"Would you prefer a blue gown, or a green one?"

Emma paused in brushing Mrs. Remigrant's thinning grey hair. "Pardon, ma'am?" All she ever wore was her black maid's dress, it was all she needed. What could make her employer bring up a gem-toned gown?

"You've worked for me two years. It's high time society learns about you, and I've finally come up with a story. There's a party on Tuesday night, and I think it should be when you make our grand entrance."

The gears in Emma's head whirled, and her heart quickened. Immediately she dropped the hairbrush, completely on accident, and opened her mouth to speak.

"What is the story?"

"Blue, or green?"

"Green," she responded quickly. "Now tell me, please?"

Emma flashed a winning smile in the mirror at the lady, who smiled back. "My late husband had a brother in New York who had two daughters. You are one of them. He wished for you to come to the country for a while, to get fresh air. While here you will attend balls and parties. It's only natural, with you being my niece and your father being a banker."

Emma smirked. Her real father had been a drunk, and he'd hardly had a farthing to his name. She was more than happy to pretend her father was an affluent banker in New York.

"Can you imitate and American accent?"

Emma slid a pin into Mrs. Remigrant's hair and cleared her throat. "I think I can, but I'm not very good," she replied, trying to sound as American as she could.

Mrs. Remigrant clapped her hands twice. "That was excellent! You have to do that for the parties, to keep the story up."

"Yes, ma'am." Emma spoke as an American again, feeling the words on her tongue. They were strange and flat, expressionless. She slid another pin into the grey mass of hair, and imagined what a party was supposed to look like.

There would be music, of course, not the lively fiddles of her childhood but cultured and sophisticated string quartets. Emma could see the high ceilings of a room lit with candles; the warmth of the crowd and the feel of silken skirts brushing past her. 

It was a beautiful, beautiful dream. Though she wouldn't let anyone know, she was beyond excited- and for some reason, she felt nauseous as well.

*****

The gown came from the dressmaker's a day later. Emma could hardly bear to touch it. It was finer than anything she'd ever owned in her whole life.

A box lay on her bedside table. Inside it was a set of powders, one jar with white, one with brown, and one with pink. Mrs. Remigrant didn't know they were there. She would have disapproved of Emma's use of makeup.

But Emma had a plan. In order to avoid being recognised, she'd been practising with her powders a way to changer her face. Not just to cover the few blemishes on her forehead, but to heighten her cheekbones, to narrow her jaw. It made her look like a different person on the mirror, when it was blended right anyways. She looked and felt more refined, more regal, less like the Irish country girl she knew she was.

A knock sounded on her door just as she put the box away for the night with shaking hands. It was Monday night, after all, and her debut was in less than twenty- four hours!

"Who is it?"

"Hannah."

Emma breathed a sigh of relief. "Come in."

The door to the tiny room opened, and the maid came in carrying a tea tray. "Are you nervous?"

Emma nodded, continuing to brush out her long, red hair. "Isn't everyone?"

Hannah shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I was hired to work, not be the old lady's gate back to parties."

"Fair." Emma stopped, taking the teacup that Hannah offered her. "I don't like it either."

"It's the chance every girl dreams of, Emma! Why aren't you excited?"

"I don't really want to be a society girl. I'm not built for it."

"The Irish never were." Hannah sighed and began braiding Emma's hair. The  derogatory reference to her homeland stung Emma, but she'd long grown used to such talk. Unless you were a railroad boss, you didn't like the Irish. They stole jobs. They came in droves. They were just living off the charity of others. They lived lives of crime and poverty.

That's what you were told to believe, anyways. It was why Emma used an American accent and an American name. Never mind, of course, that a tenth of America boasted Irish heritage; never mind that another tenth were Scottish. Americans forgot their roots easily, Emma knew, and she hoped her children never would.

*****

The day came too quickly and too slowly all at once. Emma couldn't sleep after Hannah left, and she tossed in the moonlight for what seemed like hours upon hours. The powder must be used for covering up dark circles, Emma decided, for I'm sure to have them.

When she woke, not realising she'd even fallen asleep, the birds chirped and the sun was completely up. Why hadn't Hannah come to wake her?

Quickly Emma pulled on her brown work dress, pinning up her braid and opening the door, almost running from the room to tend to Mrs. Remigrant's morning routine.

The servant's hallway was not empty outside her door, however, for Mrs. Remigrant herself stood outside Emma's door. She was made up already, ready for the day, and Emma wondered who had done her job.

"I tended to myself, dear," the lady said, answering Emma's unasked question. "Did you enjoy your extra sleep?"

"Yes, ma'am," Emma replied with a curtsy. "Though I admit--"

There was a sharp look from Mrs. Remigrant and Emma realised she'd spoken with her native accent. "Sorry," she said in a properly flat American tone. "I admit, you gave me quite a scare when I saw the sun was up before I was."

"You'll want the rest, dear," replied the lady, taking Emma by the arm and leading her forcefully from the hall back to the main house. "Parties can go past midnight, you know."

Emma went to bed at eight o'clock every night. She already felt tired just thinking of midnight.

"And what time will tonight's begin?"

"Seven o' clock. It is a Tuesday, after all; I hope to finish by eleven."

They swept by the ballroom, where a few servants bustled to sweep and scrub the floor.

Just then, a maid came and curtsied. "Someone to see you, ma'am," she trilled. "He wouldn't give his name."

Mrs. Remigrant sighed. "Not again. Stay here, Emma, I'll be back in a moment."

And she left, Emma still turned towards the stairs, wondering who would be calling and why no name was given.