“Amalie!” Henrietta shrieks, sending them all into giggles.
Catherine lets herself get lost in their gentle teasing. She pretends for one blissful hour that people aren’t watching her. That Mr.Dean isn’t intent on proposing like Mr.Rile is. Pretends for just an hour that her precarious plans with Rosalie aren’t going wildly, spectacularly off track.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rosalie
Everywhere they’ve been this morning, she’s heard the whispers. Titters about how Mr.Dean has forsaken her. Snickers of how he’s mere weeks, if not just days, away from proposing to Catherine. Snide remarks about her mother hidden by fans and bonnet rims.
Only Aunt Genevieve, walking tall and going on loudly about her latest travels has kept Mother from breaking into pieces. Rosalie’s clung to her stories all day, desperate to ignore the cacophony of anxiety in her head.
Because she and Catherine haven’t seen each other in days, and haven’t managed to exchange even a single letter. Amalie and Henrietta saw Catherine at the baths, but Amalie says she overheard Mrs.Pine’s schedule and it’s jam-packed until next weekend, when the Pines are throwing their tea party at the Upper Rooms.
Mr.Dean might be polishing up his late grandmother’s ring as they speak. And Rosalie’s stomach might eat through her body.
Mother’s planning to walk into that tea with her head held high. She still believes Rosalie can win Mr.Dean back with a large enough show of wealth. She can’t. But neither can Rosalie take Mother’s fragile hope.
So here they are, adding needless embellishment to their dresses, huddled together in the sitting area outside the dressing room in Madame Florent’s shop.
“I would bet creams and blues. With MissPine’s complexion, it would be the most complementary,” Aunt Genevieve continues.
“What would?” Rosalie asks, having lost the thread of her eighth question about décor for the tea, of which Rosalie and Mother know nothing at all.
“A cream-and-blue color scheme would go nicely with her skin, and her eyes,” Aunt Genevieve says. “For the tea, or a wedding, I suppose.”
“There won’t be a wedding,” Mother bites out.
Rosalie barely withholds her own snapped retort. There just can’t be a wedding. They need moretime.
“Mrs.Pine seems awfully determined,” Aunt Genevieve says, her voice slightly lilting, like she’s intentionally needling them.
“Well, of course she is. She wants to ruin my life,” Mother snaps.
Rosalie sighs. She’s so sick of this stupid feud. Whatever happened—
“Explain,” Aunt Genevieve says.
Rosalie turns to look at her, surprised. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Aunt Genevieve asks, face turning serious. “I figured the two of you had just gotten competitive,” she adds, looking to Mother.
“We can’t discuss this here,” Mother says quickly.
Aunt Genevieve raises a sculpted eyebrow. “Madame Florent had to go by carriage to get your lace. We’ve easily thirty uninterrupted minutes. Explain.”
Mother shrugs. “It’s just competition. Mrs. Pine made up her mind that she had to have Mr. Dean for her daughter, and we’ve let her win. She must be beside herself with triumph.”
Rosalie looks between them. If anyone can get the secret out of Mother, it’ll be Aunt Genevieve. It has to be. This might be her only opportunity.
“It’s not merely competition,” Rosalie says.
“Rosalie,” Mother warns.
Rosalie turns to Aunt Genevieve. “She won’t tell mewhy, but Mother prevented Mrs.Pine from marrying a man. A naval captain? Back when they were young. And it ended in scandal, and because ofthat, Mrs.Pine arrived determined to sabotage my marriage prospects.”
Rosalie waits, expecting Aunt Genevieve to lay into Mother. Expecting her to make some sarcastic remark. To make light of Mother’s feud. To call her out. Something.
Instead, Aunt Genevieve’s eyes go wide. Rosalie forgets, sometimes, that Aunt Genevieve is five years younger than her mother. But in this moment, she can see every one of those years on her face, and something clicks sickeningly into place.
