The heat was delicious, sweet and sticky on her skin. It was warmer today than it had been since their arrival a week ago. Taking advantage of the absence of her mother, she had slipped away into the gardens before she could be found. She laid in the softness of the grass and felt the sun burn her eyes through the lids. In the distance, the water in the bay crashed against the shores and the wind whipped all around her, tickling the bright white cotton dress she wore and dancing with the long red ribbon in her hair. The thought had crossed her mind that she shouldn't lay on the ground; she wasn't a child anymore. However the scent of spring was slipping away and the spices of summer were on the breeze. It was too enticing. And so, after looking behind her toward the house, she reclined slowly in the lush grass and closed her eyes.

This was a strange age for Cora Levinson. She was beginning to feel as if she were a woman grown - confident, graceful, sensible; but the girl still lived in these moments lying in the grass. The careless girl, the giggly girl, the girl who still felt too tall or too thin.

Her mother noticed this too, and delighted in it. Upon descending the stairs, she had caught a glimpse of the whiteness of her daughter's cotton dress in the garden. She watched her daughter from the window and smiled. Cora had become beautiful. It wasn't that she hadn't always thought her child beautiful, for she had. But now she saw a different beauty in her only daughter. It was a beauty beyond the warm shine of her dark hair or the clearness of her blue eyes. She now had the beauty of a young woman. There was a soft innocence around her eyes, still playful and bright. But there, flirting in the corner of her lips, was the allure of quiet curiosity. Martha saw the way the young men looked at her daughter and she knew. She knew that soon there would be a choice to make and she was absolutely determined that it would be the right one.

For the truth was that the Levinsons hadn't always been wealthy. In fact, they had been barely middle class. When they were first married, Isidore was only working as a manager in a general store. They had lived in a small brown apartment that Martha could never seem to rid of dust. They ate well and wore decent clothes, but it wasn't enough. Not for Isidore. He was more than just a manager. He wanted to be the owner, and soon, he was one. His store sold dresses and men's shirts and they moved from their apartment to a two-bedroom house. But it still wasn't enough. Another year passed and through endless hard work, an impeccable sense of business, and an enormous amount of luck, Isidore became one of the wealthiest merchants in Cincinnati. His stores of textiles, fabrics, and ready-made clothing quickly multiplied and soon they had left Cincinnati for New York. While dry goods may not be glamorous, they were exceptionally lucrative, and Martha was grateful for that.

She remembered all too well what it was like to sacrifice, to do without. Her children never had. They hadn't been born in those early days. Cora, her oldest, had been born a year after arriving in New York City, with the silver spoon in her perfect mouth. Isidore had given the child every luxury. Every feather down bed, every silken dress, every glass doll was bestowed upon his dark haired daughter. And when they had a son a couple of years later, he was showed the same amount of affection.

Not long after Harold was born did they purchase their summerhome in Newport. Although Martha didn't care a fig for those upper elite, she couldn't help but feel as though her children would have a better chance in this world if they were inducted into the upper realms of society. So Martha played the part. She learned the rules of their game and soon Cora was a debutante, introduced to society with the likes of the Astors and the Vanderbilts. However, that was nearly two years ago. Two very long years and Cora hadn't yet managed to ingratiate herself among the families with the oldest names. Although they would smile and nod and say "how do you do" those gilded families still did not quite accept her.

So as Martha watched her beautiful daughter through the window of their Newport mansion, she couldn't help but to feel that itching feeling of anxiousness. She and Isidore had worked too hard to see their daughter, their bright and beautiful daughter, as a pariah of this society. She would not accept a future for Cora that didn't include everything they had given her and more. Furthermore, Martha knew what Cora would need to do to guarantee such a future. Cora would have to marry and marry well. Not a fellow nouveau riche, but into an established and respectable family. She'd have her own fortune, of course, and a generous one, but unfortunately, money wouldn't change her name. It wouldn't change what her future children would be called and, however unfair it was, it would certainly limit their prospects.

