Beth keeps her smile wide across her face, lowering her eyes as if in pleasure. She’s desperate for him to leave. She wants to speak with Gwen—wants just a few minutes of freedom from the ritual of all of this. But Lord Montson takes his time, releasing her hand slowly and standing to look down at her as if she’s something special.
She wishes it made her feel more. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, other than that something certainly must be. She’s being envied around the garden, she can see it.
From no one, to one of the most coveted matches in the season—she should be crowing, giddy, excited. Instead, she’s simply grateful when Lord Montson finally takes his leave with a little bow, smiling his pretty smile as he saunters off to join his mother.
Beth stays seated, watching them go, her leg jumping beneath her skirts. She waits until they’re out of sight to light off the bench. She heads for the refreshments, trying not to look relieved. Trying not to look like she’s desperately searching for Gwen.
She notices Mother and Lord Havenfort seated on the opposite side of the patio now, talking with a few other guests, making polite connections. Though as she stands there watching, they keep turning to continue some other conversation between themselves, more interested in each other than whatever news is being shared by the other adults. Their casual impropriety bolsters her and she gives in to a little desperation, moving through the party with purpose, searching for her friend.
She spots Gwen along the far edge of the hedgerow, standing alone with a glass of champagne like she’d like to slink into the shrubbery if she could. Beth feels the tension of her conversation with Lord Montson finally let go. She snags her own glass, taking a grateful sip, and hurries to join Gwen, mostly out of sight, thoroughly out of mind.
“You were supposed to come spring me,” Beth announces as she slips in beside Gwen, their skirts rustling together.
Beth likes the play of her pale purple against Gwen’s deep green satin. It looks like spring.
“Sorry,” Gwen says stiffly before taking the last swig of her champagne. “Excuse me.”
Beth blinks and then shoots her hand out, catching Gwen’s elbow. “What’s the matter?”
Gwen hesitates, pulling lightly against Beth’s grip on her arm. “Nothing. I need more champagne.”
“You don’t,” Beth observes, noting the flush already creeping up Gwen’s neck, the slight fray of her blond curls around her face. “Chat with me awhile. We can make excuses to get more drinks later.”
Gwen’s shoulders slump, but she lets Beth pull her back to their shelter in the shrubs. Beth takes her in, watching the way Gwen won’t quite look at her—the way her eyes scan the party instead, as if in indifference.
“What happened?” she presses, concerned.
“Nothing,” Gwen says, twirling her empty glass in her hands. “How’s Montson?”
“Fine. We’re boating tomorrow,” Beth says tiredly, releasing Gwen’s elbow to thread their arms together, but Gwen pulls away. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, just warm,” Gwen demurs, stepping a little away from her. “Is he going to wrap his arms around you and teach you to steer the ship?” Beth blushes at the mocking lilt in her voice. Gwen glances at her and rolls her eyes. “Predictable.”
Beth frowns, taking in what seems like... scorn, on her face. “I guess. He’s excited though. And so is his mother, to mine’s chagrin.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be bosom friends by the end of the season. She could even live with you and them,” Gwen says.
“I think Mother would rather die. Did you see though? She and your father have been talking all day. And laughing.”
Gwen nods, turning to look back at the party, disinterested. Doubt creeps into Beth’s chest. She can’t think of anything she’s done to disappoint her—to insult her. “Are you mad at me?” she asks, ashamed of how meek she sounds.
She’s a grown woman, and they’re both far too old for schoolyard quibbles.
“No,” Gwen says, glancing at her before looking back at Mr. Mason and Meredith, who have joined a group about to set up for croquet. “You and Montson would have won.”
Is she—“Are you jealous of me and Lord Montston?” she asks before she can censor the thought.
“Please,” Gwen says, scoffing as she steps away, marching toward the drinks.
Beth purses her lips and follows, tossing back the rest of her champagne. She scurries up beside Gwen. “You’re being awfully rude.”
Gwen huffs at her and strides around the side of the house, as if that might throw Beth off. But she’s not about to lose her only friend over something as stupid as Lord Montson.
“It’s not like I want to marry him,” she hisses. They clear the side of the manor and head for the open wine cellar door. “You were supposed to come interrupt over an hour ago. I’d much rather have been with you.”
Beth hesitates as Gwen continues straight down into the wine cellar. She glances back, but no one has followed them, and the pull of the dark and quiet is too strong to fight. More than that, maybe with some privacy, Gwen will get this stick out of her arse and explain what’s wrong.
Beth descends into the dim cellar, lit only by the open doors at the top of the stairs, and a small window along the same wall. It’s dusty and close, but wonderfully cool and calm. Gwen paces in front of a stack of barrels, her black slippers kicking up dust that swirls in the limited sunbeams from the grounds above.
