"Don't lie to me," Frances said as she kneeled on the footstool beside Lavinia's chair. "I saw Mr. Tomley's carriage leaving as I returned from my walk. Has something happened with Father's estate?"
Lavinia looked at her sister and realized with a start that the child she had practically raised was nearly a woman now. At seventeen, Frances's features had lost their girlish roundness, revealing the elegant beauty she would soon become. Her eyes, so like their mother's, held a wisdom beyond her years.
Sighing, Lavinia reached for her silver-backed hairbrush. "Turn around," she instructed, falling back on the comforting ritual of their childhood. As Frances obediently presented her back, Lavinia began to draw the brush through her sister's honey-brown curls, finding solace in the familiar motion.
"A creditor has come forward," she explained, her voice steadier now. "Someone Father apparently borrowed money from during his final illness. They're demanding repayment."
"How much?" Frances asked, pragmatic as always.
"One thousand pounds."
Frances stilled. "We don't have that money ."
"No, we don't." The brush continued its rhythmic movement through Frances's hair. "But everything will be fine," Lavinia added, even as her voice betrayed her uncertainty. "I shall think of something."
"You always do," Frances replied, turning slightly to look up at her sister. "But I wish you wouldn't pretend with me. I'm nota child anymore, Lavinia. I know our situation is dire. I know you've been taking in work secretly to keep us afloat."
Lavinia's hand paused mid-stroke. "How did you?—"
"I've seen the letters you copy late at night. I've noticed how your fingers are pricked from needlework far more delicate than simple mending. I know you receive callers when you think I'm out walking—tradesmen's daughters who leave looking slightly more refined than when they arrived." Frances smiled sadly. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"I had hoped to spare you the worry," Lavinia admitted, resuming her brushing.
"Instead, you've borne it all alone." Frances reached up to catch her sister's hand, stilling it. "What happens if we can't pay this debt?"
The blunt question demanded an equally blunt answer. "We lose Pembroke Manor."
"And then?"
"And then we find lodgings elsewhere. Smaller, more economical." Lavinia forced brightness into her tone. "Perhaps in Bath. Many respectable families live quite comfortably there on modest incomes."
"And my debut? My Season?" Frances asked quietly.
The question struck Lavinia like a physical blow. Frances's debut—the introduction to society that every well-bred young lady anticipated from childhood—had been the one thing Lavinia had refused to compromise on, no matter how dire their financial straits. She had saved every spare penny, sold family heirlooms, taken on increasingly demanding secret work, all to ensure her sister would have this one chance at securing a future through a good marriage.
"Your debut will proceed as planned," Lavinia said. "I promised Mother I would see to it, and I shall."
Even if I must sacrifice everything else to make it happen, she added silently.
Frances studied her sister's face, her own expression troubled. "At what cost to you, Lavinia? You've already given up so much."
"None too great for your happiness," Lavinia replied, resuming her brushing with renewed vigor.
As her hands moved through the familiar motions, Lavinia's mind raced with desperate calculations. One thousand pounds... an impossible sum to raise through her current endeavors. Even selling what little of value remained in the house wouldn't cover half the amount.
There was only one solution, one she had been avoiding since their father's death: marriage. Not for Frances—not yet—but for herself. A strategic alliance with a wealthy man who would bewilling to settle her family's debts in exchange for the prestige of marrying the daughter of an earl, regardless of her lack of dowry.
It needn't be a love match, she reasoned as the brush moved through Frances's curls.Simply a practical arrangement. Many marriages begin on less promising terms.
Yet even as she made this cold-blooded decision, her mind drifted unbidden to the mysterious gentleman from the masquerade ball six months ago. The way his hand had felt holding hers, the confidence in his stance that had somehow avoided arrogance, the intensity in his gaze behind his simple black mask. For one brief waltz, she had forgotten her troubles, her responsibilities, her carefully constructed walls.
For so long, she had planned and scrimped and economized to keep her family complete financial ruin. What might it be like to have someone take care ofher?
How strange that she should think of him now, when practical matters demanded her full attention.
She didn't even know his name, his face, anything about him beyond the feeling of rightness she'd experienced in his arms.
Foolish fancy, she chided herself.
