Chapter 24
“What is the matter with me?”
Lavinia heard her own voice as if it belonged to someone else, a small, strangled thing that sounded nothing like the formidable Lady Lavinia Pembroke she meant to present to the world.
She lay motionless in bed, the linen twisted around her legs, sunlight clawing at her eyelids through the curtain.
She had not slept. Not really. Her mind had spent the hours—minute by mortifying minute—replaying the kiss that had been so unexpected, so unguarded, that she had answered it before reason or propriety could draw breath.
She pressed a palm to her forehead, as if the memory could be forced back in. It would not move. Worse, she was haunted by the idea that the real trouble was not the kiss itself but the fact that she could not regret it.
What is the matter with me?
It was easier, she supposed, to indulge in fantasy when the waking world was so unrelenting in its demands.
She had not the luxury of romance; she had Frances to consider, and the house, and the ever-looming specter of the estate’s ledgers.
She could not afford distraction, least of all the sort that made her pulse jump in her wrist.
Lavinia sat up, shoving away the last scraps of sleep. She rose and began the morning ritual: hair, pinned and brushed; face, scrubbed and set into lines of composure; dress, plain and serviceable, sleeves rolled back to the elbow for the business of breakfast.
By the time she entered the dining room, the air smelled of weak tea and defeat. Frances was already there, attacking a roll with more enthusiasm than was strictly legal in genteel society.
“Good morning,” Frances said, her mouth full and eyes wide. “You look like a ghost. Did you not sleep?”
“I slept as much as any woman with a sister who pilfers the counterpane,” Lavinia replied, taking her seat. “And I am not a ghost. I am merely pale. It is fashionable now.”
Frances made a face. “Only in France.”
“Then we are pioneers,” Lavinia said.
Mrs. Down entered at that moment, bearing a small silver tray with a single envelope perched on it like a poisonous insect.
“Post, my lady.”
Lavinia reached for it, but paused when she saw the name. Of course, it was Mr. Crawley.
She took the letter and tucked it under the edge of her plate, pretending not to notice the way Mrs. Down’s eyes lingered on her, as if searching for a crack in the armor. There would be none. Not in front of Frances.
Frances began to rattle on about the party. “I heard that when he tired of pursuing you, Lord Dawnford was seen drinking punch in the servants’ hallway with Lady Featherstone’s daughter.”
Lavinia shook her head. “That does not surprise me.”
When Frances went to fetch more jam from the kitchens, Lavinia opened the letter:
Lady Lavinia,
I have been lenient. I am going to be generous with you, but this shall be my last warning. The outstanding debt must be paid within a fortnight.
Should you fail to satisfy the amount, I will have no choice but to pursue the matter through every legal avenue, as discussed. Or, should you wish to avoid such embarrassment, I await your favorable response to my previous proposal.
You know I am a man of my word.
She folded the note and slipped it into her sleeve. The physical act of hiding it did nothing to lighten its presence in her thoughts. It was always the same: pay, marry, or leave. There was no third option.
She heard Frances humming, so trusting and so blithely ignorant of what the world would do to people who did not fit.
Lavinia felt the familiar pinch of guilt: that she could be so selfish as to wish, for one impossible second, that the man who had kissed her at Evermere Hall on a stormy night might actually wish to rescue her from this particular fate.
Ridiculous. She was no fairy tale damsel. Tristan was a practical man, a Duke with a legacy, and she was—what was she, exactly?
She buttered a roll, then remembered she had no appetite. Instead, she watched Frances return with the jam. There had never been anyone else. If Frances’s prospects were ruined by her own foolishness, she would never forgive herself.
Mrs. Down bustled in again, this time with the newspaper, but paused when she saw Lavinia’s face. “All well, my lady?”
“All is as it ever is.” Lavinia smiled.
Mrs. Down nodded, but her mouth pursed in a way that suggested she would be brewing a more pointed interrogation later.
As the meal wound on, Frances described the upcoming musical evening at the Rowson’s and Lavinia nodded and made all the proper noises, but she was barely present.
“Did you hear about Lady Hellen’s elopement? The family is in mourning, but I think it’s romantic.”
