“Oh, did she? We would love your assistance with the plans and decoration.”
I smiled. “I would love to be involved. I will help in any way I can.” I truly was excited, but still worried over James being in attendance. I quickly stopped my worries. I could easily avoid him.
Mrs. Abbot threaded one of her embroidery needles. “You will be delighted with the festivities, I assure you. The largest of the parties will be Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night.”
We went on to chat about the parties for another hour, with the three of them telling stories of parties past—mistletoe incidents in the servant’s wing, spilled bowls of punch, and the time a footman’s sleeve caught fire playing snapdragon.
I laughed, even more eager to attend than before. How delightful it would be to spend night after night with friends and strangers coming together in celebration. The people of this town greatly anticipated this time of year, especially the poor. How often did they get to enjoy a feast and be given warm clothing?
I left the house late in the afternoon, hurrying home so I didn’t miss Clara’s return. I hardly had time to open the door before Clara met me there. Her cheeks were splotched in red, her eyes wet. My gaze froze on her face. Closing the door behind me, I guided her to the sofa.
“What happened?” My voice was hushed.
She put her face in her hands. “He acted as if he hadn’t received the letter at all. He went on aloof and distant.”
My heart sank. “How could that be?”
She clenched her teeth as she always did when holding back tears. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, Clara. Tears over a man are wasted. Don’t cry.”
Her lip quivered. She tried to speak but it came out muffled between sobs. “I’m not c-crying. I’m weeping. Th-there’s a d-difference.”
I brought her head to my shoulder and cradled it as shewept. “There must be an explanation for this. Perhaps he misunderstood the words? Perhaps he didn’t read it at all?”
“He must have read it. How could you not read a mysterious letter thrown through your door in the dark?” She swiped the tears from her cheeks and shook her head. “I should have never believed myself capable of marrying a man like him, living in a home like his, being admired by society. I never wanted any of it before, but I let myself hope for all of those things only because they were attached to him—to Thomas. I loved him first.”
“Don’t give up,” I said firmly. “Soon enough he will come to his senses.”
She just shook her head, defeated. I couldn’t bear to see it.
“He will,” I said with more force.
I hoped I was right this time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Love cannot be found where is doesn’t exist,
nor can it be hidden where it truly does.”
To my surprise, we received another letter from Mama the next morning. It must have been sent just days after the previous one. Clara and I stood with our shoulders pressed together, heads bent close over the paper.
It shook in her hand.
My daughters,
I have received word that your father fell ill on his journey to France and has since died. Although it came as a shock, I feel unaltered by the news, if not more free. I hope you will feel the same. I hope you will not find me depraved for saying so, but I quite enjoy being a widow. Please do not bother with mourning; black has never been Charlotte’s color.
Yours, etc.
Mama
The silence that followed was strange; the surge of grief I expected to come refused to do anything but rustle over my skin like leaves. I had hardly known the man. Clara held still beside me, reading the words over and over, as if begging herself to feel something more than indifference.
I touched her arm, calling her gaze to my face. Her eyes were empty.
“How could Mama say such things?” Clara asked. “He was her husband.”
