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Chapter Ten

1820

* * *

The invitation to Penford arrived the next morning. Cressida held it a moment, admiring Mrs. Hayes’s elegant script. She still hadn’t decided if she wanted to go, but it was very lovely to be invited.

“What is that?” Callie had heard the servant at the door. She peered over Cressida’s shoulder. “Oh my. . . ”

“Julia told me about it,” she said, ignoring the curiosity in her sister’s tone.

“We’ve never been invited to such an event at Penford before.”

“Erm. . . no.” She handed the invitation to Callie and picked up her basket. Callie followed her out into the garden.

“What sort of party is it?”

“I believe it’s to celebrate the major’s return.” Cressida bent over the herb garden. She cut some lavender, breathing the soft scent with a sigh of pleasure.

“Oh.” Callie fingered Mrs. Hayes’s note. “We haven’t anything grand enough to wear.”

“Not nearly.”

“And you don’t like him.”

Cressida concentrated on cutting sage, laying each velvety sprig carefully in the basket.

“Well, shall we go?” Callie kicked her foot lightly.

“I don’t know.” She cut some mint for Granny’s tea. Perhaps it would settle her digestion. The expensive tonic made little difference.

“You don’t have long to think about it.”

“I know!” For a moment she considered telling Callie what the major had said yesterday: that they might not really want to find Papa after all. They didn’t know anything about that man, and she was not wrong to be cautious, she wasn’t. . . Except that he’d been right, curse him, about everything. She hated it when going against her instinct was the sensible thing to do.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “At dinner.”

* * *

Callie brought up the Hayes party as soon as they sat down to eat. For once Cressida was relieved Granny had taken to her bed; their grandmother would be so pleased to hear they were invited to the best house in the neighborhood, she’d have no choice but to go. More and more Granny lived in her own world, where worries about money and proper clothing didn't intrude. She and Callie talked the matter over while Tom ate in silence, his head lowered over his plate. But they couldn't reach a decision.

"I'm sure it will be a lovely evening," said Callie wistfully as they cleared the table. "But we've really nothing to wear."

"No." Cressida felt a mixture of relief and resignation. Relief that she wouldn't be required to face the major any sooner than three days hence. Resignation because. . . Well, because she hated being poor and shabby and it would have been wonderful to go to a fine party. But, like much else in her life, it couldn't be helped. She told herself she would send a polite refusal in the morning.

But she still hadn't written it by midday, when Tom came into the kitchen and handed her a package.

“What is this?” She pulled the string. She hadn’t asked him to purchase anything. The package was round and soft, like a cushion, and wrapped in a generous length of linen. Tom didn’t answer, and was halfway out the door by the time she got the string off and unfolded the linen to reveal a bundle of silk the color of spring roses.

“Oh, Tom!” She was almost speechless. The silk spilling out of the linen wrapping was far finer than anything Papa had ever bought them. “What on earth. . . ?”

Hand on the doorknob, he stopped and turned back, eyebrows raised. “You and Mrs. Phillips need nice dresses.”

“But— Tom, wait!” Cressida stroked the silk, unable to repress a sigh of delight at the cool softness of it. Underneath the rose she saw a shimmer of blue-green, like water captured in fabric form. “We can’t pay for this,” she blurted.

“Do you not like the colors?”

“Yes! No! It’s beyond beautiful, but⁠—”