“It’s exceedingly foolish,” Lavinia said, “but perhaps that is what romance requires.”
Frances considered that. “I think I’d like to be foolish, just once.”
Lavinia reached for her teacup. “If you are to be foolish, Frances, be so in pursuit of happiness, not in escape from it. Though I caution you against eloping.”
“Oh, I will ensure you approve of the man I marry. That way, there is no need to elope.”
“Good. Happiness must never be traded for anything else.” She truly wanted Frances to have what she could never have.
Her sister seemed to ponder this for a moment, then grinned. “You sound just like a book.”
Lavinia allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “That is because I have read too many of them. Now, finish your porridge before it congeals.”
“The Duke of Evermere has certainly taken an interest in you, Lavinia. What say you about that?”
Nancy greeted as she beamed from the center of her drawing room. Lavinia, caught mid-curtsy, nearly tripped over the edge of the rug.
“He most certainly has not,” Lavinia replied, doing her best to radiate indifference. “And how would you know about his interest in me?”
“I have ears everywhere, my dear. My lady’s maid informed me of the happenings at Lady Montfort’s private party. And she heard it from the Montfort maids and footmen.”
“He is concerned for Lady Sophia’s welfare. It is nothing more than that.”
Nancy snorted, a sound that would have sent most society ladies to their fainting couches, and seized Lavinia’s hands.
“Then why did he glare at Lord Dawnford as though he wished to dash his brains against the wall? Why, indeed, does he arrive at every gathering at the moment you do, as if he can sniff your presence in the air?”
“His Grace,” Lavinia said, “is a man of routine. And perhaps of allergies.”
Nancy laughed. “The only thing he is allergic to is his own feelings. Mark me, Lavinia: that man is on the verge of a grand declaration. I only hope you have the sense to say yes.”
Lavinia made for the safety of a chair. “Even if he were so inclined, which he is not, I would never accept.”
Nancy’s eyes danced. “Never is such a dangerous word. I remember when you said you’d never wear blue, and now you cannot be kept out of it.”
Lavinia found a cushion and hugged it to her lap. “You are relentless, Nancy.”
Nancy dropped beside her, so close their shoulders brushed. “It is my duty as your oldest and truest friend to be relentless. If not me, who?”
Lavinia opened her mouth to reply, but instead found herself watching the parade of small feet across the rug as Nancy’s adopted children—her husband’s niece and nephew—Clara and Henry, thundered in, chased by a spaniel.
“Excuse the parade,” Nancy said with a note of pride. “I tried to lock them in the nursery, but they have the instincts of wolves. Clara! Mind the table, darling, or you’ll topple the tea.”
Lavinia smiled as the children were swept away by a nursemaid, then returned her attention to her friend. “I have brought your Byron,” she said, extracting the slim volume from her reticule. “Thank you for the loan. It is just as scandalous as you promised.”
“I should hope so,” Nancy said. “Scandal is the only thing that makes literature bearable.”
Lavinia ran her fingers over the book’s spine. “I sometimes wonder what would happen if one were to simply do as Byron does, and never heed consequence or decorum.”
“You would end up dead in Greece or married to a mad poet,” Nancy laughed. “But it would be an adventure.”
Lavinia’s mouth quirked. “That is not the sort of adventure I seek.”
Nancy watched her, the smile fading by degrees. “You have the look of someone carrying a sack of bricks on her back. Is it the estate again? Or something worse?”
Lavinia met her gaze, then looked away. “Have you ever felt,” she began, then faltered, “as if you had only two choices, and both were wrong?”
Nancy considered. “I did once. I had the choice to either marry my husband to ‘save’ his niece and nephew from him or to see them suffer.”
Lavinia tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sigh. “It is not quite the same.”
“Tell me.” Nancy’s tone softened.
Lavinia stared at her hands, knotting and unknotting the fringe of the cushion.
“It is simply… I sometimes dream.” She let the words hang, then, voice so low Nancy had to lean in to catch it: “I wish there were someone to live that dream with, but there is not, and—” She cut herself off, her cheeks suddenly hot.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed with affectionate skepticism. “Is this about the Duke?”