Martha heard the maid come in behind her, rattling a tray of coffee and cakes on delicate porcelain dishes. She turned and smiled at the girl. "You know what? I think we'll have this on the veranda." Martha opened the door for herself and stepped onto her porch. The wind immediately met her in a flourish of her green silk fabric and she walked to the railing.

"Cora?" She called and at once Cora sat up and turned back to her mother. Suddenly feeling embarrassed to be seen sprawled over the lawn, she got up and brushed the clinging green blades from her skirt. Climbing the steps of the porch, she nodded a thank you to Taylor and joined her mother at the small table.

Martha smiled at her daughter and poured the coffee. "So, the first ball of the season! Are you feeling excited?"

Cora hummed as she sipped from the steaming cup.

"Has Landry gotten your dress ready?"

She placed her cup on the saucer and looked across the gardens and to the bay. "I believe so, Mother."

Martha took a cake. "Good!"

Cora pressed her lips together and fiddled with a blade of grass that had fallen from her hair and into her lap. Martha recognized the expression painted across her daughter's face and leaned back in the chair, sighing. "What is it, Cora?"

She was silent. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"Nothing? You're awfully quiet for it to be nothing."

Her daughter gave a sigh and flicked the grass into the breeze. "It's only...isn't April a bit early to begin the summer's parties? They haven't begun until late May for the past couple of years."

As a mother, Martha could hear between the words her daughter spoke. "You don't want to go?"

"Of course I do," she slumped back into her chair as well and reached for a cake. She inspected the spongy texture between her fingers, "But Margaret will have her beau there and Amelia is hopeless when the other families are in attendance."

She couldn't argue that. "Then why not befriend the other families? What's wrong with Dorothea Astor? She seems pleasant enough..."

"Don't start," Cora warned with a quick glare. She put the cake into her mouth.

Martha continued, "Or what about Helen Gould? She spoke to you at the ball the Morgans gave last summer. You seemed comfortable with her..."

Cora squared her chin. She hated when her mother did this. "Don't you think I try, Mother? Truly, I do. The girls all seem to be fond of me and then the moment their mothers see who it is they are speaking to, it's over. They begin to act as if they hardly know who I am." She swallowed hard and looked back out at the bay. "They're all such snobs," she finished quietly into the breeze.

Martha felt the pang of a mother's protective nature in her chest. The girls she wouldn't blame entirely, of course. They were only doing as they were bid. Their mothers, however. Well, she could think of about a thousand things she'd like to say to them. She studied her daughter for a moment. The long curls of her hair swirled about in the breeze and she watched as Cora pulled several strands away from her lips with her fingertips. Martha picked up her cup again. "Well then. You'll just have to get a beau."

Cora let out an exasperated chuckle and tilted her head toward her mother. "And just who would you suggest?" She asked with a wag of her head. She raised her brows, "Surely not Henry Stanford?"

They both let out a laugh. "No! Never Henry Stanford! I can't understand a thing that poor boy says!" Another laugh. "Besides, he'd need a stepping stool to look you in the eyes."

Cora giggled softly, but added, "Oh, that's not to be helped, of course. Poor Henry. He is nice, Mother."

"Just not for you?"

She shook her head and took her cup from the saucer. "No. Not for me."

Martha felt the opportunity creep up and she seized it. Though eager, she treaded carefully and gently. "Well...tell me, Cora. Who is for you?"

She looked up into her mother's face. The usual joking mirth that too often lingered in her mother's blue eyes was absent. Instead there resided a calm about them and it put Cora at ease.

"I'm not sure..." She began. "I don't seem to have met him yet."

Martha nodded. "And what do you hope he'll be like when you do?"

Cora sighed and adjusted herself in her chair. She felt a smile tickle her lips before she answered. "He'll have to be kind, obviously..."

"Obviously."

