Still, that Quixote became mad because he overindulged in novels gave me pause. Since reading that, I have increased the proportion of nonfiction in my library. It is an odd kind of insurance, I suppose. I probably should have warned my sisters of the danger… Perhaps their reading habit is why they are as they are, and it is too late for them. Their sanity is long gone. And, if it is too late for them, is it too late for me to escape their madness?
I’m joking, obviously. I love them dearly, and would move heaven and earth to keep them happy. But what they need seems to change with the wind, and the effort of keeping up with it weighs on me.
Don’t tell my sister I said that when you write her next. It’s not a thought I’ve ever shared and she doesn’t need to know the things that worry me. For their sakes, it’s best to keep my family at arm’s length from my concerns.
Chapter Eight
“Our brother is planning to marry again.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. Meg had been in the house for less than thirty seconds. She hadn’t even sat down, and the tea had yet to arrive.
There were gasps from the other two. “Thisseason?” Winnie asked. “This is supposed to bemyseason.”
“Hush now,” Meg said sternly, as she took an armchair opposite him. “No one gets an entire season to themselves. Peter is allowed to find himself a bride.”
“Thisseason?” Jac echoed. “When I am crippled and unable to be part of it?”
Meg’s frown deepened. “Jacqueline Halie Montgomery.” “You are not crippled. You chose to have surgery and your eyesight will be perfectly fine in a few more weeks.”
“Yes,” Winnie added, “and to compare yourself to someone who is actually crippled is disrespectful.” There was a note of triumph in her tone—more likely because she’d gotten one over on Jac than because of any true objection to Jac’s language.
Peter raked a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Margaret,” he said with a false smile. “I appreciate your support ofmy marriage plans more than you could know.” There was no keeping the sarcasm from his tone, nor ignoring the smirk she gave in return.
“You’re welcome, brother.”
He turned to Winnie. “You can have all the attention in the world, sister. I hope that the search for a wife will be brief, fruitful, and over before anyone realizes it’s happening.” Certainly it should be over before his sisters became too invested in the process.
Jac snorted. “I hardly think that’s likely. Brother, would you be so kind as to read today’s social paper to me?”
“But I already—” Winnie dodged the cushion Jac threw in her direction, with what was extraordinary aim for someone who couldn’t see.
She’d set a trap; that was clear. But how devastating a trap? His stomach sank as Winnie failed to hold back a laugh. “Page four please, brother,” she said, handing the paper to him.
He snapped it open and then slammed it shut. “Oh, good Lord.”
“What does it say?” Jac asked sweetly, even though she clearly knew.
“Nothing of importance.”
Shetsked. “You promised you would read me my correspondence while I was debilitated.”
“The gossip pages are not ‘correspondence.’”
“No? They’re written and delivered to me, and I intend to respond with a letter to the editor.”
A muscle ticked along his jaw. “That’s not correspondence.”
Both she and Winnie shook their heads. Margaret pressed her lips together but her mirth could not be disguised. “Youread them to me yesterday,” Jac continued, “and the day before that. You have set the precedent.”
Lord save him from insufferable sisters. He opened the paper with such force that the corner tore. He tried to ignore the eighth-of-a-page likeness of him. He should never have agreed to sit for that damned portrait. He definitely should have read the document Winnie had presented before he’d signed it. But he’d been preoccupied and she’d been clever with her words. Exchanging his painted portrait with a photograph had seemed so fitting. It had never occurred to him that the image would be printed en masse and sold to strangers. It was a small mercy that Meg had caught wind of the carte de visite quickly.
With much frustration, he’d purchased the rights to his own likeness from the photographer before too many of the collecting cards had been sold. But in doing so, he’d turned the ones in circulation into collectors’ items that were tightly held. They were devilishly hard to track down and ended up in the most inconvenient of places. Such as page four of the paper, whose editor would soon receive a stern letter.
Grinding his teeth, he turned his attention to the headline. His day, which had started perfectly with a letter from Booklover, began to deteriorate. “The Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors of the Season.”Ack. He gagged on the words. “This is ridiculous.” He closed the paper and folded it in half and then half again, as if he could minimize the damn pages out of existence. All of London would eventually see this, Booklover included. Thank God for their anonymity.
The door opened, and a housemaid entered with the tea. “Thank you, Beatrice,” Meg said.
“Thank you.”
