“Let’s just go look at the owls.”
IT HAD BEEN TWO WEEKS since Violet had last seen Sebastian—two weeks that she had hoped would lessen the sting of his words. Somehow, she managed to pretend nothing was amiss—going about her daily tasks as if a gaping hole had not opened in her life. But routine didn’t help; it only reminded her of everything that she’d lost.
It was proof of Violet’s disquiet that she had eventually given up pretending and come to this comfortable Mayfair home. From the outside, it looked like any genteel residence: white paint, black trim, flowers in boxes at the front windows. When Violet was let inside, there was the usual marble entryway, the normal formal sideboard. But there was also a small army of tin soldiers encamped on the wide steps leading up to the first floor, abandoned by their generals in the midst of battle preparations.
Some families believed that children should be seen and not heard. But Violet’s sister had too many children to do anything more than cast haggard glances at that particular rule. The entry to Lily’s house echoed with the shrieks of children at play.
Lots of children.
Violet handed her things to the footman and waited. Lily always made time to see her sister, no matter what wreckage her children were making of the house.
Violet wasn’t sure if Lily loved her—their family was not the sort to talk of such things, and Violet was difficult to care for. But Violet loved her sister, and Lily needed Violet. In the end, for someone like her, it all came out to approximately the same thing: When Violet was in need, she went to her sister.
After weeks of trying to forget Sebastian’s words—weeks of staring at plants that she’d sprouted with Sebastian at her side—she needed to comfort someone.
Thinking of Sebastian still felt like pouring boiling water over her chest. Two weeks, and it still burned to remember what he’d said to her. I have standards. You don’t meet them.
She sniffed and looked away, waiting for the pain to dissipate. It didn’t, so she simply handed her things to the footman who’d met her.
“Tell the marchioness that I am here, if you please,” she said.
“Of course, my lady.” The man gave her a bow. “If you’ll allow me to show you to the—”
“Wait!” The call came from up the staircase.
Violet looked up to see her eldest niece waving madly at her. Amanda spilled down the staircase, darting around the tin-soldier fortifications with a coltish awkwardness that made her seem even prettier. A young lady seventeen years of age couldn’t help but be pretty. Amanda was fresh and smiling and exuberant, unwilling to believe that life would bring anything other than the best things to her.
Violet hoped she was right.
“Aunt Violet,” her niece said breathlessly, grabbing hold of Violet’s arm. “Thank God you are here. I must talk to you.”
Violet looked down at her niece’s fingers overlapping her sleeve. Violet knew she was a formidable woman. Most people were frightened of her. They didn’t touch her or embrace her. They certainly didn’t grab hold of her arm with such an air of familiarity.
God, she was glad that someone did.
She sniffed and surreptitiously brushed her fingers against Amanda’s hand. “What is it?”
“I need to speak with you,” Amanda repeated, glancing up the stairs. She bit her lip, and then looked over at the footman who’d answered the door. “Billings,” she said, “Go get Mama and tell her that Aunt Violet is here.” She didn’t look at Violet. “But please do me the favor of walking very, very, very slowly.”
Billings turned and began walking toward the stairs at a stately pace.
“More slowly,” Amanda suggested, and the man slowed to an even glide.
“Come,” Amanda said. Even Violet’s stiff glowering had not put her niece off. Amanda took Violet’s arm and led her into the front parlor.
The room, as always, was warm and welcoming. The thick side curtains had been drawn back so that only thin, gauzy panels of fabric shielded the window, letting in sunlight and the warm, swirling suggestion of a square ringed by grand houses. The furniture was cream and gold, the colors of an early spring sun. The paintings on the walls suggested new growth—flowers and apple-green leaves and fields of ankle-high grass.
But it was coming on June and no matter what lies the walls told, the room was still too hot. Amanda gestured Violet to a seat and sat daintily on a cushioned chair opposite her. But instead of talking, Amanda twiddled her thumbs.
Whatever Amanda had on her mind, Violet was going to have to start this conversation. “How fares your Season?” she finally asked.
It was utterly ridiculous to think of the girl having a Season. That would mean that Violet was old enough to have a niece on the marriage mart. But Lily, a mere handful of years older than Violet, had married at seventeen and had managed to produce her first offspring within the year.
At Amanda’s age, Violet had been pushed out into the hubbub of social calls and balls, too.
It had been terrible for her, but it would likely turn out better for her niece. For one thing, Amanda was not nearly as awkward as Violet had been. Her eventual husband would want more than one thing from her.
Violet folded her hands as she sat on the embroidered sofa in her sister’s front parlor and tried not to shift uncomfortably. The cushions were too soft; it took an effort to stiffen her spine and not slouch.
Across from her, her niece was examining the embroidered fabric of her cuffs.
“Come, Amanda,” Violet suggested. “Sit up straight and talk to me.”
Amanda lifted her head. She had a gentle smile on her lips, and wide, innocent eyes. “My Season,” she said, her voice sounding like the tinkle of merry little bells, “is going excellently.”
Of course it was, if she was that good at lying. Violet frowned. “Oh?”
“Indeed,” Amanda said. “Mama thinks that an earl is going to offer for me. Can you think of it? Me, a countess?”
Anyone else would see a silly, foolish little girl—one with stars in her eyes from her first Season, dazzled by the possibility of an offer from one of England’s highest peers.
Violet shivered, imagining Amanda as the sort of countess that Violet herself had become. Cold as stone, with no possibility of more.
“He’s only a few years older than I am,” Amanda continued, “and handsome. And…” She trailed off, looking into the distance. “And…”