She looked seriously at her mother, who tucked a stray copper curl behind her ear. She seemed as if she truly wanted to know, and it flattered Cora, but also intimidated her. Her mother never truly listened to what she said and it could hurt. But she turned in her chair toward the table and put down her cup. She studied the pinks and blues of the flowers on the saucer as she rotated it a tad on the tablecloth. She started slowly and thoughtfully.

"I'd like to marry someone who can speak smartly. Articulate. Who has a mind about him. A man who enjoys reading about things. He'll have to be sympathetic to others, of course. Not entirely beastly to the servants. Someone who appreciates history and finds those who came before us as fascinating as the latest scandal or gossip." She stopped and put her hands in her lap. The last trait she had given a considerate amount of thought to, and she held it close to her heart. "And...I hope he's proud. Not proud in a boastful manner, but rather...confident. Proud of who he is. Proud of where he's come from and his home." She shrugged and looked deeper into her coffee. "Proud of his family." Her cheeks felt warm. She realized how ridiculous she sounded. She sounded like a child. She'd been listing these characteristics in her mind since she came out two summers ago, comparing each suitor to her list and every time feeling disappointed. Some were extremely articulate. They could speak for hours on end, discourse so fair and intelligent that she felt enlightened with each conversation. But then they'd lack sympathy, scoffing at some of the other gentleman, like poor old Henry. On the other hand, there were the sympathetic suitors. These were the ones who treated everyone with such kindness, even the servants felt themselves equals. However to speak to them, well, it was as if they only knew about stocks and which horse would win Saturday's race. Frightfully dull.

The real trouble was, however, that they were all proud. They were all confident and they all stood tall. They'd smile, pleased, as they showed her their immense homes and told her about their fathers and their fathers' fathers. They were proud, but not the way Cora had hoped. In fact, if she were honest with herself, she wasn't sure in what way she hoped him to be proud. She only knew that that wasn't at all what she meant.

Martha stared at her child with furrowed brows and a mouth that she knew was slightly agape. This wasn't what she had expected to hear. She figured Cora would perhaps say handsome and rich, but articulate? Sympathetic? Not many men would fit this description. Especially those of old money. Proud, however, Martha could find a dozen men who were proud.

Cora finally raised her lashes and met her mother's gaze. Martha watched as Cora's countenance darkened from timid and hopeful into irritation. Cora gave a sigh before tossing her napkin on the table.

"What?" Cora suddenly felt naked here on the porch, pouring her heart's desires on the table with the coffee, only for them to be met with a scoff.

Her mother shook her head and forced a smile. "Nothing…it's just…"

"It's just what?"

She needed to say this as gently as possible, "I think that, perhaps, you've gotten your expectations of men set a little too high."

Cora drew in a breath. "You asked me what I hoped for…" she said lowly.

"I realize that, Cora. But, you don't live in a fairy tale world. For heaven's sake. A love of history? None of the men that you should hope to marry care a dime for history. They care about themselves, about money, about their fathers' steel companies and their mothers' maiden names! And so should you."

"Can't I at least hope that the person I'll be spending the rest of my life with cares for things other than his father's money and his mother's social standing?"

"You can hope, but it isn't realistic."

Cora sniffed and straightened her back. "Thank you, Mother!" She said shortly and rose quickly from the table.

Martha began to laugh lightly, "Thank you?"

Cora spun on her heels and looked down on her mother. "Yes. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me how completely senseless and childish I am." She couldn't finish the sentence without moving toward the door again.

Martha leaned back into the chair and called after her, "I did nothing of the sort."

Cora slammed the door behind her, the stained glass windows shaking with the force.

Martha sighed, but not truly irked. She and Cora had never gotten along easily, and now that the social season was upon them, she knew they'd be at odds again.

She looked across the veranda and to the steps that Isidore and Harold now climbed to greet her. Harold, quiet and fairly shy, stood behind his father and looked at the door he had evidently heard slam angrily.

"What's happened this time?" Isidore looked at his wife, lounging in the white chair and stirring a small cup of coffee.

