“One day he had the headache, and the next, just likethat. . .” Eleanor snapped her fingers next to Charlotte’s ear. “Dead.”
Charlotte nodded, but she didn’t look up from the rose she held on her lap. She’d torn the petals off, one by one. “Yes. Dead. That would be—”
“If you saylovelyagain, Charlotte, I vow I’ll stick a thorn in you.”
Charlotte looked up at last with a surprised expression. “How cross you are, Eleanor.”
“You haven’t listened to one word I’ve said since we sat down. I wasn’t at all cross until I realized I was talking to myself.” A lie, of course—she’d been cross before she lifted her head from the pillow this morning.
Usually she loved Lady Abernathy’s annual garden breakfast. The garden club matrons brought their daughters, and it was a tradition for the ladies to help the younger girls string daisy chains. Eleanor looked forward to it every year, but this morning she’d almost asked to be excused. Her mother was a founding member of the Society for the Relief of London’s Poor & Indigent, however, and the garden party and breakfast was their grandest charity event of the year. Eleanor couldn’t hurt her mother’s feelings by begging off today.
Besides, what was her alternative? Another drive through Hyde Park with Mr. West? She had no doubt he’d force his company on her again today if he found her at home, and she still hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s fiasco.
She’d promised to make herself available to him for two weeks as part of their agreement, but she’d rushed out of the townhouse this morning as if it were on fire.
Agreement be damned, and honor right along with it. Why should she be the only one who had any? She never promised to sit at home and breathlessly await his every whim. Anyway, there wasn’t a thing he could he do about it, unless he wished to chase all over London searching for her.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte muttered. “I have the headache, I suppose.”
They were sitting outdoors on a blanket spread in a corner of Lady Abernathy’s wide green lawn. The society ladies were gathered under a white tent to the west side of the grounds, ready to greet the guests as they arrived. The ladies were all atwitter, for there was to be a guest of honor this year. At the last minute someone had donated a large sum of money to the charity, and she was to be introduced this morning as a principal patron.
Charlotte plucked another rose from the enormous pile at their feet and began to rip it to shreds. Eleanor grabbed it by the tip of the stem and slid it from Charlotte’s grasp, careful not to prick her.
“We’re meant to be stripping thethornsfrom the roses, Charlotte, not the petals. Here. Shred this instead.” She handed her sister a long piece of grass from a clump the gardeners had overlooked. “No need to spoil the roses.”
Charlotte took the grass with a sigh and laid it in her lap. “I feel out of sorts.”
Eleanor hesitated. Every time she brought up the Foster’s ball, Charlotte retreated behind a stony wall of silence. Eleanor hadn’t pressed her, because she was afraid if she did Charlotte would demand to know why Ellie was spending so much time with Camden West.
Eleanor had no intention of explaining herself. She’d makethatproblem disappear before Charlotte or anyone else figured out what was going on.
They’d spent the past few days circling each other warily, like two dogs deciding whether to sniff or attack. But here at last was an opening, and Eleanor was determined to plunge ahead before it slammed shut again. “You’ve been out of sorts since the Foster’s ball. You spent all day in your bedchamber again yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Charlotte spread her skirts over her legs and surveyed the ruined remains of her flowers. “I’m . . . ashamed of myself, Eleanor.”
Eleanor dropped the rose she’d rescued into her lap. Charlotte had always pushed against boundaries. Even as a child she’d been the first to disobey their father’s commands, but—
“I suppose you’re ashamed of me, as well,” Charlotte added, her tone resentful.
“Ashamed? No. That’s not so, Charlotte.”
She’d never been ashamed of her sister, and she wasn’t now, but at the same time she’d never understood her, either. Charlotte found Eleanor equally inscrutable, and they’d clashed more than once over the years, especially when they were children. As adults, they’d settled into a more predictable pattern.
Eleanor lectured, and Charlotte ignored her.
She didn’t scold Charlotte for pushing the boundaries—a lady had no choicebutto push, unless she was satisfied to spend her days shopping and gossiping while her husband whiled away his days at White’s and his nights bedding his mistress.
No, she scolded Charlotte for pushing so recklessly. One didn’t take the stage and shout at the other performers. One jerked the strings from behind the curtain, not in front of it.
They didn’t agree on their methods, but Eleanor had never known her sister to be ashamed of her behavior. Until now.
An icy sliver of fear lodged in Eleanor’s breast. “Is this about Julian West?”
Charlotte refused to meet Eleanor’s eyes. “I thought I could manage it—managehim. Once we got out to the garden I knew I’d made a mistake, but it was too late by then—”
Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears.
Eleanor stared at her sister, horrified. “Hush. You’re all right now, dear. Did he frighten you? Hurt you?”