“It could be about anyone.” Lavinia tried to recover. “I do not mean to be obscure, I simply—” She shook her head, frustrated by her own tongue. “I wish I could be as free as Byron. But I am not.”
Nancy reached over and squeezed Lavinia’s wrist. “You are stronger than you think, and cleverer than Byron ever was. But sometimes the walls we build to protect ourselves keep out more than just pain.” Her grip tightened, and the warmth was grounding. “They keep out possibility as well.”
Lavinia blinked hard, then managed a smile. “That sounds as if it came from a book.”
“It did not,” Nancy replied. “But you may borrow it, if you wish.”
They sat for a time in companionable silence, the only sound the muffled bickering of children and the occasional bark from the spaniel. At length, Nancy said, “You know, if you ever wished to talk about it—the real problem, not just the lace-trimmed version—you may. No judgment.”
Lavinia nodded, unable to trust her voice.
Nancy let the moment pass, then brightened. “I heard Lady Eleanor is with child already. Barely a fortnight married, and already she waddles.”
Lavinia gave a genuine laugh. “You are dreadful.”
“I am observant,” Nancy said, triumphant. “And now I have made you smile.”
They moved to the window, watching the gray day gather itself into something more severe. Lavinia felt the first calm of the day steal over her, thin but real.
“Nancy,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
Nancy looped her arm through Lavinia’s. “Of course. Now promise me you will not swear off Dukes entirely, at least until the season is over.”
Lavinia made a face, but promised.
When she left, the air seemed colder, but lighter. She wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders, Nancy’s words—about walls and possibility and the foolishness of “never”—echoing in her mind.
It changes nothing, Lavinia told herself. There is only the one path, and it is neither brave nor beautiful. It is survival.
But as she walked back to Pembroke Manor, she found herself wondering, for the first time, if there might be a different way. If she dared.
Later that night, Lavinia sat hunched at the escritoire in the library with her arms braced among the scattered ledgers and the blunt-nosed quill, the single stub of wax her only companion.
She had been at it for hours, teasing out every sum, every column, every stray penny that might be coaxed from the estate’s bones. The pages before her were a battle: ink against arithmetic, pride against encroaching defeat.
She added the numbers again, careful and slow, then glared at the total as if it might cower into submission. It did not. There was no way forward, not unless she did something drastic. Or impossible.
She pressed her hands to her face, wishing, for once, to be someone else. Someone reckless, or at least someone less obsessed with obligation.
The door to the library creaked open. Frances appeared, already in her nightdress, eyes wide in the gloom.
“Are you still working?” Frances tiptoed closer, mindful of the loose board that always gave them away.
“There is a great deal to do,” Lavinia said, schooling her voice to calm.
Frances hovered, arms hugging herself. “May I help?”
Lavinia forced a smile. “You help every day.”
Frances shifted from foot to foot. “I was thinking—I could sell my pearl combs, if you need. They were Mother’s, but they are not very fashionable now.”
Lavinia’s heart wrenched. “They are yours. I would never ask it.”
Frances came closer, peering at the ledger as if it might yield a secret. “I could paint for the neighbors,” she offered, tentatively. “Mrs. Wilkins says I have a talent for likeness. She said she would pay for a portrait of her cat, if I wished.”
Lavinia reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her sister’s ear. “You are too good,” she said. “And too generous.”
Frances looked up, the candlelight catching in her eyes. “I do not want you to be sad.”
“I am not sad,” Lavinia lied, smoothing the page with her palm. “I am only determined.”
Frances nodded, then lingered, uncertain.
“Come here,” Lavinia said, rising and gathering Frances into her arms. She was startled by how much her sister had grown—when had she become tall enough to fit so well?
Lavinia pressed her cheek to the soft, fine hair and whispered, “I will find a way. This is not your burden to bear.”
Frances tightened her grip, then let go. “Good night, Lavinia.”
“Good night, darling.”
When the door shut, Lavinia stared at the numbers and thought of Nancy’s words, the ones about walls and possibility, and wondered what sort of future might exist if she had the courage to reach for it.
But even as she wished for that future, she knew what must be done. There would be no rescue, no grand declaration, no easy way out.