Martha let out a breath. "Matchmaking."

Isidore removed his hat, shaking his head. He said nothing as he passed his wife and went through the door. Harold stood still, looking from his father's retreating back to his mother biting into another sweet cake. To him, the season had officially begun.

Hours later, Cora sat before the mirror as Landry finished clasping the last of the pieces of jewelry on her body. She finished with the necklace. A lovely design, her father had given it to her when she turned eighteen. "A beautiful necklace for my beautiful daughter," he had said as she opened the velvety box in which it was kept. She looked and saw the way the sapphires resting on her collarbone glimmered in the candlelight. It truly was beautiful, and she felt beautiful wearing it, but it wouldn't be enough. She could wear all of the finest things and it still wouldn't be enough.

A quick rap at her door diverted her attention. It would be her mother, checking on her progress. "Come in," she called as she stood, taking her long white gloves from the maid.

Her father stepped around the door and Cora couldn't hide her surprise. She held the gloves in her hand and tilted her head. "Did Mother send you?" She had been suspiciously keeping her space since their tiff this afternoon.

Isidore walked into her room. He clasped his hands around his back, and looked around at the possessions Cora kept. A vase of flowers here, a small stack of books there. In the corner, resting on a plush pillow was one of the first dolls he had given her. A white glassy face, with painted red lips, blue eyes, and dark brown hair, it had reminded him of his baby daughter at the time. He lifted his eyes to her as she stood before him. She had grown.

He cleared his throat and sat on the settee at the end of her bed. "Leave us, Landry."

The maid obeyed without hesitation, and Cora watched her go.

"Sit."

Cora stared at her father for a moment, but then found her chair behind her, the blue silk of her gown rustling beneath her as she took her seat.

Isidore breathed easily and slowly. "Yes. Your mother sent me."

Cora gave a small sideways smile and rolled her eyes. For all of the spontaneity her mother possessed, Cora still found her predictable. However, she'd been waiting all afternoon for her mother to come up and talk sugary sweetness. Not her father. For some reason she felt it was almost endearing. "Oh, Mother. She wants to be sure that I'm going to the ball, does she not?"

Isidore nodded. "Are you?"

Cora tilted her head and gave a small smile. She stood and resumed pulling up her glove. "I am dressed for it."

Her father laughed, "If you don't wish to go, we won't make you."

Cora, focused on smoothing out the wrinkles of her glove, pursed her lips slightly and replied flatly. "Mother will."

Isidore didn't like the rift between his wife and their daughter. Surely, they could find common ground. While it was true that Martha had quite a strong personality and while it was true that she too often said things aloud that she really shouldn't, she had Cora's best interests at heart. "You do understand why she pushes you to do these things, don't you?"

Cora appreciated her father's good intentions, but she felt even she knew more than he did. She lived it. She was the one the older women stared at suspiciously and angrily, as if she were an interloper. Her father was generally respected for making his fortune, even if he too would never truly belong. However, it didn't affect him as it did her. It wouldn't affect Harold as it would Cora. Cora didn't have a place in society, not truly. Not where those women were concerned, and even some of the men. Yes. She knew why. She nodded and Isidore nodded back before rising and walking toward her. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

"You'll have fun. Just be who you are. And if they don't like it, well, just know this..." Isidore took her gloved hand into his and shook it slightly, "your father is richer than theirs are."

Cora couldn't help but laugh and shake her head. "Thank you, Father. I'll remember that."

"Now! We're all downstairs waiting. Come on!"

Cora gave herself one last inspection in her mirror. She brushed over the blue and gold silks of her gown and straightened the gems of her necklace. She took a calming breath and prayed a silent prayer that at least one of her friends would be there. And if not, she knew that Henry Stanford would dance with her. His family didn't seem to mind her. Of course, they didn't seem to mind any girl who gave Henry attention.

