“Oh!” Dorothy erupted into nervous laughter that quickly flowed into the sweet sound of a genuine chuckle. “Oh, you cannot do that to me! You had me so worried!”
Thalia grinned. “My dearest sister, even with the stubborn intervention of those two, these past few hours with you have made everything so much better. I am at peace with you. You are my medicine. My anchor.”
It had always been the truth. Ever since their mother passed, the bond between the sisters had become an unbreakable thing that not even amnesia could weaken. Thalia had taken it upon herself to be her sister’s protector in their mother’s absence and Dorothy, in turn, had been the balm that helped to heal Thalia’s grief.
And the loss of memories was not so far from a kind of grief.
Dorothy blushed, her eyes misty. “It warms my heart to hear that, Thalia. Indeed, I was so angry at Father when he would not permit me to visit you after your fall, so seeing you, discovering that you are still mostly yourself; it is a medicine to me too.”
“Was I… still a good sister these past four years?” Thalia ventured, uncertain of whether or not she wished to hear the answer.
“The best.” Dorothy nodded. “I do not see you as much as I should like, between Father’s seemingly random refusals and your astoundingly busy diary of engagements, but you write at least once a week. And, in truth, I do not do much. I expect that will change when I debut but, for now, I lead a rather sedate existence.”
A note of sadness altered the song of Dorothy’s revelation. Thalia reached across the card table and took hold of her sister’s hands, feeling that she had somehow failed Dorothy despite her insistence that Thalia had continued to be a good sister.
“Tell me you still play the pianoforte as often as you please?” she urged, for that would be a small comfort.
Some brightness returned to Dorothy’s eyes, a fresh flush of pink coloring her cheeks. “Every day. Do remind me to show you the pianoforte that you sent to me.” She gestured vaguely toward the Sun Room door. “It is the most beautiful thing I shall ever ownand, as it was gifted to me by you, Father cannot remove it nor can he stop me from practicing.”
“I did that?” Thalia’s heart swelled.
“You did.” Dorothy hesitated. “You have done a great many things since your wedding. There is a school at Netherley, Farhampton Village, Bycross Hill and Holdridge now, because you willed there to be. I believe a butcher’s boy inspired you when he dropped all of the day’s delivery notes and could not put them back in order again. He was quite distraught, you aided him, and now there are three schools so that no village child will suffer that again.
“Then, there are the charity parties and balls that you host; the donations you make to righteous causes; and that is before we mention the…” Dorothy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper “… publishing of women’s books.”
For a moment, Thalia could not speak. They were all dreams she had had when she was younger, particularly the charity events and the publishing, but to hear that she had made them happen seemed impossible. As if shewerein a dream, and had not woken up from her accident at all.
Henry did say that I am wealthy now. Because of him, I assume.
She frowned and glanced across the room to her husband, who had his nose in the afternoon’s papers, though it was obvious enough to her that he was not reading a word. He was watchingher. Observing. And she had to wonder if that observation extended to those realized dreams of hers.
“I publish books?” she asked warily, returning her attention to Dorothy.
“You have your own, albeit secret, publishing house,” Dorothy replied. “You print only books by women, for women. Names are altered for confidentiality, but they are very popular: poems, novels, memoirs, as well as practical, informative books. Indeed, you really threw yourself into work once you married the duke.”
It sounded more like distraction to Thalia. Beneficial distraction, undoubtedly, but distraction nonetheless. Something to occupy herself through the loneliness of a marriage of convenience, to a man she could not possibly have chosen for herself.
Maybe, he does not know about the publishing. If he did, he would surely put an end to it.After all, he had made it abundantly clear that he cared about the reputation of his good name above everything else. As his wife, she was included in that family name now.
“And no one knows I am behind such a thing?” Thalia asked quietly.
Dorothy shook her head. “Heavens, no. Even the writers do not know, for all of your business is conducted anonymously. There is speculation, of course, but none suspect you.”
For some reason, that disappointed Thalia. She did not want accolades for good deeds, for that rather defeated the point, but shedidadore books with her whole heart. She would have liked people to know that she was a champion of feminine literature in action not just empty platitudes, despite understanding why a duchess could not possibly declare such a thing.
“In truth, you are every bit the perfect duchess,” Dorothy added.
Thalia tilted her head to one side in thought. “Yet, I hear I am gossiped about?”
“There are… rumors that you have been abandoned by your husband,” Dorothy explained haltingly, as if it pained her to have to say so. “Rumors that are not helped by the duke’s constant absence at your side. But, you bear every whisper and remark with such grace, and field interrogations with such polite dismissals that,despitethe gossip, you are universally admired as a splendid duchess.”
There was a harder note in Dorothy’s voice as she repeated what Thalia already knew about Henry’s perpetual absence, both in publicandin private. A tone that spoke of the wish their mother had made for them upon her deathbed, now never to be fulfilled—for Thalia, at least.
“Youwill marry whomever you choose,” Thalia urged, giving Dorothy’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I will make certain of it. In my position, Father would not dare to defy Mama’s last wish twice.”
Is that why I agreed to the marriage? For Dorothy?The memories of just before her first accident—the last thing she remembered—were still foggy. Not an empty void like the past four years, but more like dust motes dancing in her head that she could not quite grasp.
She knew there had been an argument with her father, she knew she had taken the carriage to go and speak with her unexpected betrothed, but the exact details were a blur. For the life of her, she could not recall the argument itself, other than the part where she was quite adamant that Dorothy should be permitted to keep her pianoforte.
