“You haven’t changed at all, Marigold,” her mother says, laughing, and then she looks to Lottie. “I want to thank you personally, Miss Burke, for keeping my daughter company. You as well, Mr. Owens. We are very grateful for you both.”
August smiles. “It is we who should be thanking you. We are so lucky to be surrounded by so much love.”
“Yes, thank you very much,” Lottie says, but Lady Claude waves it away.
“You owe me no thanks. Please allow our family to care for you all as long as you would like to stay.”
Marigold smiles softly. She had not forgotten how lovely her family is, but it is always nice to be reminded that one has kindhearted people in their corner. After every crumb of dessert has been devoured, everyone moves to the sitting room to enjoy some entertainment.
Aster plays a sweet song on the piano, and she then sings a lovely duet with her betrothed. Then Frankie makes a cruel suggestion.
“Why don’t you sing for us, sister?”
Marigold glares at him, but her father seizes the conversation. “Oh, please do, darling. We have missed your singing voice so much.”
“I’m quite tired, Father.”
“Just one song?” he says.
She sighs. She cannot say no to him, no matter how much she detests singing in front of people. She sits beside her sister in front of the piano as Aster plays a soft ballad. Her voice fills the room, falling from note to note until the melody finishes.
No one claps. They all simply stare. She sees August and Lottie looking at each other with great concern. She stands and walks back over to Lottie.
“You’re not very good at that, are you?” Lottie says, intending to whisper but failing to do so. The entire room hears her comment, and Frankie is the first to erupt in laughter.
“Stop it!” Lady Claude says to her son, but even she cannot help but laugh.
“Dear sister, it remains true that you are the worst singer of Bardshire, and possibly the entire country,” Frankie continues.
She pouts until even she must laugh a little. “I don’t know why you always make me sing, then.”
“Because it is so funny,” Aster says. Mr. Woodrake sits snickering beside her, fighting with everything he has to stay polite.
“Come now, everyone, quiet down. There is nothing wrong with my daughter’s singing,” Lord Claude says, but his smirk says otherwise. “She just always chooses to scream along with the music instead.”
The entire room bursts into a cacophony of laughter, some more musical than others. There are a few more minutes of small talk and pleasantries before everyone excuses themselves for the evening.
Marigold, Lottie, and August all find themselves alone in their rooms, nearly collapsing into their beds. The exhaustion from the travel is heavy, and there is no more energy to fight or argue or plan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Marigold wakes up the next morning, she dresses faster than she ever has before and hastens to Lottie’s room to get them both prepared for the modiste. She slowly opens the door and pokes her head inside.
“Lottie?”
No answer.
She walks in to find the bed empty and seemingly untouched. Did Lottie run away? She opens the curtains to let in more light and investigates the room. Lottie’s things are still here—that’s a relief.
“Lottie? Hello?” she asks one last time before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. As she descends the stairs, she finds her mother, Aster, and Mr. Woodrake having tea in the sitting room.
“Good morning, darling,” her mother says.
“Morning,” she says hurriedly. “Have any of you seen Lottie? We need to get to the modiste.”
“I don’t believe so,” says Aster.
Marigold groans. “All right, thank you anyway.” She turns to her sister’s betrothed. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Woodrake. I’m thrilled to welcome you into our family.”
