I could still picture the expressions of reprimand and shock and disapproval, but Mama’s words were falling over them like a shadow, bringing forward smiles and looks of envy.
I gave a quiet laugh. “I worried it might have been too much.”
Mama scoffed loudly. “It would be a monstrous surprise if Mr. Weatherby doesn’t call on you tomorrow. And Sir Edward could not take his eyes off you, especially after your performance. I daresay you have acquired several new prospects.”
My mind spun. Of course Mama was right. What had compelled me to doubt? As we entered the carriage, I brushed aside my worries and turned my thoughts to what dress I would wear tomorrow and which bonnet would most complement my eyes. If I looked beautiful enough, then I could win any heart. I closed my eyes and pictured my life as mistress of a grand estate, hosting parties and presenting the house as my own. I pictured the endless pin money my husband would grant me to spend in London. Then I could be off, only to see him on rare occasions. When we grew older, he would spend his days in his study like Papa, and I could spend my days entertaining fashionable guests and perusing the finest shops.
I placed my hand on my chest and exhaled my worries. If I played my cards right, that future could be mine. I would behappier than I had ever been in my life. Love was fickle—nothing to aspire to.
I considered Mama and Papa. They had planned to marry from a young age, encouraged by their parents of the advantages of their union. Rarely did they speak, and both behaved as they liked. A match like theirs could never create such damage as a broken heart. Hearts were fragile, and I planned to keep mine from harm. Glassware was stored in sturdy cupboards, never atop a nursery table. It would be easily destroyed by the child’s curious, destructive hands. I had worked very hard to keep my heart far away from everyone, just as Mama had.
I glanced at her stoic expression in the dark carriage before closing my eyes again.
The sky was black when we pulled into the drive. Crickets created an orchestra in the air as I walked toward the front doors. Our home, Eshersed Park, loomed like a castle in the moonlight. The cream stone looked grey, and a few candles still flickered behind the windows.
Inside, I wasn’t surprised that Clara didn’t greet us. She was likely in her room with her face buried in her pillow, crying over her misfortune. The image brought a smile to my face. My curiosity couldn’t be helped, so I climbed up the stairs to her bedchamber and threw open the doors. I was disappointed to see that her bed was free of a prostrate, weeping figure.
“Clara!” I called. “Mr. Weatherby has fallen madly in love with me!”
Nothing.
I walked to the window and stared down into the gardens. I was about to turn away when I noticed a single dot of light gleaming among the shrubs and trees. It had to be her.
Running to the back door, I stepped into the night air once again. After weaving my way through the intricate gardens, I came up behind my sister sitting on a large stone, her brown hairhanging in waves over her shoulders. Her head was bent over something. The candle I had seen from the window was sitting beside her on the stone, bathing her face in an orange glow. I caught sight of the item in her hands. It was a book.
“What are you reading?” I asked, making her jump. “And what, pray tell, are you doing out here in the dark?”
She turned with narrowed eyes, the book pressed against her chest. “What I am reading is none of your concern.” Her nostrils flared. “I hear no news of an engagement, so I assume your deception fooled no one?”
I huffed a breath. “You are wrong. Mr. Weatherby was quite taken with my beauty and talent, and surely plans to court me.”
She rolled her eyes and flipped the page of her book. My anger surged. I lunged forward and ripped it from her hands.
She gasped and whirled around on her stone chair. “Give that back!”
I examined the cover and turned my head with disgust. “You are reading another of those silly romances, are you?” I snorted. “What do you suppose will come of it? The handsome hero will ascend from the pages, desperately in love with you?”
She jumped for the book but I pulled it away and out of her reach.
“Charlotte, give it back!” she yelled.
“How do you believe in this nonsense? Such behavior is harmful to your health, dear sister.” I leafed the pages open and tore out a handful of paper and inky, false words.
Clara stopped trying to reach the book, but melted into tears. “Stop! Stop!” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned over, hiding her face from me.
I crumpled another fistful of the pages. “You will thank me for this,” I said. “Love is not real.” When I finished, I dropped the binding to the dirt.
Clara glared at me through her tears. “Just because you haven’t been able to make anyone fall in love with you doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
Her words struck me hard. My heart pinched within me, a sharp stab that I ignored. How dare she say that? She knew how hard I had tried to secure a husband, and how painfully I had failed. My throat tightened, but I swallowed hard. “What about you? Does anyone love you?”
Clara fell silent.
“No.” I lifted my chin. “I didn’t think so.”
“How can you be so awful?” She spit the words at me and tears fell slowly down her cheeks. “I hope you fall in love someday, Charlotte. And I hope he breaks your heart.”
I shook my head with my hands on my hips. “Impossible.”
