“Amelia,” Dani rasped, her voice a sort of plea. The sight of her friend was the only familiar thing in a suddenly foreign land.
“But can you go on ahead, dear?” Miriam ordered Amelia. “We’re having a family chat at the moment. When we’ve finished, Dani will follow along.”
“Actually, love?” cut in Whittle. “I think Dani might benefit from the company of her friend.”
Now Dani twisted back, gaping at Whittle. Rarely, if ever, did Silas Dinwiddie contradict his wife.
In the doorway, Amelia hovered uncertainly. “Oh, forgive—”
“Come in, Amelia Broom,” called Whittle. “Come in and have a seat by our Dani.”
“Amelia,” Dani called thinly, another plea. Her friend shot her a confused look. Danielle Allard was not, by nature, pleading. And the Dinwiddies did not contradict each other. The mood in the parlor was unrecognizable. Carefully, nervously, Amelia unlatched the door. She carried a jug—her mother’s apple cider, no doubt—and a silk reticule bulging with pencils. She’d worn her favorite straw hat, newly trimmed with a riot of silk flowers. She was followed inside by two cats.
Dani and Miriam and Whittle watched her progress in silence. No one stood, no one relieved her of the cider jug, no one complimented her hat.
“Shall I...?” began Amelia, nervously.
Dani reached out a hand and pulled her to the next chair. In her ear, she whispered, “We are learning something about the parents of my birth. And my betrothal. Apparently.”
“Oh!” Amelia gasped softly. She settled the cider on the floor, scattering cats.
“Right,” Whittle continued. “We’re aware that this news may come as somewhat of a shock, but this day, I’m afraid, was always meant to... to come.”
“Whatday?” asked Dani. She found Amelia’s hand and squeezed it.
“The day that your lineage and your history,” explained Miriam, “will intercede with your life in our family. When that history and lineage would... reclaim you.” Her voice broke and her eyes brimmed with tears.
“But what do you mean, ‘lineage and history’?” asked Dani, feeling herself begin to panic. Miriam was crying—actually crying. Miriam never cried.
“The life I’ve lived these last twenty years,” Dani insisted, “ismy past. Surely this unknown ‘lineage’ has less say in my future than the family that raised me—thanourfamily? And why are you crying? If none of us wishes for me to marry a strange man—and let me be the first to say that I donot—then surely I can’t be forced to do it?”
“It’s not an issue of being forced, love,” sniffed Miriam. “It’s happy news—what we are telling you is happy news.” Her voice broke on a sob.
“No one in this room is happy,”Dani insisted, “me, least of all. I’m utterly confused. You’re saying words but you are not explaining.”
Whittle spoke again. “I know you are confused and alarmed, Moppet; and this is our fault, isn’t it? We embraced our role as your parents these many years. You became our daughter so completely, and we’ve loved you so thoroughly, we failed to uphold the truth about your other family; about your obligations and roles to fulfill.”
“What obligations? What roles?” Dani demanded. Nowshewanted to cry.
“These people have a vested interest in your future and the lineage of their family—ofyourproper family,” he went on. “It’s their right, I’m afraid, to play a role in shaping the next chapters. It has been the honor and the joy of our lives to raise you up. But now someone else will, in a way, step in. And rightly so, some might say. What do Miriam and I know of proper matches and fine gentlemen? We were fit parents in our own way, but we can hardly launch you into society.”
“What care have I for being launched into society?” asked Dani.
“It makes no difference if you care for it,” said Miriam sadly, “nor if we care for it. Our preferences do not apply, do they? We’ve been told in no uncertain terms that a husband has been chosen for you, and you will marry.”
“Chosen bywhom?Whatfuture?” It was as if the three of them were having two different conversations. She was asking questions and they were responding with pronouncements in code.
“We were never meant to keep you—not forever.” Whittle sighed. “But we will always be your guardians and this cottage will always be your home. Ivy Hill will always be your village. Only now you are to become someone’s wife as well. And that someone was chosen to be your equal in rank and station. Ivy Hill was never large enough for your potential, Dani—we’ve said this all along.”
“What you’ve said,” protested Dani, “is nothing.” The apricot tart in her stomach threatened to slide back into her throat.
Beside her, Amelia Broom gently cleared her throat. “But can you say the name of Dani’s betrothed? Mr. Dinwiddie, Mrs. Dinwiddie?” A pause. “Perhaps if we simply began there? Or perhaps the gentleman’s name is not yet known?”
“Oh yes, we’ve been told the man’s name. We can say, can’t we?” said Whittle, looking at his wife.
“He’s called Captain Lucas Bannock,” recited Miriam, holding the folded parchment and reading aloud. “Of Cornwall.” The cat called Feathers jumped in her lap. “He has distinguished himself in military service apparent—”
“Oh my God!” Amelia gasped. She dropped Dani’s hand and leaped to her feet. “Dani? Captain Lucas Bannock!Captain Luke Bannock.”
