Joanna flicked a glance at Claire’s face, which had drained of all color, and then scowled at Evie, who at least had the good sense to appear somewhat contrite.
The elder sisters took no prisoners when they attacked each other, but it was never their intention to upset the baby of the family. Never mind that Claire had turned eighteen just last week. To Joanna and Evie, she would always be a little girl clutching her doll as she struggled to keep up with them on their various escapades.
By silent agreement, Joanna, Evie, and their grandmother had vowed to hide the worst of their financial woes from Claire. It was a burden they didn’t want her to carry. Not when her life was already so different from what Joanna and Evie’s had been at her age.
When Joanna was eighteen, the war hadn’t even started. There were rumblings. Whispers. News of a rebellion growing in the south. But Somerville had remained untouched, even well after the first battle that burned Charleston to the ground, and their lives had remained largely unchanged.
It wasn’t until their father gave them each a piece of chocolate and bid them farewell with a kiss upon their heads that the full weight of the war began to sink in. The enormity of what could be gained if the Union won. And what might be lost if it didn’t.
Even then, even when Joanna watched the dust kick up from the hooves of her father’s horse as he rode away until her eyes stung, she never imagined that would be the last time she’d ever see him. Certainly Claire, all gangly limbs and earnest questions, hadn’t known what would happen. And when it did, when the absolute worst occurred, Joanna and Evie tried the best they could to shield their sister from the grief, and the loss, and the devastation only a parent’s death could bring.
They’d protected her ever since.
Joanna knew that Claire was not oblivious. Her little sister understood they weren’t as wealthy as they’d once been. Heavens, a blind person could see that. Still, Joanna had taken great pains to shield Claire from the extent of their sacrifice. But a stain could only be covered by a rug for so long, and they’d sold off the last of the floor coverings months ago to pay for food.
“Don’t listen to Evie,” Joanna advised, giving Claire a nudge with her foot. “She’s always prone to dramatics. We’ve still plenty left from selling the house. We’ll be fine. It willallbe fine.” But even to her own ears, her words sounded hollow. A collection of empty promises she had no way of keeping unless she did the one thing she couldn’t bring herself to do: marry for money instead of love.
If only Evie had been born first!Shecertainly had no such compunctions in regards to marrying a man for his wealth and social stature. But for reasons that had always baffled Joanna, their grandmother was insistent that her granddaughters marry in the order they’d entered the world. Which meant Joanna either needed to seriously reconsider Charles’ offer, or find another way to save the family from financial ruin.
Given Charles’ proclivity for silk pants, she had her hopes pinned on the latter.
“We cannot continue on with our heads buried in the sand.” Evie put her hands on her hips. “You know as well as I, and maybe it’s time Claire knew as well, that we’ve not enough to see us comfortably through the winter. What little we had was spent on new slate shingles for the roof last fall and rebuilding the summer kitchen afteryouburned it to the ground.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Joanna snapped. Even though it had happened last year, the topic of the summer kitchen—and its subsequent burning—was still a tender subject.
Joanna had been cooking (always a dangerous feat) when she found herself distracted by a fawn in the meadow across the way. She’d taken care to move the pot she was using off the fire before she flitted out to watch the young deer but, apparently, she hadn’t moved it far enough, and when the pot boiled over, the resulting heat from the steam caused a pile of straw to catch fire. The summer kitchen had gone up in flames despite Joanna’s best efforts to save it, and all she’d gotten for her trouble was a white puckered scar on the inside of her forearm from a floating ash.
It wasn’t often she made mistakes. At least, not of that magnitude. She would’ve liked to have forgotten the entire thing ever happened, but Evie had an uncanny knack for bringing it up at the absolute worst possible times.
Like right now.
“You left the pot on, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you burned it down,” Evie said with unmistakable smugness.
If Joanna had that pot handy, she would have thrown it at Evie’s head. Unfortunately, she had to settle for her shoe. Evie ducked, and the ankle boot bounced harmlessly off the wall just as their grandmother entered the room carrying a basket of carrots she’d picked from the garden behind the house.
“My dears,” Ruth Thorncroft scolded, her thin gray brows gathering in disapproval over a hawkish nose. “It is not yet noon. Can we save the shoe throwing for after lunch?”
Joanna sank low in her chair. “Evie started it.”
“And I am finishing it.” Although small and slight in appearance, their grandmother had a will that was as strong as iron. A good thing, as she’d needed that will to see her through the death of her husband, the loss of her only child, and raising her three granddaughters as her own.
The matriarch of the Thorncroft family, Ruth was both stern and loving, strict and compassionate. When the sisters lost their mother to scarlet fever, she’d stepped in without hesitation, and had been caring for them ever since. She’d nursed their hurts, taught them their letters, and modeled the proper way to execute a curtsy. Joanna quite simply did not know how they would have gotten through the past few years without her unwavering support or wisdom, and her face heated beneath the scolding weight of Ruth’s stare.
“I didn’tactuallyhit her,” she muttered beneath her breath.
“Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.” Ruth clucked her tongue. “Pick up your boot, darling. We may live in a house the size of a pincushion, but the last I checked it wasn’t a barn.”
Obeying her grandmother’s request without argument, Joanna removed her remaining ankle boot before grabbing the one she’d thrown and adding them to the line of shoes beside the door. For a second, her attention lingered on the assortment of footwear, all of it scuffed and worn and patched.
Not too long ago, the leather would have had a shiny new finish and the buttons would have been covered in silk instead of cheap pewter. Another reminder, however slight, of what had once been before the war.
When the back of her throat tightened, Joanna made herself to turn around. The death of her father was not something she liked to dwell on. For while the general heartache had lessened over time, the razor sharp grief still remained, like a needle lost in the folds of a skirt.
There would be hours, days, even months where she did not miss him at all. Or, when she thought of him, it was only of their happy times together. Then out of nowhere, she would feel the stab of that pesky needle, and all the pain came rushing back.
