“Four and twenty.” Lucy glanced back and found the countess observing her with a hint of a smile on her lips. “You were no doubt wed by my age.”
“Wed and with two children.” Lady Braithwaite narrowed her gaze.
Lucy expected a lecture on the joys of marriage or dire warnings about the fate of ladies who ended up on the shelf. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself for the effort of biting her tongue when all she wished to do was speak her mind.
“Our experiences differed, but I knew my mindat four and twenty and imagine you do too. Are you opposed to marriage entirely?”
“Not at all.” Lucy’s parents proved that matrimony could be a happy state, even if it did require patience—which she often lacked—and an ability to compromise—though she wasn’t terribly good at that either.
“I take it Lord and Lady Hallston have left the choice up to you.”
An inkling told her where this was leading. She knew she was luckier than many of the young ladies she’d come out with years ago. They were often matched with horrible men or pushed by their families into matches that Lucy doubted could ever bring them anything like love.
“Yes, though in all honesty, the choice came down to one man who was too old and not at all kind.” Lucy couldn’t fib about something so well-known by those in her family’s circle.
“Do not give up hope, dear girl. I encouraged my daughters to wait until they were certain.” The countess smoothed the blanket across her legs and leaned her head against the pink damask. A moment later, her eyelids fluttered closed.
Lucy was too unsettled to read. She replaced the book on the shelf and poked at the dying fire. Then she spied a pile of post on her mother’s desk, slipped into the chair behind it, and lit the oil lamp on her desktop.
Lucy’s long-standing habit was to help with organizing and responding to her mother’s post, andit seemed a good way to occupy her mind while she sat with the dozing countess.
She separated what looked to be invitations from what seemed more personal correspondence and smiled when she came upon a letter from her aunt Cassandra. As was her habit, she’d decorated the outside of her letter with scribbles and flowers colored with splashes of watercolor.
After admiring her aunt’s art, Lucy unfolded the missive and began reading.
The letter was warm, expressive, and demanding. Lucy smiled to see herself mentioned.
Send Lucy to me.
A little rush of pleasure shot through her, and she quickly scanned further to see what project her aunt might need her help with.
Do not allow Lucy to become a joyless spinster. She has more spirit than that. I’ve seen it in her since she was a little girl. As a middle sister myself, I know how easy it is to become consumed with being useful rather than experiencing any passion for oneself. She deserves more than being useful.
She read the words many times, until they were burned in her mind’s eye.Joyless spinstercut the deepest, causing a searing kind of hopelessness that made her heart ache.
No. That wasn’t her. She pushed the letter asideas she moved on to focus on the other post in the pile, but tears blurred her vision. She swiped at her cheek and took up her aunt’s letter once more.
Send Lucy to me.
Reading that line again, she let out a little gasp as she finally began to understand what her beloved aunt was trying to do.
Aunt Cassandra hadn’t sent the letter as a condemnation or even a critique. It was a beacon. A lifeline cast out all the way from Scotland.
It was an opportunity for Lucy to decide for herself.
The dinner gong sounded, but the countess didn’t stir. A moment later, a quiet knock sounded at the door and her mother stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
“I came to see how our guest is faring,” she whispered as she tiptoed past the countess and came to stand next to Lucy. “What do you think it is that’s ailing her?”
“Just fatigue, Mama. But I think it might be best to see to a tray for her or at least tea. I don’t think she’ll enjoy sitting at table tonight.”
“And you?” Her mother reached out and swept a stray strand of hair the same honey-blonde as her own behind Lucy’s ear. “I hate for you to miss out. I could have Jenkins come and sit with her.”
Lucy stood and reached for her mother’s hand. An urge had taken hold that she couldn’t keep inside.
“Mama, I want to go to Scotland.”
“Scotland—”
