He paused for breath again; this time, I was ready. “I am sorry, Father. I know my conduct is not what it ought to be, and I will endeavor to do better in the future. I am, of course, incredibly grateful for the efforts you have undertaken on my behalf. I am the most fortunate of daughters.” With that, I slipped on the placid, slightly vacant smile I had perfected over the years. Mouth closed, lips turned up at just the corners. I tipped them just slightly higher than usual while delivering the compliment before settling to their resting place. He has complained before that my expression at rest is gloomy and discontent. He hated to see me wandering around the house looking so sour. I had worked to adopt a more serene countenance. In moments like these, it was a delicate balancing act. My expression should be contrite and grateful without veering toward smugness or mocking.
“Quite right.” The urgency of his anger had departed, but it remained, humming under the surface.
“I do have a few questions. If you can spare a moment?” I strived to keep the trepidation from my voice, and was mostly successful.
With a put-upon sigh, he delivered a sharp, “Does it need to be now?” For one hysterical moment, I almost asked why his question was less ill-mannered than mine. Fortunately, I remember myself.
I had thousands of questions; I settled on the few that were absolutely essential. “Do you know, is His Grace planning on calling to pay his addresses today? I should like to have Mrs. Elliot prepare her best sandwiches for the occasion and have the silver polished.”
This was dangerous ground. In my question was the implication that I was not managing the household as well as I ought. That it was not fit for royalty at all times. That I would take pains for a visitor that I would not exert for him. That he was not deserving of polished silver and exceptional sandwiches. Still, he had been tighter with the household funds in the last months. I already let a footman and a maid go, and Cook has been forced to take the less savory cuts of meat. If His Grace was to call, there was work to be done.
“Is the household not prepared for visitors?”
“No, Father, it is. I just thought to ensure the staff are all prepared for his visit.” I resisted the impulse to keep talking, to further explain myself, to offer excuses. No good would come of more words.
He eyed me warily, weighing whether to take offense. Under his scrutiny, it was more difficult to keep my calming breaths from becoming apparent. There was a danger here, of them becoming too shallow and undoing my efforts. Through it all, my serene smile never faltered, but I hoped desperately that there were no self-satisfied undertones in it.
“I see no reason Rosehill should call to pay his addresses to you. He and I have discussed it, and I have informed you. There’s no need for you to be involved in the matter; it does not concern you.” The smile slipped just a fraction before I righted it. I rather thought the matter concerned me a great deal. Still, it was a relief not to upset the entire household. “I imagine he will call at some time or other. It hardly signifies when. The household and your person are fit for a visitor of any station at any time, yes?”
“Yes, Father. Did you and His Grace have the opportunity to discuss when the wedding might take place? I will need to prepare a trousseau.”
“We agreed the end of the season would be best. His Grace would like you to fully enter society before you wed. You will need to make connections that will serve you as a duchess. Regarding your trousseau, I hope that wasn’t a request for funds. You have plenty of pin money for such things.” I did not, actually; he had not given me pin money in nearly a year.
He had always been odd about money. One day, he complained that Sophie and I were spending every coin he had; the next, he was gifting me a horse I neither requested nor wanted. I learned not to ask and to appreciate the windfalls as they came.
He turned back to his paper dismissively, and I was forced to forgo further questions.
The relief I felt when I pressed the study door closed behind me was immense. My breath came back to me in great lungfuls without permission. Dizzy with the excess of air, I was forced to pause in the hall; one hand to the wall and the other to my chest. My inhales were great raspy gasps, my exhales, barely restrained sobs. Both were impossibly loud in the empty hall. I could not remain here; he would hear.
I rushed to my room, striving to keep my footsteps light so as not to draw attention. By the time I arrived, I was somewhat more composed. Unfortunately, I was immediately beset by the gowns I had considered and rejected last evening. They served as a forceful reminder of how ill-prepared I was for my future role. I grabbed the one nearest and threw myself in the chair by the window with my embroidery supplies. Small shears in hand, an eerie calm settled over me as I snipped the threads forming the flowers on the bodice. The ones I painstaking stitched on the dusky blue-lavender silk over the course of a fortnight. Until last evening, I had been pleased with my results. But every flaw was apparent when I pressed the gown to my chest. The flowers were uneven, the stitches were loose, and the ones in the middle pulled the delicate fabric. Now, one by one, I removed the offending threads until I was left with bare material.
It was not until I went to my thread basket that I remembered I had used the last of the beautiful gold thread on the dress. It accented the shadowy bluish purple so well, and now it was gone. I snipped every single piece.
And that was it.
The dam holding back my tears gave way to shuddering, silent sobs. I frantically grabbed the pillow at my side, pressing it tightly to my face. As soon as it was in place, my throat took that as permission to release every anguished gasp I was suppressing. There was no counting my way out of this. The pillow made breathing difficult, but I didn’t dare remove it, certain it was the only thing between me and an even worse fate.
I did not even know what, precisely, I was crying about. My father’s harsh words? Those were nothing new. My engagement? I always knew I would marry eventually. The last of the beautiful thread my friend, Kate, gifted me with? My stepmother’s beautiful gown that I had just mangled? Sophie herself, my mother in all but blood, leaving me to navigate this alone? All of it? None of it?
* * *
“He tookone look at you and was determined to have you for his own. It’s so romantic!” My dearest friend had a flair for dramatics. My stepmother was Kate’s aunt through her mother. Her friendship sustained me through the long months of Sophie’s illness. I generally found her enthusiasm charming; in this circumstance, it was exhausting. A few days was not nearly enough time to recover from the shock of my betrothal. Still, she was the closest thing I had to a sister and I appreciated her excitement on my behalf.
She had gained an incredible library with her marriage to Viscount Grayson. A room I was far more fond of than she was. It was stunning with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with innumerable tomes. Additional shelves were added once the walls were filled to bursting. The room was decorated an airy blue color with floral prints. Two arched mahogany doors, carved with elaborate vines and scrolls, served as the primary entrance. A second entrance with a single, more simplistic, door that I assumed led to a study sat along the side wall. There were large windows for light with an oversized, comfortable chair in front of each that served as a repose for the reader. Between the chairs, abutting a wall, was a moderately-sized rectangular table covered in a fine white cloth. It was intended to rest books, but Kate and I had adapted it for tea.
Once she showed me the room, I claimed it for my own, and she now did me the kindness of receiving me there. And sent me home with all the books my heart could desire. Most days, I never wished to leave.
“Kate, on the whole, I’ve spent no more than five hours in his presence! I don’t even know how he takes his tea.” I gestured with my cup for emphasis. “He never stays long enough for it to arrive. How am I to succeed as his wife?”
His Grace had visited twice since our disastrous supper. The first time, alone to propose and provide me with the ostentatious ruby ring now adorning my finger. The second, with his sister. Both appeared mildly uncomfortable when presented with the prospect of resting their fine clothing on our shabby furnishings.
His Grace and Lady Davina expressed some admiration for my embroidery on their joint visit. I appreciated their compliments. I also appreciated their tact in choosing not to mention the lack of a pianoforte anywhere in the home.
“You will learn, and I’m sure he’s more interested in other activities than tea preparation.” Kate never met a topic of conversation she considered improper. For a vicar’s daughter, she was unusually comfortable with more scandalous subjects. Her fondness for causing me discomfort had not lessened with her new title.
“Kate!”
“Well, it’s true. The servants prepare Hugh’s tea. The only use he seems to have for me is in the bedroom.” Her tone was less upbeat than I expected of her, almost guarded. I was about to interrupt her to ask more when she continued. “But Rosehill, he’s so handsome! I’m sure you’re looking forward to such attentions.”
