As usual, Charles was dressed immaculately in perfect evening attire created for him by one of the most expensive tailors in London. When it came to himself, he spared no expense. His gentleman’s gentleman had done wonders covering his new bald spot, combing the sides of his straight blond hair into position and using some sort of oil to hold it in place. His neat, short beard had not a whisker out of place, and I couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that powder had been applied to his cheeks and the end of his thin nose.
“Charlotte,” he said. “That shade of green is most becoming, a perfect match for your reddish-blond colouring.”
“Thank you,” I replied, a little stunned at the rare compliment. Perhaps I was in the habit of judging him a bit too harshly.
“I was delighted when George told me he was looking forward to seeing you tonight. Don’t disappoint me.”
He turned his attention to Hari. “The hair is all wrong, Harriet. Send for your abigail. Curls, not straight. And what were you thinking with the pearls? Something an old maid would wear.” His glance strayed in my direction for a moment. “Don’t forget Lord Ainsley and Lady Margaret are coming. It’s important that you make a great fuss over them. I want them reminded of how much I value their endorsement. And hurry, the guests will be arriving soon.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone, no small kiss on Hari’s cheek, no goodbye, nothing.
The discordant, confused sounds of the string quartet warming up on the outdoor stage below the open window wafted into the room.
“Is he always that sharp with you?” I asked Hari quietly.
“Charles is under a lot of pressure these days,” she said, but I could hear a trace of irritation in her voice. “He’s not completely himself. You know how short-tempered he can get when something’s weighing on him.”
Charles was usually short with me, and I was happy to avoid lengthy conversations with him. I’m sure he felt that it was one thing to generously take me in after Papa’s death but quite another to acknowledge my presence.
“We are closer than most sisters, wouldn’t you agree?” Harriet said, turning to face me. By the fading light, I noticed the beginnings of the tiniest of crow’s-feet in the corners of her eyes. “In some ways I think we are more like mother and daughter. I was always there for you when you were growing up. I had to be; Mama wasn’t. I’ve looked out for you and steered you in the right direction, haven’t I?”
I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat.
“Then hear me now.” Her grip on my hand tightened. “Do whatever it takes to get George to propose to you tonight or we will both suffer the consequences.”
Chapter Two
Harriet’s words played over and over in my head and left me feeling uneasy. I found refuge in my third-floor bedroom and immediately sought out the one thing that always brought me comfort: my red-lacquered jewellery box, a twin of Hari’s black one. I picked it up and wound the crank on the bottom before lifting the lid. Tinkling musical notes filled the small room, and I sat down and closed my eyes, allowing myself to be soothed by the lilting notes of “Greensleeves.”
Harriet’s played a Brahms lullaby. The small chests were a gift from our father from before, when he still had most of his fortune, and they were the one thing Hari and I had saved from our childhoods. We had come a long way from those days, but when I checked myself in the mirror, I saw that same uncertain girl staring back at me. I leaned forward and dabbed my face with powder in a vain attempt to cover the freckles.
The veterinary-assistant idea had been a foolish thought. Hari was right—ladies of my station would never be accepted into the program. Marriage was my only real option. But I didn’t want to marry and leave my sister, not yet and not for George. I barely knew the man, let alone felt anything resembling affection. Would I even make him happy? Would he make me?
One of my clearest memories of my mother was her lamenting her own fate as a country squire’s wife. She could have done much better, she declared—a gentleman with a comfortable income, a city house in London and another for the season in Bath. At the very least, she might have had a senior military officer from a prominent family. But a full year since her coming-out party, she’d had not a single proposal. (There had been an offer from a charming but poor clergyman, but she didn’t consider it serious.) Filled with doubts about whether other, better suitors might come along, she had panicked and jumped at my father’s proposal. He was a man of good social standing, due to inherit his father’s profitable estate near London.
I heard the familiar refrain in my head: “I was the daughter of a decorated cavalry officer. I had a decent dowry and pretty-enough looks. I could have married a man with a larger inheritance and a lot more common sense, but instead I settled for your father, who loses every cent he ever has.”
Even as she lay dying from consumption, she belaboured my father’s faults. He dismissed her complaints. She would eat her words, he insisted, when his next investment made us rich and famous. Perhaps if he hadn’t had the accident and later died, he would have proved himself.
It made me sad to see them that way. Neither of them
