The fire refused to light, the smoke growing thicker the more Emily attempted to coax flame from the embers. The problemwas the damp wood—but she simply could not cut it fast enough, and sourcing the wood was difficult enough at this time of year.
Her bones ached with the cold as she rose, abandoning the fire to its own devices and wrapping the blanket back over her shoulders as she started on what would be a very miserable cold dinner.
Finally, as she had quite given up on her sister, Isabella burst through the back door, a scarf around her neck and her cheeks flushed red from the cold. Her eyes sparkled, and she looked like a girl in love.
Emily’s heart contracted.
She had long known that Isabella chafed at the natural restrictions placed on them by their straitened circumstances, but at this sight of her sister’s joy—caused by something outside of Emily’s control—she felt it like a punch to her gut.
“Shut the door,” she said, attempting to keep her voice normal. “You’re letting the heat out.”
“What heat?” The brightness on Isabella’s face dimmed at the sight of the smoking fire. Still, she shut the door.
“Where have you been?”
“I told you. I went to sell the eggs.”
“Mm.”
“Mr Pickett says it’s going to snow.” Isabella scraped the mud from her boots. “He says he can smell it in the air.”
“Well, Mr Pickett is usually right about such things.” Emily peered out of the window at the sky. “And the clouds do look heavy. Thank goodness you got back before any bad weather struck.” Something that would not have been a consideration if she had been back when Emily expected. “Did you get everything?”
“Flour, butter and mutton.” Isabella hoisted her basket onto the table. “Mrs Landstone says the price of coal has gone up again.”
Just in time for snowfall. No doubt Emily would have to open new blisters on her hands chopping more wood so it could fail to light in her hearths. “Never mind,” she said. “At least you got mutton. Any more news from the village?” Emily watched Isabella’s face for any sign of a blush. But Isabella’s face merely lit up again.
“There’s a ball next week at theRose & Crown. Sixpence entry fee.” She looked at Emily expectantly, as though Emily could conjure money from nothing.
If she could, she would not have spent the past fifteen minutes battling with damp wood and unwilling flame.
“We can’t afford it, dearest,” she said.
Once again, Isabella’s face fell. “You went dancing at my age,” she muttered.
“That was before.” Before their mother had died and their father had fallen into the greatest depression of his life. Before they had struggled to afford food and coal and shoes. “But speaking of before,” she said, taking a deep breath to prepare herself, “I have something I want to tell you.”
Isabella slumped into one of the chairs by the table. “Are you trying to explain why I shouldn’t want to go dancing?”
“No. It’s natural for you to want to go dancing—and if I could make it happen, I would. This is about something else, although it is connected.” She hesitated, resting her hip against the kitchen side. Her bones ached with exhaustion, but Isabella had been so caught up in her own world, she hadn’t noticed.
Young love. Emily hoped it wasn’t.
“Pleasedo not attempt to give me advice on romance,” Isabella said, petulance in her voice.
“Why should I not?”
Isabella rolled her large, expressive eyes. “Because you have no experience in the matter. You might be seven years my senior, but that does not make you an expert.”
Emily nearly laughed. “What would you know about my experience?”
“Do you mean to say you have a beau?” Isabella sat up, instantly interested. “Is it the butcher’s son? He has been making eyes at you for the past six months or more.”
“No,” Emily said with as much patience as she could summon. “I have no intention of marrying him—or anyone.”
“But why?” Isabella looked utterly nonplussed. “Is this all you want for the rest of your life?”
“Of course I would prefer for things to be better, but—” She sighed. “That’s not the point. Have I ever told you about Lord Marlbury?”
