nobody was on my side. I crossed my arms over my chest and pouted. "I don't know which is worse, banishing me to the Ludington farm or marrying me off to an Ogilvie."
    Eliza combed through a lock of hair stuck together with dried jam. "You're a few years away from a trip to the altar, Mattie, and you are too soft to live in the country," she said. "You have city hands and a weak back. You wouldn't last a week on the farm."
    "Your confidence is overwhelming," I said.
    She tugged my hair hard and tied it in a green and gold ribbon. "That's the best I can do," she said. "If we had more time, we could try to curl it."
    "No!" I covered my head with my arms. "I like straight hair. And I don't need a husband to run the coffeehouse, Mother. You don't have one."
    "Try this on and don't be vulgar," Mother said as she broke the thread with her teeth. "You'll marry one day, don't you worry. Just pray that when you do, your husband won't be fool enough to fall off a ladder and break his neck when he's but five-and-thirty like your father did. The last thing this family needs is another miserable spinster."
    Eliza pulled the laces of my stays, cutting off my reply. I gasped and saw tiny black dots.
    By the time they had tightened, pinned, and locked me into my clothes, I could feel my stomach rubbing against my backbone. Mother pulled my arms back until
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    my shoulder blades touched, the proper posture for a lady.
    "She looks like a china doll," observed Grandfather as we departed.
    "I will break just as easily," I muttered.
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    CHAPTER SEVEN
    August 30th, i£93
    Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good-nature, otherwise it will create you many enemies.
    -John Gregory A Fathers Legacy to his Daughters, 1774
    I had to breathe in short puffs as we waited at the front
    1 door of the Ogilvie mansion. The stays bit into my stomach and my shift was already sweat-soaked. If this was how the upper class felt all the time, no wonder they were all so cross.
    Mother tugged at my bodice to straighten it.
    "Try not to look so pained," she said. "We won't stay long. Knowing your grandfather, he'll be giving away the silver on the street corner when we return."
    She licked her thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off my cheek "You might turn out to be a