“Your little stories will make for a perfect hobby in the future.” Her father exhaled. “But the fact that you so much as imagine remaining unmarried proves your mother right. I may very well have been too permissive.”
Elle bit her lip, struggling to keep her true desires concealed beneath a façade of obedience. The grandeur of the dining room faded into a blur as she contemplated the life mapped out by her father, a tedious future where her sole purpose was to please a man, a life that did not align with her dreams.
“But—”
“Of course, if you’re reluctant to meet him, your Aunt Belinda will be more than happy to have your company this spring. In fact, I could put you on the mail coach first thing tomorrow morning.”
He was joking. There was no way her father would allow her to travel via mail coach. As to the other details of his threat, however, she couldn’t be so sure…
Even so, the future her family wanted for her was like a noose winding around her neck, one that grew tighter with each day that passed. He teased, but the words he must think harmless only caused the rope to squeeze tighter.
“Father, please! This is no laughing matter. You can’t make me do this. It’s as if you want me to be unhappy. Are you trying to punish me for something I’ve done?”
A beat of silence followed her outburst as her parents’ expressions darkened in a combination of outrage and concern.
“Punish you?” her father asked. “My dear daughter, I only want what’s best for you. Why would you say such things? Do you not trust me to find a good match for you?”
Elle swallowed a bitter laugh. She could back down now, let her family think she was falling in line as intended, but something inside refused to allow that particular question to go unanswered.
“Trust you? How could I? Harriette’s situation is tolerable enough, but Winnie is absolutely miserable with the man you chose for her.”
Her father looked ready to retort, but then he paused, a furrow appearing between his brows. “...Edwina is not happy with Baron Featherstone?” he eventually said.
Elle stared at him. “Have you not spoken with her at all?”
“She’s never mentioned that in her letters...”
Her father looked utterly flummoxed, but Elle could suddenly see what must have transpired with crystal clarity. Edwina might not say outright that the baron was a tyrant for a husband, but to Elle, her dissatisfaction was more than obvious. It was in the many small, seemingly mundane complaints she peppered throughout her letters without fail; it was in the hopeless manner with which she spoke of her own life and future; in the dimness in her eyes and the tension in her smiles whenever they did manage to see each other in person.
“Perhaps, Father, you did not see it because you simply did not care to look.”
But the most important man in her life merely held her gaze before turning his attention back to his soup.
“Of course your father looks,” her mother responded.
In swept an ocean of guilt.
“I will make an effort.” Elle stared down at her own dish. Perhaps she could stop off at the modiste’s on her way to the theater. Madam Chantel already possessed her measurements. The talented Frenchwoman excelled when allowed a free hand choosing styles, colors, and fabrics.
“I only want what’s best for you.” Her father’s reassurance broke into her scheming.
Times like this her heart cracked in two. Because she loved her father—dearly loved her father—but he only loved the person he wanted her to be—which had once been the perfect daughter but was now a wife and mother, and most importantly, a lady of the ton. Exactly as her mother and grandmother had been before her.
He was a principled man, but no one had ever accused him of being open-minded.
“Writing is what’s best for me.” She brought up her father’s least favorite subject.
“Writing can’t provide the protection a husband can,” he replied.
Elle swallowed.
“You will order a few new gowns and I will meet with the marquess tomorrow.” In her father’s mind, no doubt, the matter was settled.
Was the room closing in on her?
“I’ll see Madam Chantel before going to the hospital.” And then hope Mr. Dodd didn’t mind if she was a few minutes late.
Unfortunately, working as Mr. Dodd’s assistant was going to limit her time working with orphans. And when rehearsals began, she’d have to find some other excuse for being away from home during the evenings.
