“I do not suppose I shall ever understand you completely, dear sister,” Izzy said. “You married a man you do not love and sent him happily to London while you remain here, tending to his dilapidated estate and your electrical kettle.”
“Frying pan,” she corrected quietly, though she supposed it hardly mattered at the moment.
Kettle or frying pan, it was not electrical, and she was no closer to seeing her dream come to fruition now than she had been a year ago. But the fault for that was not Hudson’s. In all, three weeks had passed since her husband’s abrupt departure. For days, she had thrown herself into the grueling task of making Brinton Manor into a comfortable home. The young but capable steward, Saunders, had aided her, as had the more than kind Mrs. Grey.
Although the smooth running of a household was not a calling to which Elysande had ever aspired, she was more than familiar with all the requirements. Worn carpets had been replaced. The leaking roof was being repaired. Fading wallcoverings had been substituted for new. Rooms were dusted, floors cleaned, the fountain’s broken pipes were being fixed. Additional maids and footmen had been hired, and the new head gardener was joyously returning the grounds to their former splendor. She had converted the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber into her workshop. Life had progressed significantly.
“Frying pan,” Izzy repeated. “Forgive me.”
“You are forgiven, of course,” Elysande said. Her siblings had never understood her desire to create. “I am too much like Papa, forever toiling over a project.”
Her sister was frowning once more. “Are you happy?”
What a question. And how to answer it? Elysande struggled to find the right words to convey what she felt. “I am…content.”
But she would be more content if her frying pan was functioning properly.
And if Hudson returned. This last, she would not admit aloud.
“Contentment.” Izzy pursed her lips. “What a disappointing state to find one’s self in. Truly, Ellie. It is as if you have settled forjust well enough, when you could have had something wondrous as I have with my Arthur.”
“Will you sit?” she asked, changing the subject, for they were standing awkwardly, almost as if they were two duelers about to meet each other at dawn with pistols. “Would you care for tea?”
Her sister raised an imperious dark brow. “I shall sit, but you are not going to distract me so easily. Your happiness is important to me, you know.”
Elysande skirted the desk, moving to the two chairs flanking the fireplace, so placed for just such a purpose. The weakest part of her had imagined sitting here with Hudson more than once, chatting about their days. But having her sister with her was every bit as lovely, she reminded herself sternly, vowing she would not think of her husband for at least the remainder of the hour.
“Your happiness is important to me as well,” she told Izzy as they made themselves comfortable in the chairs. “Tell me how your preparations for the wedding are coming along.”
“Arthur has suggested we marry in the new year sometime after Easter but before Whitsuntide,” Izzy said.
“That seems rather far away.” She studied her sister’s countenance for signs of disappointment. “I thought the two of you would wed soon.”
“I would prefer a hastier marriage, it is true, but Arthur wishes for everything to be perfect,” Izzy explained, smiling. “He has suggested I travel to Paris to be fitted for my gown, and we shall need time to arrange for so many details. There is hardly a rush.”
“I am hearing quite a bit about what Mr. Penhurst wants,” Elysande observed, “and scarcely anything at all about whatyouwant.”
“I want whatever makes my Arthur happy,” Izzy said. “But I did not travel so long over such dreadful roads to speak to you about myself. I came to see howyouare faring.”
“Quite well, as you can see.”Aside from my feverish longings for my husband.
“When is Wycombe expected to return?”
“Soon.” She plucked at the fall of her skirts.
“How soon?” Izzy pressed.
The truth was, she did not know. It was rather embarrassing to admit. His letters thus far had been concise. “I expect he will give me all the time I require to finish my prototype.”
“And you would rather spend your time toiling over a frying pan than with the man you have married?”
Of course not. She was greedy, and she wanted them both. But how to explain?
She bit her lip, considering her response with care. “You know I did not marry for love, Izzy.”
“Yes. You married for my sake.” Izzy was frowning once more. “I do wish you would not have been so selfless.”
“I am not entirely selfless. Marriage to Wycombe has hardly proven a hardship.” That, too, was the truth. But there she went, thinking of him again. Thinking of his persuasive kisses, the strength of his arms banded around her, his hot mouth at her breast and elsewhere…
