The Mad Lord's Daughter by Jane Goodger

the carriage ride had been fascinating, but it was all too short. She had little knowledge of London, but her first thought, when they’d arrived at Covent Garden from her uncle’s house on Piccadilly, was that they could have walked to the theatre. But now that they had stopped in a long queue of carriages, it was all too much. The theatre was so large; it loomed over them as if it might crash down upon their tiny carriage. And the noise, it was unbearable. She clutched the seat with her gloved hands and stared blindly at her uncle, who sat across from her, completely at ease. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
    Melissa was so tense, her entire body started to ache. This was not what she had expected when Miss Stanhope had told her about a night at the opera. Miss Stanhope had explained that it would be a night of little social interaction, a way to slowly introduce her to the society she would someday be a part of. She described a calm, sedate setting in which nothing would be expected of Melissa except to nod at those who were introduced to her. She would look beautiful, she would be admired, and the night would be a rousing success. They had taken special care choosing her gown, selecting a deep blue velvet with cream lace and pale blue underskirt. A rope of pearls was woven through her dark hair, creating a lovely effect—at least that’s what Miss Stanhope had told her.
    It would be a wonderful night, one requiring little of her but to look calm. This was what Miss Stanhope had told her, and this was what she’d believed. She could stand and nod at people. She could carry on a conversation. Of course she could.
    But now, she realized with something close to panic, she could not. She was terrified at the thought of being amongst so many people, of their looking at her, touching her, bumping into her. Outside was a seething mass of people, of all shapes and sizes. It was too, too much to contemplate.
    “Melissa.”
    She blinked and turned toward her cousin, who was staring at her intently, his gray eyes visible in the gloom of the carriage. “Are you well?”
    That single question, the concern in his voice, calmed her almost instantly. “Quite well,” she said, and almost sounded as if she meant it. It was the proper response to such a question, was it not? Certainly she could not tell these people she was about to run screaming from the carriage toward Bamburgh.
    She felt Miss Stanhope’s sharp gaze on her, and she schooled her features. She would not humiliate herself or her uncle. It was such a simple thing they asked. She glanced out at the people, walking about as if being there were a normal, everyday occurrence, when it was truly a terrifying leap of faith. All those people. Surely one or two of them was ill. What if one of them touched her? What if some disease was, at this very moment, crawling upon one of their arms, ready to jump off and onto her as she brushed by? She hadn’t even stepped from the carriage and Melissa wanted to go home.
    “Have you heard anything about this opera?” she asked as if the quality of the opera was of utmost importance to her.
    “Today is the debut,” Miss Stanhope said. “But the company is wonderful. I’ve never yet been disappointed by a performance.”
    The carriage jerked to a halt, and soon the sound of the steps being lowered could be heard, just seconds before the door was efficiently opened by a liveried footman. Miss Stanhope departed first, giving Melissa a pointed look, a silent reminder to allow the footman to assist her down. Melissa felt foolish and awkward, as if every little act of hers was going to be carefully reviewed by her chaperone and uncle. Taking a bracing breath, Melissa stood and calmly gave the footman her hand, trying with all her might not to cringe at the warm strength of a strange man’s hand holding hers. Every day women were touched, and they did not die. Every day, they breathed in the air that others breathed, they jostled and