“Of course,” Rosalie says, squeezing her hand before bringing the ring up for closer inspection. “Truly, well done, Mr.Rile.”
She glances his way and finds his eyes a little moist too. Her words were meant for Henrietta, but it’s good they meant something to him. After all, they’re a pair now. He’ll always be around as long as Henrietta’s in her life. Which Rosalie hopes she is forever.
Henrietta steps back, taking Mr. Rile’s proffered handkerchief with a watery smile. “So,” she says with a great sniff.
Rosalie catches Amalie wiping at her own eyes. Saps, all of them. She’s ignoring her own suspiciously moist cheeks.
“Will Catherine be coming?” Henrietta asks.
All thoughts of tears disappear as Rosalie shifts, uncomfortable. Christopher loops his arm through hers, squeezing, and Rosalie squeezes back.
“Her cousin, Mr.Finch, just returned from London, and they had to spend the afternoon with him,” Amalie says.
Rosalie looks over at her too quickly. God, but that actually hurt her neck.
“She sends her deepest apologies,” Amalie says, passing a note over to Henrietta. “And an invitation to walk with her on Wednesday.”
“Oh, that’s lovely of her,” Henrietta says.
A sharp twang of jealousy slaps at Rosalie’s chest. Catherine’sallowedto write to Henrietta. And to Amalie, apparently. It’s only Rosalie, and Christopher, who are seemingly on Mrs.Pine’s unacceptable list.
She wonders how many letters they’ve exchanged. What Catherine’s told Amalie. Is she reading anything new? Has she mentioned Rosalie?
“Perhaps I can reply tonight to confirm the walk,” she hears Henrietta say.
“When did you last see MissPine?” Rosalie asks, blinking as the words spill too loudly out of her mouth.
They all turn to look at her and Rosalie fights a wince.
“We walked yesterday morning. She asked me to pass this along to you as well,” Amalie says, giving her such a look as she hands over another sealed envelope.
Rosalie all but snatches the letter from Amalie’s hand, ignoring her friends’ inquisitive looks.
“I need to visit your powder room,” she says, pulling her arm from Christopher’s and turning on her heel to march into Henrietta’s house.
She hurries up the stairs and into Henrietta’s room, closing the door firmly behind her. She takes a moment to get her breathing in check and lets herself slump against the door.
She combs her eyes over Henrietta’s tidy white vanity, the large white four-poster bed pushed into the corner, the armchair beneath the tall window along the opposite wall. Henrietta’s beautiful charcoal sketches and watercolors cover almost every surface of the room. Scenes of her garden, Rosalie’s garden, Aunt Genevieve’s garden, portraits of Amalie, and Rosalie, and Mr.Rile, Henrietta’s parents—the room is like a collage of Bath, all from Henrietta’s artistic and quirky point of view.
The beautiful art helps her calm down enough to sink into Henrietta’s armchair. She opens Catherine’s letter with shaking hands, horrified to find herself so excited and anxious over something so simple as aletter. But it’s been a week. She’s starved for news. And she’s just left her happy happy friends with their happy happy suitors/fiancés.
Dearest Rosalie,
I hope you won’t be upset that I’ve given Amalie this letter. She is entirely on our side and has promised, with your darling brother’s help, to orchestrate whatever we should need to see ourselves through.
I find myself at a loss for exactly what to ask for, but it’s a comfort to know our friends will support us.
Rosalie swallows hard. Helping Amalie and Henrietta, giving them perfect lives, has always seemed so much easier than opening her messy chest to ask for what she wants. What she’s wanted. To tell them who she is.
She should have asked Amalie and Henrietta to help give her cover with Catherine weeks ago—months, really. She doesn’t begrudge Catherine for being brave enough to reach out and ask for help from the people who love them.
I’m hoping they can at least arrange a meeting for us. My father and Lord Dean have been failing to choose a date to confer, but I don’t believe we can rely on that forever. One of them will run out of obligations at some point.
I wish Mother would run out of them. I feel like a prized heifer being taken over hill and dale to be seen by the masses. And somehow never where you are set to be. She’s kept me so busy I couldn’t have written if I wanted to. And any letters Christopher might have sent have not reached me.
Rosalie’s heart stutters. If Mr.Pine and Lord Dean meet, and agree upon a dowry, Mr.Dean’s proposal truly could come at any point.
Please write me back posthaste.
