Nancy looped her arm through Lavinia’s. “Of course. Now promise me you will not swear off Dukes entirely, at least until the season is over.”
Lavinia made a face, but promised.
When she left, the air seemed colder, but lighter. She wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders, Nancy’s words—aboutwalls and possibility and the foolishness of “never”—echoing in her mind.
It changes nothing, Lavinia told herself.There is only the one path, and it is neither brave nor beautiful. It is survival.
But as she walked back to Pembroke Manor, she found herself wondering, for the first time, if there might be a different way. If she dared.
Later that night, Lavinia sat hunched at the escritoire in the library with her arms braced among the scattered ledgers and the blunt-nosed quill, the single stub of wax her only companion.
She had been at it for hours, teasing out every sum, every column, every stray penny that might be coaxed from the estate’s bones. The pages before her were a battle: ink against arithmetic, pride against encroaching defeat.
She added the numbers again, careful and slow, then glared at the total as if it might cower into submission. It did not. There was no way forward, not unless she did something drastic. Or impossible.
She pressed her hands to her face, wishing, for once, to be someone else. Someone reckless, or at least someone less obsessed with obligation.
The door to the library creaked open. Frances appeared, already in her nightdress, eyes wide in the gloom.
“Are you still working?” Frances tiptoed closer, mindful of the loose board that always gave them away.
“There is a great deal to do,” Lavinia said, schooling her voice to calm.
Frances hovered, arms hugging herself. “May I help?”
Lavinia forced a smile. “You help every day.”
Frances shifted from foot to foot. “I was thinking—I could sell my pearl combs, if you need. They were Mother’s, but they are not very fashionable now.”
Lavinia’s heart wrenched. “They are yours. I would never ask it.”
Frances came closer, peering at the ledger as if it might yield a secret. “I could paint for the neighbors,” she offered, tentatively. “Mrs. Wilkins says I have a talent for likeness. She said she would pay for a portrait of her cat, if I wished.”
Lavinia reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her sister’s ear. “You are too good,” she said. “And too generous.”
Frances looked up, the candlelight catching in her eyes. “I do not want you to be sad.”
“I am not sad,” Lavinia lied, smoothing the page with her palm. “I am only determined.”
Frances nodded, then lingered, uncertain.
“Come here,” Lavinia said, rising and gathering Frances into her arms. She was startled by how much her sister had grown—when had she become tall enough to fit so well?
Lavinia pressed her cheek to the soft, fine hair and whispered, “I will find a way. This is not your burden to bear.”
Frances tightened her grip, then let go. “Good night, Lavinia.”
“Good night, darling.”
When the door shut, Lavinia stared at the numbers and thought of Nancy’s words, the ones about walls and possibility, and wondered what sort of future might exist if she had the courage to reach for it.
But even as she wished for that future, she knew what must be done. There would be no rescue, no grand declaration, no easy way out.
CHAPTER 25
“One, two, three, and now, Lady Sophia, you pivot. Not like you are balancing a bowl of eels, but as if you are perfectly at ease with the notion of moving in public,” Lavinia instructed, gliding backward and gesturing for her pupil to do the same.
Sophia, valiantly determined but rigid as an embroidery hoop, stuttered through the turn, nearly colliding with a chair leg. She caught herself, her cheeks a burning pink, and stared at her slippers as if they had personally betrayed her.
