“What is this?” he asked.
Elswyth’s smile faltered. “A letter of acceptance. From Oxford. They’ve begun accepting women, and I applied. Father, they want me to join them in the autumn. The Imperial Botanical Institute.”
Her father stared at her over his spectacles, looking exhausted.
“Oh, Eden’s Ashes, Elswyth. I thought we’d come to an understanding.”
“Yousaidthat, if I were accepted, I could earn my degree before marrying. Yousaid—”
“I know what I said. But that was before Persephone. If she found an auspicious match, you could delay marriage in pursuit of an education. Things have changed, Elswyth. Surely you must see that.”
“What has changed? Why can I not pursue my education?” Elswyth tried to keep her voice even. She’d written down what she had planned to say, but already the words slipped away, and anger built in their place.
“Elswyth, you are already eighteen. By the time you are finished with university, your options for a husband—for a good husband, one who can help us—will be severely limited. Wait too long, and you’ll wind up a thirty-year-old thornback with no chance at marriage.”
Elswyth swallowed. “Perhaps—perhaps with an education, I could contribute to our family’s finances. More and more women are finding work these days, in all sorts of fields—”
“So what will you do? You will go and study botany. And who will pay for it? I see nothing in this letter about a scholarship.”
Elswyth began to speak, but her father cut her off. “And even if you do graduate, what will you do then? How many pounds does a scholar of botany make in a year? Do you know many unmarried female botanists who can support a household?”
“There are many applications. Pharmacy, medicine, academia—”
“They’re letting women become professors, now? That surely is news to me. Or was your thought to become a midwife? A corner-store druggist? Perhaps a hedge witch.”
Elswyth gripped her skirts until her fingers turned white. “It would be better than being some lordling’s broodmare.”
Her father’s face blanched. “Elswyth, you will not be a broodmare. You will be the lady of a house. Your mind will be well occupied with the keeping of the estate and the social status of your family. And yes, you will have children, but is that so terrible? You and your sister were—are—the light in my life, Elswyth. I only wish for you to have the same. You might even study. There are women’s interest groups, gardening, floriography—”
“I do not want to study gardening. I do not want to spend my life taking walks and throwing parties and cleaning up after children. Is it really so hard to understand that I wish to have a say over what happens to me? Is it not my life, after all?”
“You will not have a choice if we cannot pay our debts. A proper match—to a wealthy gentleman—could save us. Persephone understood that. And now that she is gone…”
Her father removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “I have always wanted what is best for you, Elswyth. I have supported your studies. Sent you to the best schools our name and fortunecould provide. But now… now it is time to put your own interests aside for the interests of your family.”
Elswyth shut her eyes. She knew she would regret what she said next before the words left her.
“And why notyou, Father? You are not far past fifty. Young by no account, but certainly not too old to sire an heir. Why is it me, and not you, who must bear the future of our house on their shoulders?”
His eyes drifted up to the portrait of his late wife. “And who would want me, my dear? A penniless old man with barren lands and a broken castle.”
“A penniless viscount is still a viscount. I’m sure there are many who would marry you for the Elderwood name alone. There are plenty of wealthy heiresses looking for a title. Were we not once royalty?”
“And besmirch the reputation and good breeding of our house with an upstart? The reputation of our house is all we have, Elswyth. The Elderwood name stands alongside the likes of Plantagenet, Angevin, d’Orange—ours is the blood of kings. Not commoners.”
“And yet we die like them, don’t we? So what good is our ancient blood? There are but two of us left, Father. Persephone and Mother are gone. Grandmama is a ghost already.”
As if in response, the wind beyond the castle walls moaned. The fire shifted in its hearth, and the carved eldren on the mantel shifted as well, the flickering light making it seem alive.
When her father spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Do not speak to me of my wife’s death,” he said. “You of all people.”
Elswyth’s face burned. Heat prickled through her scar, and she turned away, hiding it.
Her father sighed. “I am sorry. That was cruel,” he said.
Her father stood, shakily. He picked up his glass and moved over to the fire, placing a hand on the mantel. For a moment, he only stared into the flames. Then he took a long drink. “I had not planned to tell you this, Elswyth. I had hoped—I had hoped that you would go willingly.”
“Tell me what?”
