She had come of age behind lace curtains and piano music, with a plate always warm and a future mapped in the careful script of debutante invitations. Her mother, a woman of subtle tyranny, was convinced that Amelia's destiny was to marry a wholesaler's son and bear children sturdy enough to survive the New England winters.
Tuesdays and Thursdays in the Dawson household had a ritualistic quality that bordered on the liturgical. At precisely four o'clock, the drawing room curtains were pinned back to gather every stray sunbeam, and a crackling fire was coaxed to life regardless of the calendar's insistence on spring.
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