"A goat ate your hats?"
"My very best hats. Including the one with the peacock feathers that I had been saving for Lady Morton's garden party." Aunt Bertha sighed. "I did not speak to him for three days. And then he came to me with this ridiculous expression, like a puppy who knows it has done wrong but cannot quite remember what, and I forgave him immediately. That was the trouble with Frederick. One could never stay angry with him for long."
"The secret," she continued, selecting another biscuit, "is that the affection must always outweigh the murderous impulses. If it does not, you have entered into matrimony with the wrong person."
"That is... surprisingly practical advice."
"I am a surprisingly practical woman, beneath all the…" She waved a hand at herself, encompassing the lavender shawls, the tangled yarn, the biscuit crumbs now dotting her bodice. "Well. Beneath all of this. Do not let the yarn fool you. I am quite sensible when it matters."
A tremendous crash from somewhere in the house made them both jump. Lady Wayworth's voice rose to new heights of displeasure, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and apologetic murmuring.
"That would be the vase in the upstairs hallway," Aunt Bertha said calmly. "I noticed it sitting rather precariously on that narrow table. I meant to mention it to someone, but I got distracted by the yarn. The yarn is very distracting."
"Perhaps we should take a turn in the garden," Vanessa suggested. "Before Mama discovers we are sitting here doing nothing useful."
"An excellent idea. Fresh air is good for the constitution and more importantly it shall place us quite beyond the reach of the coming storm.”
The garden was a welcome respite from the chaos within. Spring had arrived in full force, painting the grounds in shades of green and gold, filling the air with the scent of new growth and possibility. Vanessa walked beside her aunt along the gravel paths, letting the peace of the outdoors settle over her like a blanket.
The roses were beginning to bud, she noticed. In a few weeks, they would be in full bloom, filling the garden with color and fragrance. She would miss them, in London. The townhouse had a small garden, but nothing could match the sprawling grounds of Wayworth Manor, where one could walk for an hour without retracing one's steps.
“You wear the expression of a person deeply lost in contemplation.” Aunt Bertha observed.
“My mind is ever in motion… a restless habit I find impossible to subdue.”
“I believe you are blessed to have the ability to deliberate… Most people go through life without ever having a genuine thought at all. They simply respond to whatever stimulus presents itself without any deeper consideration." Aunt Bertha paused to examine a rosebush that had not yet begun to bloom, her fingers gentle on the tight green buds. "You, my dear, have the opposite problem. You think so much that you sometimes forget to feel."
"That is not true."
"Is it not?" Her aunt straightened, fixing her with a look that was far too perceptive for comfort. "When was the last time youdid something purely because you wanted to, without subjecting the matter to such exhausting scrutiny? When was the last time you allowed yourself to simplyfeelsomething, without immediately trying to understand or control it?"
Vanessa opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. The honest answer was that she could not remember. Every emotion she experienced was immediately subjected to scrutiny, examined and categorised and filed away in the appropriate mental compartment. It was how she survived, how she maintained the composure that everyone admired so much.
It was also, she was beginning to realise, exhausting.
"Lord Deane is calling this afternoon," Aunt Bertha said, after they had walked in comfortable silence for some minutes. "Your mother mentioned it at breakfast. Twice…and with significant looks."
"Mama has a gift for significant looks."
"She does. It is quite remarkable, really. I have never known anyone who could convey so much disapproval with a single eyebrow." Aunt Bertha paused to examine a rosebush that had not yet begun to bloom. "What do you think of him? Lord Deane, I mean. Not your mother's eyebrow."
Vanessa considered the question. What did she think of Lord Deane? He was handsome, in a pleasant, unremarkable way. He was kind and quite attentive. He had called on her twice already this Season, each time bringing flowers and making conversation that was perfectly agreeable if not particularly memorable.
"He is... nice," she said finally.
"Splendid!” Aunt Bertha repeated the word as though testing its weight. "That is rather faint praise."
"I did not mean it as faint praise. I meant it as... accurate praise. He is genuinely nice. I do not believe there is something wrong with nice."
"No, there is not. Nice is perfectly acceptable. Nice is what one wants in a vicar or a shop clerk or the man who delivers the milk." Aunt Bertha turned to look at her, something sharp and knowing in her faded blue eyes. "But is nice what you want in a husband?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through Vanessa's carefully maintained composure. She thought of Lord Deane with his pleasant smile, his pleasant conversation and his pleasant everything. She thought of how she felt when he entered a room, which was to say, she felt nothing in particular. No quickening of her pulse, no flutter in her chest, no desperate awareness of his presence.
She thought of how she felt when Martin entered a room, and quickly stopped thinking about it.
"I do believe nice might be exactly what I need," she said quietly. "Nice is stable and safe. Nice does not leave one feeling as though the ground might give way at any moment."
Aunt Bertha was silent for a long moment. They continued walking, past the rose garden and the past the small pond where Vanessa had once fallen in as a child and past the old oak tree that had stood sentinel over the grounds for longer than anyone could remember.
