Rose swallowed. “Oh.”They were right.The notecards weighed heavily in her lap. She glanced out the windows for a long moment then turned back. “And what if the point is…that youdobelong?” she asked softly, forcing herself to meet each of their gazes. “Not because you know the difference between salad forks or can speak French or Italian, but because you are women worthy of a table.”
A hush settled over the room.
Kadida’s voice was softer now. “Then maybe start with how to sit without shrinking.”
Rose gave her a long look. “What an excellent suggestion, Miss Botha.”
The door creaked open.
Gabriella’s voice sailed in first. “Are we discussing posture, revolution, or body disposal?”
Mabel coughed to disguise a laugh. Kadida didn’t even try.
“Dinner conversation,” Rose murmured. “It’s meant to be civil.”
Gabriella stepped fully into view, hands on her hips, eyes dancing. “Rose, darling, you’ve brought the house down. I may cry.”
Behind her, the Duchess of Ryleigh entered with less volume but twice the scrutiny. She took in the flushed faces, the still-lingering grins, the abandoned notecards—and Rose, squarely in the middle.
Rebecca’s gaze flicked to the girls, her eyes twinkling, then back to Rose. “What precisely are you attempting?”
Rose straightened, hands clenching within her skirts, unsure how to answer without sounding condescending, touch of resentment notwithstanding.
“We’re learning how to behave at tea.” Mabel spoke with all the acting ability she possessed that had drawn a crowd’s attention when she’d tread the boards. Believably, sincerely, and intoned with grace and elegance.
Rebecca raised one dark brow. “And you all responded with homicide and satire?”
Lena coughed. “To be fair, it was quite educational.”
Kadida added, nodding with a fair amount of exuberance, “We learned not to mention snow, scones, or sopranos.”
Gabriella gave a slow clap.
But Rebecca…Rebecca stepped closer, meeting Rose’s eyes fully.
“They listened,” she said softly. “They laughed. They spoke freely.” A pause. “You made room for that.”
Rose stared at her, resentment melting away like snow on a summer day. “I thought I made a mess.”
“Mess,” Rebecca replied, “is often the first step toward change. Shall I show you all my scars?”
“Your scars?”
Gabriella leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “She means you did well.”
“Yes,” Rebecca said. “It also means I’ve made numerous mistakes in my life and expect to make many more, though my husband may lock me in my chamber if I obtain more. There’s hardly room on my body as it is.”
Rose’s gaze fell to Rebecca’s arm, where her sleeve nearly covered one horrific scar, then glanced up between both women—her irreverent sister and her impossible sister-in-law—and felt something inside her settle. Not finished. But steadier.
Kadida broke the moment, lifting her teacup in salute with a large grin. “To Lady Stanford.”
The others followed, among a ripple of clinks and murmured agreements.
Rose flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, do stop.” Something in her chest pulled tight and…sweet. For all her efforts to become “useful,” she hadn’t expected to feel…this. Whole? Yes. Fulfilled and whole. Not with chalk dust on the floor and girls in borrowed shoes toasting her like a duchess. But perhaps that was the point. Not gowns. Not glances from dark-eyed merchants or invitations to titled arms.
Here, in this odd little house that smelled of starch and lemon and second chances, Rose had done something that mattered.And for a moment, she didn’t feel like a woman left behind. She felt like a woman becoming someone entirely her own.
But even as the warmth of their laughter wrapped around her, Mr. Whitmore’s absence hurt. She hadn’t needed a man to feel whole. She knew that now. Still, to vanish without a word? He wasn’t a duke or an earl or a marquis. He wasn’t even a baron.