The Rogers had one of the largest houses in Newport. Its tall, stone structure was proud and handsome. The drive was lined with lanterns and as Cora stepped out of the carriage and climbed the steps to the party, she could hear the music, laughter, and conversation from within. She held onto her brother's arm as they followed their parents up the stairs and she watched as her mother pointed to someone in the distance and waved happily at her. Cora leaned toward Harold, "Don't drink too much." It was met with a laugh. Harold knew his sister well enough to know that their mother had already embarrassed her. Father would shortly follow suit. She was counting on him to uphold respectability for their family. But, of course, their parents are why Harold drank.

He leaned back toward her as they reached the final steps. "If you expect me to endure this sober, sister, you're out of your mind." He chuckled as she withdrew her arm from his with a huff and walked quickly into the house.

She stood behind her mother has they shook the hands of their hosts. Her mother was too loud, too crass, and she began to feel her cheeks flush. Thankfully their hosts, Mrs. Andrea Rogers and Miss Helen Rogers, along with Mr. Henry Rogers, were great friends of her parents. They were one of the only old money families just young enough to accept the new wealth. Andrea was her mother's age, but far calmer. Helen, a petite blonde girl with dark eyes, came out the summer after Cora.

She nodded hellos to Mrs. Rogers and Helen and Mr. Rogers took her hand and kissed it. Beside Mr. Rogers stood someone Cora hadn't met before and Helen stepped forward to introduce them.

"Aunt Lucille, this is Cora Levinson, her brother is Harold Levinson, and their parents are Mr. and Mrs. Isidore Levinson." Her family stood behind her, but spoke to another guest.

Helen grabbed Cora's hand, "Cora, this is my father's sister, my aunt, Mrs. Richard Flaglar."

Cora smiled prettily and as daintily as she could. "How do you do?"

Mrs. Flaglar offered a tired smile before speaking. "I'm sorry, child, did you say Levinson?"

Nodding, she answered, "Yes, ma'am." But she lost the smile.

The older lady knitted her brows. "I'm not familiar with that name. Where are you from?"

Cora looked at Helen and then back at her aunt. "We live in New York, though we have a home here in Newport as well."

"Yes, I assumed that." The woman flared the nostrils of her long, thin nose and for a moment Cora thought she would be sick. "I meant, of course, where are you from originally? I'm sorry to say that I am not acquainted with any Levinsons in New York."

She answered softly. "My father is originally from Cincinnati. In Ohio."

"Oh." The woman didn't say it as a question.

Helen wrapped her arm around Cora's. "Yes, Aunt Lucille. Cora's father owns stores and he sells clothes and fabrics to other stores. It's quite interesting. Cora's always got the prettiest dresses!" Helen beamed up at Cora and then back at her aunt who was now looking at Cora as if she were an insect.

"I see."

Cora's face burned. She managed to make an excuse in order to leave, and she escaped as quickly as she could. She walked into the brightness of the ballroom and searched it for friendly faces. Harold had made his way to the refreshment table, she saw, and her mother sat in a corner with another member of the Rogers family. She didn't see the Morgans anywhere. There was Margaret, dancing with Walter across the floor. She also spotted Amelia, but she was in a crowd with Florence Vanderbilt and Katherine Adams. They had been warned by their mothers about Cora. Then that would be it. No allies.

Her family was only ever invited to these things by the Rogers and the Morgans, after all. No one else extended invitations or initiated conversation. Her mother made herself at home with everyone, unwelcome as she was, even with the Astors and Vanderbilts. But Cora couldn't knowingly vex others the way her mother did in order to make herself known. So instead she resigned herself to a night with dancing with Henry Stanford, and perchance some other boys who dared to challenge their mothers and fathers. She caught Harold's eye for a moment across the ballroom. He was standing against a wall by himself, holding his glass. When he saw his sister he raised his drink slightly and smiled with mischief etched across his brow. Cora twisted her mouth. Perhaps she would have a drink. It couldn't possibly make things any worse.