“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aunt Genevieve asks Mother.
Rosalie’s stomach turns over. She never would have— She would have been more tactful— Oh, God, it was—
“Did he hurt you?” Rosalie whispers.
Aunt Genevieve blinks and meets her eyes. The smile on her face is a cracking thing, but she takes a breath and reaches out to take Rosalie’s hand. “No, darling. I—I let him charm me, and seduce me, but he was— My honor was ruined, but I wasn’t hurt.”
“I...” Rosalie starts, her words curdling in her throat as she hangs on to Aunt Genevieve’s hand.
“Your father got me out of Bath, and no one ever knew. And then a few years later I met your uncle. Everything—everything turned out for the best.”
Rosalie tries to divine the truth of her words just from her soft smile. Being cast out of your life because a man made promises and didn’t keep them—she doesn’t think that ever goes away.
“You understand now why I couldn’t tell Mrs.Pine.”
Rosalie turns her head to meet Mother’s shining eyes.
“You never told her?” Aunt Genevieve asks.
Mother leans around Rosalie, her hand falling to rest on Aunt Genevieve’s on top of Rosalie’s, so they’re a close press of sniffles and shaking breath.
“I promised your brother I wouldn’t. I trusted her, but he—he asked me not to tell, and I couldn’t break his confidence. I wanted—we wanted—to protect you.”
“So you let the ton think he’d ruinedherinstead?” Aunt Genevieve presses.
“I made sure he couldn’t ruin her,” Mother insists. “And your brother convinced Mr.Pine to propose. It all... worked out for the best,” Mother says, conviction in her words. “You were safe, she was safe.”
“And he got away, again,” Aunt Genevieve says.
“What would you have had me do? Tell the ton he’d ruined you and needed to pay for his crimes? Your reputation could never have recovered,” Mother says plaintively.
“Surely there could have been—”
“The haberdashery up the street had the perfect sample,” Madame Florent announces, flouncing into the shop, the front door tinkling behind her.
Her words land like an icy breeze. Mother scoots back fromRosalie, and Aunt Genevieve wipes discreetly at her eyes before Madame Florent walks into the seating area.
“Wonderful,” Mother says. “Thank you so much. I’ll change first, shall I?”
She stands and lets Madame Florent lead her into the fitting room, leaving Rosalie and Aunt Genevieve sitting alone.
“I—” Rosalie starts.
Aunt Genevieve shakes her head. “Later.”
Rosalie meets her eyes, wanting to argue, but the anguish on her face stops her cold. “Uncle Walter mentioned you’re planting a garden at the estate. What are you having planted?” she asks instead.
Two hours later, Rosalie’s stomach is hot with anxiety and she can tell Mother’s getting a headache. Aunt Genevieve’s personal sitting room is a comfort. Rosalie stares around at the bright paintings of floral gardens and lets herself sink into Aunt Genevieve’s worn cream settee. Mother settles in the blue armchair and they sit, waiting, while Aunt Genevieve paces at the end of the low table between the other settee and Rosalie’s perch.
“When I came back to Bath, married, why didn’t you write to her?” Aunt Genevieve asks.
“She wouldn’t have read my letter,” Mother says softly. “We spoke only once, after. She told me she never wanted to see me again. And I couldn’t—I don’t blame her.”
“I don’t either,” Aunt Genevieve says, a bite to her voice that wasn’t there before. “She wouldn’t have told anyone,” she adds.
Mother looks up at Aunt Genevieve. “I know.”
“And yet you let my brother command you to ruin her reputation anyway? You took his word, his stupid, irrational, angry— He was so mad, Clara. He wasn’t thinking clearly.”
