Chapter Seventeen
Rosalie
Rosalie growls to herself, pacing beneath the large green oak tree at the back of their yard, hoping Mother’s still engaged
with her correspondence so Rosalie can get a handle on her “sullen” attitude.
It’s getting harder and harder to listen to Mother’s plans about Mr. Dean without screaming that she doesn’t want him, never
has, and wants the daughter of her former best friend instead. Ardently. Passionately. Physically.
She lies awake at night, driven wild by memories of Catherine’s touch, and taste—the way she held her, the way she kissed
her—the way she—
But each alluring, titillating, scalding memory is accompanied by an instant douse of cold water thinking about how to make
it happen again.
Before Catherine, she could always see all the possible outcomes of any given situation, could architect the world to fall
to her whims. But that was for socially acceptable outcomes. “Match this girl with this boy, happily (if sometimes only financially)
ever after.”
It makes her mad, and flushed, and uncomfortable in her skin to not be able to figure out what should come next, what she
wants, and how to get it. They need more than a month to decide what they want the rest of their lives to look like.
“You appear positively vexed.” Rosalie spins around to find Christopher leaning against the big oak tree, grinning at her.
She purposefully hasn’t gone to find him over the last two days, because she didn’t know how to talk about it. Still doesn’t.
“Are you going to kiss and tell, then?” he asks, grinning wider as she splutters. “It’s clear as day that you did.”
Rosalie covers her face with her hands, cheeks flaming. “Shut up.”
She peeks through her fingers to find him holding up his hands, still smirking. “Then do you want to discuss how we’re going
to ensure you get to see her again, and perhaps delay Mr. Dean by another year, if not forever? And I vote for forever.”
Rosalie lets her hands drop. “I—we don’t have a plan in place, and we didn’t decide to . . . be together forever or anything
like that. It could still be premature.”
She’s rather sure there’s nothing premature about how she feels for Catherine. But she wants more time before voicing any
of her confusing, titillated, overwhelmed feelings.
“Well, even if you haven’t decided—and I rather think you’re a liar—I certainly have,” Christopher says, pushing off from
the tree to walk over to her. “You cannot marry that absolute bore. I don’t know that there’s a match for you that isn’t the
lovely Miss Pine, but it absolutely can’t be him.”
Rosalie stares at her brother, relieved, and anxious, and grateful, and hesitant. “Father and Mother—”
“I don’t care,” Christopher says immediately. “You deserve to have a happy life that’s more than . . . this,” he says, gesturing
to the house.
She wants to feel like wanting more isn’t wrong. Wants to silence the little voice inside telling her she’s ungrateful and strange to want more than what most women dream about. To want a life that’s not perfect in the eyes of everyone around her.
Rosalie meets Christopher’s earnest gaze. “It isn’t like asking to go to school or get a tutor.”
“No,” Christopher agrees, squeezing her hands tightly. “It’s so much braver than that. You’re asking for them to let you be
who you are, exactly as you are.”
“If Catherine and I don’t decide to— If whatever this is isn’t forever, then I—”
“If you want to ask them, I’m here. I’ll ask them with you if you want. And if you don’t—even if you never do—I’ll be here. You never
have to ask me, at least, all right?”
She lunges forward, pulling him into a hard hug. Christopher laughs into her hair and then pulls back, reaching out to wipe
her traitorous eyes.
“First step is making sure you don’t end up in a horrible marriage. And we’ll get to the second step, making sure you can
spend forever, or at least a little while, with the wonderful Miss Pine.”
Rosalie laughs, snuffling. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he replies, grinning. “Any thoughts so far? You’ve been pacing a trench out here, you must have something.”
“Going boating,” she admits.
“Boating?”
“I’m thinking of arranging a punting trip and being so ridiculously needy and demanding that he won’t want another outing.”
Christopher chuckles. “You’re very well suited.”
To Rosalie’s confusion, he pulls a packet of letters from his pocket.
He removes one and waves it with a little smirk.
Rosalie snatches it from him, confused, only for a waft of Catherine’s lilac perfume to hit her like a wall.
Looking down at the letter, it’s a small square folded carefully, with Rosalie’s name in Catherine’s loopy script.
“Mrs. Pine would never allow Miss Pine to write to you willy-nilly, but her father did allow her to send a thank-you for the
outing, and I’ve written back to ask permission to continue exchanging letters.”
Rosalie glances up to find Christopher bouncing on his toes, so proud of himself. “You could have simply led with that,” she
says, shaking her head as he giggles.
