"The rain has stopped," she observed. "The gardens will be lovely for walking, should anyone wish to seek clarity in the open air."
She was gone before he could respond, leaving Samuel alone among the orchids with a question he could not answer and a hope he was no longer sure he wanted to suppress.
CHAPTER 12
The letter arrived with the afternoon post, innocent in its cream-colored envelope, bearing her mother's familiar handwriting. Alice carried it to her bedroom, her expression neutral, as if she had received countless such letters and would receive countless more. She even managed a smile for the maid who brought it, her usual brightness a shield against whatever awaited inside.
Now, perched on the edge of her bed, she crumpled the letter in her fingers, the brightness fading into something darker.
“Your father and I have discussed the matter at length,” her mother had written. “At your age, Alice, one cannot afford the luxury of excessive particularity. Five Seasons is quite enough time to have formed reasonable expectations.”
Five Seasons. The phrase struck at the core of her, the words underlined as if Alice might forget the number, as if those years did not weigh upon her with every whispered comment, every pitying glance, every drawing room conversation that fell silent when she entered.
She read on, her fingers trembling.
“Lord Pemberton has expressed interest through his mother. He is fifty-three and a widower, but his estate is substantial, and he requires a wife capable of managing his household and providing companionship in his declining years. Sir William Hartley remains unmarried at forty, and while his fortune is more modest, his family connections are impeccable. I have also heard promising things about Mr. Charles Weatherby, though his situation in trade makes him less desirable unless all other options prove untenable.”
A list. Her mother had compiled a list, cataloging Alice's remaining prospects. This one older but wealthy, that one acceptable but common, the third reserved for emergencies when desperation outweighed dignity.
Alice's face hardened. Her features arranged themselves into something cold and distant, the mask she wore to guard against feeling too much. Her fingers tightened on the paper until the edges crumpled beneath her grip.
“You must understand,” her mother continued, “that I write from a position of considerable concern. Your father grows impatient. The expense of another Season weighs upon him, and he has begun to speak of reducing your dowry should you fail to secure an attachment this year. I do not wish to see you diminished, my dear, but neither can I continue to advocate for your independence when it has yielded nothing but disappointment.”
Disappointment. As if Alice's life were an investment that had failed to yield returns. As if her worth could be measured in offers received and settlements negotiated, her value determined by men who saw her as decoration rather than as a person to be known.
With a sudden motion, she tore the letter.
The sound was satisfying—a rip that split the words, separating reasonable expectations from excessive particularity, divorcing concern from disappointment. She tore it again, her movements growing more forceful, until the letter existed only as fragments scattered across her lap, the remnants of a life she refused to accept.
The pieces tumbled to the carpet as she stood, drifting downward in the afternoon light streaming through her windows, golden and warm, entirely unsuited to the cold fury in her chest. Alice watched them settle among the Persian patterns, creamagainst crimson, her mother's hopes reduced to confetti.
Then she pressed her palms against her eyes and stood still.
She would not cry. Years ago, she had promised herself she would not cry over this, over the slow suffocation of expectation, the cataloging of her failures, the transformation of possibility into resignation. Tears signified defeat, and Alice Pickford did not admit defeat.
But her throat ached, and her eyes burned beneath her palms. When she finally lowered her hands, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room and barely recognized the woman who stared back.
Her hair had come partially undone, dark strands escaping to curl against cheeks gone pale. Her dress, a simple afternoon gown of soft green muslin, had wrinkled where she had sat hunched over the letter, and her eyes held a wildness that would have horrified her mother more than any number of torn missives.
Too wild to wed.The whisper surfaced from memory, and Alice laughed, a sound devoid of humor, only the sharp edge of recognition.
She began to pace.
The bedroom of Oakford Hallassigned to her was generous, appointed with comfortable elegance, but it suddenly felt small, its walls pressing inward as if conspiring with her mother to narrow her options. Alice moved from window to wardrobe to bed and back again, her slippers silent on the carpet, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.
"Traded like livestock at market," she muttered, the words escaping before she could contain them. "Cataloged, assessed, and sold to the highest bidder willing to overlook the age of the merchandise."
She thought of her mother, once brilliant and quick-witted, who brightened rooms just by being there. She remembered watching that brightness fade, year by year, until all that remained was a woman discussing household matters and social obligations with the flat tone of someone reading from a script they no longer believed in.
That was what they wanted for her. Not happiness, not fulfillment, not even contentment, just the appropriate arrangement. The suitable match. The acceptable settlement that would turn Lady Alice Pickford into someone else's property, someone else's responsibility, someone else's problem to manage.
Alice stopped at the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Beyond, the gardens of Oakford Hall stretched in shades of green andgrey, still damp from the morning's rain, beautifully wild. Somewhere in those gardens, she had been kissed by a man who looked at her as if she were more than a mere catalog entry.
She closed her eyes against the memory.
The knock at the door startled her, scattering her composure like the letter fragments at her feet. Alice straightened, swiping at her cheeks in a reflexive gesture, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"One moment," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
