“Nothing.” Rosalie shook her head, clearly regretting the near-confession. “Tell me aboutyoursister instead. You mentioned her the day you treated my arm.”
The abrupt change of subject caught Sybil off guard. “My sister?”
“You said something about not being able to save her, about not wanting the same thing to happen to one of us. What happened to her?”
Emmie. Sweet, trusting, foolish Emmie.
Sybil’s hands stilled on the bedding as memories rushed back—Emmie’s laughter echoing through their childhood home, her excited chatter about balls and beaus, the way her face had lit up when she talked about the charming young man who’d captured her heart.
“She got ill,” Sybil said finally, the words feeling like broken glass in her throat. “Very ill. I… I wasn’t able to help her in time.”
Such a careful half-truth. She did get ill in the end. But it wasn’t illness that killed her.
“That’s why you know so much about medicine,” Rosalie said with sudden understanding. “You studied because of her.”
“Among other reasons, yes.” Sybil turned away, ostensibly to straighten another bed but really to hide the tears that threatened. “I never want to feel that helpless again. Never want to watch someone I care about suffer when there might be something I could do to help.”
“How old was she?”
“Nineteen.” The word came out as barely a whisper.
“Oh.” Rosalie was quiet for a long moment. “She was young. Not much older than I am now.”
Yes. Far too young to die alone and frightened, abandoned by everyone who should have protected her.
“Much too young,” Sybil agreed, blinking hard against the familiar grief.
“Is that why you’ve never married? Because you were taking care of her?”
The innocent question hit like a physical blow.If only it were that simple.
“Partly,” Sybil managed. “The circumstances of her illness… well… They made marriage seem less appealing.”
A complete understatement. Watching Emmie die from the consequences of believing a man’s false promises had made marriage seem like the height of foolishness.
“I’m sorry,” Rosalie said quietly. “That must have been terrible for you.”
“It was a long time ago.” Sybil forced herself to resume tidying, needing something to do with her hands. “But it taught me valuable lessons about the importance of caring for those who depend on us.”
“Is that what these girls are to you? Substitutes for the sister you lost?”
The perceptive question made Sybil’s chest tighten.
“They’re children who need guidance and protection,” she said carefully. “That’s enough reason to care about them.”
“But not enough reason to marry Papa?”
Sybil nearly dropped the pillow she was holding. “I beg your pardon?”
“Papa’s proposal,” Rosalie said with the directness that seemed to run in the family. “The servants are all talking about it though they think they’re being discreet. Is it true? Did he actually ask you to marry him?”
Of course, the servants know. Servants always know everything first.
“Your father made a very generous offer,” Sybil said diplomatically. “But I haven’t given him an answer yet.”
“Because you don’t want to marry him, or because you don’t think he really wants to marry you?”
The question was so astute it took Sybil’s breath away.How does an eighteen-year-old understand such complexities?