She carefully unfolds the letter, looking down at Catherine’s beautiful script, her heart beating embarrassingly fast.
Dearest, darling Rosalie,
A flush immediately climbs up her cheeks.
It’s strange to say I miss you when we’ve seen each other just two days ago, but I do. I long for your smile, and your touch,
and your embrace. I hope we are able to arrange for at least an outing most urgently.
To that end, I have devised a plan. Our mothers will never forsake their quest to see one of us married to Mr. Dean. But Mr. Dean
has made no such promise.
Would you care to join me in a contest of terrible manners? Perhaps if we are horrible enough, he will simply walk away from
both of us, leaving us but one choice: to drown our sorrows together and force our mothers to give up the feud by way of our
enduring “friendship.”
My mother is planning to hold a tea for the whole ton at the Upper Rooms in a month’s time. I think we can enact a suitable
campaign before then, don’t you?
Please send your reply back with your brother’s, as he and I will begin a correspondence. Does he like chess? I thought perhaps we might play a game in our letters.
I eagerly await your response, and look forward to hopefully matching you in a game of atrocious manners. And after that . . .
we’ll decide what comes next, together.
Ardently yours, and thinking of your face in the firelight,
Catherine
Her heart is racing now. She wants to laugh. She wants to run all the way to Catherine’s house and tell her she’s brilliant,
and they’ve had similar thoughts, and she is absolutely going to win the game of terrible manners, to make sure that she gets
to use only her very best on Catherine until . . . until Catherine tells her to stop, really.
“I do think you might put your considerable brain power together to concurrently repel Mr. Dean and decide on a future you might like together,” Christopher says.
Rosalie looks up, surprised.
“What, you thought I wouldn’t be peeking at your letters?”
“You better not,” Rosalie says quickly, her voice higher than she means it to be. “They’re . . . private.”
He laughs. “Just this one. But I demand to be in on the scheming. In fact, I think I’ll invite Miss Pine along for this boating
outing, so you can begin to repel Mr. Dean together.”
Rosalie sucks on her cheek, carefully folding Catherine’s letter and tucking it into her stays. He’s a sneak, but at least
he didn’t mention the lip print beneath Catherine’s beautiful signature.
She’s not at all thinking about that print, and those lips, and—
“Do I have your full attention?”
She loves him, she hates him. But more, she and Catherine need him. “We should invite Amalie and Henrietta as well,” she says.
She hasn’t forgotten her promise to Christopher. He deserves his happy ending too. Amalie would hate to be left out anyway.
And anytime she can get Henrietta an outing with Mr. Rile is a good opportunity.
“Perhaps we can get the two of you in one boat, and me and Amalie in the other. She and I can heckle,” Christopher says brightly.
“When did you become so devious?” Rosalie teases.
“I learned from the masters,” Christopher says, gesturing to Rosalie and then to the house.
“You’ll use your powers for good,” Rosalie insists. “Take charge of the Lords, make them pursue the betterment of society.”
“You sound a bit like Father,” Christopher says. It’s only then that she notices the other letter in his hands. He follows
her gaze and taps the letter against his palm. “Another disgruntled entreaty to join him in London this season.”
“You could go,” Rosalie says softly.
“Nope. He can be mad all he likes, can say I’m squandering my time, but we both know differently.”
“Christopher,” Rosalie entreats.
“When we’re ready, you and I will build a better future for the whole of England, side by side. Father can wait until I’ve
seen you settled.”
“I hardly think I’ll be of much help to anyone,” Rosalie says softly. She doesn’t like the idea of Christopher digging his
heels in with Father, courting more disappointment.
“If you can build a life you want, you’ll be helping yourself, and any young women you know see there’s another path,” Christopher says immediately. “It’s important,” he adds when she lifts her eyes to his. They feel suspiciously wet.
“And Father’s daft if he thinks I can follow him all on my own. I will demand you help me once I’m in the Lords. You’ll need
to help Amalie throw all my parties. And hopefully Miss Pine will be there to play pianoforte too.”
Rosalie wants to scold him for putting the cart so far before the horse, but the image is too tantalizing to refuse. “If you
say so.”
“I really do,” he says, slinging his arm around her shoulder to bring her inside. “Now, talk to me loudly about how much Mr. Dean
enjoys punting.”
When she’s rocking gently in a punting boat on the still-frigid River Avon three days later, Rosalie finds herself slightly