But Lessie fell asleep almost immediately on a velvet chaise, hands resting on her rounded belly. She snored delicately, like a woman who had earned her peace. I would have allowed her the rest, except that left me alone. With him.
Major leaned against the opposite wall, his arms crossed, one boot resting lightly against the trim like a villain from a novel.
“So,” I said, attempting nonchalance, “is this the part where you arrest me?”
“Would you like to be arrested?” he asked, too casually.
“I— No.”
“Sounded like a maybe.”
“It wasn’t.”
He twitched his shoulder.
I folded and refolded my gloves in my lap. “How did you know my name?” I ask.
“Everybody in Carsondale knows your name,” he said quietly.
“How?” I asked.
“You”—his eyes caught mine—“are marrying my fool brother.”
I had gotten engaged accidentally. A perfectly innocent act of showing off.
Eliza’s sister Janey had taken ill at my family’s borrowed country house—No. 7 Netherfield, a name far too grand for a place with peeling shutters and chickens in the front yard—and the whole neighborhood had taken it as an opportunity to hover. There were broths and herbs and overlong visits. Lil’ Charlie, of course, was there every afternoon, sitting by the fire like some tragic suitor.
Toussaint D’Arcy came, and at first, I thought we would commiserate over the Benoîts—their loud voices, their borrowed house, their endless parade of mismatched tea sets. I thought he’d sit beside me, sigh meaningfully, and remember who he was supposed to choose.
He arrived with stationery. Cream stock, monogrammed. A stack of correspondence he needed to send on behalf of the family. I offered to help. I’d always had the neatest script, the sharpest French, the most gracious turns of phrase. That day, I wrote to Toussaint’s little sister. To distant cousins. A minister. A retired teacher. And at the very bottom of the pile, to a bachelor cousin out west—a man in Carsondale looking for a wife.
Ealy Washington.
I addressed the letter with the soft authority of a woman doing someone a favor. I signed it on behalf of the family, of course—but I suppose a little too much of my charm slipped between the lines. I mentioned myself as alovely intellect. I had imagined Toussaint reading it aloud, like he had done the others. Maybe pausing at a turn of phrase and smiling.
But then Eliza came through the door, all bluster and wind, and his attention evaporated like steam from a teacup.
Still, I must have made an impression. Because three weeks later, a reply arrived.
Not for Toussaint.
For me.
A letter from Ealy Washington, addressed to Miss Caroline Bliguet, full of admiration for my clarity, my elegance, my “refined thought.” He said I sounded like a woman who would make a fine wife.
Two weeks after that, the proposal came. Tidy. Respectful. Practical.
And I said yes.
Because I wanted to wake Toussaint from whatever spell he was under.
Because I thought it might make Eliza blink.
Because I’d spent years being excellent with nothing to show for it.
And now I’m supposed to believe Ealy—the man who chosecorrectly—was the fool?
I would not.
