Chapter Twenty-One
Rosalie
Everywhere they’ve been this morning, she’s heard the whispers. Titters about how Mr. Dean has forsaken her. Snickers of how
he’s mere weeks, if not just days, away from proposing to Catherine. Snide remarks about her mother hidden by fans and bonnet
rims.
Only Aunt Genevieve, walking tall and going on loudly about her latest travels has kept Mother from breaking into pieces.
Rosalie’s clung to her stories all day, desperate to ignore the cacophony of anxiety in her head.
Because she and Catherine haven’t seen each other in days, and haven’t managed to exchange even a single letter. Amalie and
Henrietta saw Catherine at the baths, but Amalie says she overheard Mrs. Pine’s schedule and it’s jam-packed until next weekend,
when the Pines are throwing their tea party at the Upper Rooms.
Mr. Dean might be polishing up his late grandmother’s ring as they speak. And Rosalie’s stomach might eat through her body.
Mother’s planning to walk into that tea with her head held high. She still believes Rosalie can win Mr. Dean back with a large
enough show of wealth. She can’t. But neither can Rosalie take Mother’s fragile hope.
So here they are, adding needless embellishment to their dresses, huddled together in the sitting area outside the dressing room in Madame Florent’s shop.
“I would bet creams and blues. With Miss Pine’s complexion, it would be the most complementary,” Aunt Genevieve continues.
“What would?” Rosalie asks, having lost the thread of her eighth question about décor for the tea, of which Rosalie and Mother
know nothing at all.
“A cream-and-blue color scheme would go nicely with her skin, and her eyes,” Aunt Genevieve says. “For the tea, or a wedding,
I suppose.”
“There won’t be a wedding,” Mother bites out.
Rosalie barely withholds her own snapped retort. There just can’t be a wedding. They need more time.
“Mrs. Pine seems awfully determined,” Aunt Genevieve says, her voice slightly lilting, like she’s intentionally needling them.
“Well, of course she is. She wants to ruin my life,” Mother snaps.
Rosalie sighs. She’s so sick of this stupid feud. Whatever happened—
“Explain,” Aunt Genevieve says.
Rosalie turns to look at her, surprised. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Aunt Genevieve asks, face turning serious. “I figured the two of you had just gotten competitive,” she adds,
looking to Mother.
“We can’t discuss this here,” Mother says quickly.
Aunt Genevieve raises a sculpted eyebrow. “Madame Florent had to go by carriage to get your lace. We’ve easily thirty uninterrupted
minutes. Explain.”
Mother shrugs. “It’s just competition. Mrs. Pine made up her mind that she had to have Mr. Dean for her daughter, and we’ve let her win. She must be beside herself with triumph.”
Rosalie looks between them. If anyone can get the secret out of Mother, it’ll be Aunt Genevieve. It has to be. This might
be her only opportunity.
“It’s not merely competition,” Rosalie says.
“Rosalie,” Mother warns.
Rosalie turns to Aunt Genevieve. “She won’t tell me why, but Mother prevented Mrs. Pine from marrying a man. A naval captain? Back when they were young. And it ended in scandal,
and because of that, Mrs. Pine arrived determined to sabotage my marriage prospects.”
Rosalie waits, expecting Aunt Genevieve to lay into Mother. Expecting her to make some sarcastic remark. To make light of
Mother’s feud. To call her out. Something.
Instead, Aunt Genevieve’s eyes go wide. Rosalie forgets, sometimes, that Aunt Genevieve is five years younger than her mother.
But in this moment, she can see every one of those years on her face, and something clicks sickeningly into place.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aunt Genevieve asks Mother.
Rosalie’s stomach turns over. She never would have— She would have been more tactful— Oh, God, it was—
“Did he hurt you?” Rosalie whispers.
Aunt Genevieve blinks and meets her eyes. The smile on her face is a cracking thing, but she takes a breath and reaches out
to take Rosalie’s hand. “No, darling. I—I let him charm me, and seduce me, but he was— My honor was ruined, but I wasn’t hurt.”
“I . . .” Rosalie starts, her words curdling in her throat as she hangs on to Aunt Genevieve’s hand.
“Your father got me out of Bath, and no one ever knew. And then a few years later I met your uncle. Everything—everything turned out for the best.”
Rosalie tries to divine the truth of her words just from her soft smile. Being cast out of your life because a man made promises
and didn’t keep them—she doesn’t think that ever goes away.
“You understand now why I couldn’t tell Mrs. Pine.”
Rosalie turns her head to meet Mother’s shining eyes.
“You never told her?” Aunt Genevieve asks.
Mother leans around Rosalie, her hand falling to rest on Aunt Genevieve’s on top of Rosalie’s, so they’re a close press of
sniffles and shaking breath.
“I promised your brother I wouldn’t. I trusted her, but he—he asked me not to tell, and I couldn’t break his confidence. I
wanted—we wanted—to protect you.”
“So you let the ton think he’d ruined her instead?” Aunt Genevieve presses.
“I made sure he couldn’t ruin her,” Mother insists. “And your brother convinced Mr. Pine to propose. It all . . . worked out
for the best,” Mother says, conviction in her words. “You were safe, she was safe.”
“And he got away, again,” Aunt Genevieve says.
“What would you have had me do? Tell the ton he’d ruined you and needed to pay for his crimes? Your reputation could never
have recovered,” Mother says plaintively.
“Surely there could have been—”
“The haberdashery up the street had the perfect sample,” Madame Florent announces, flouncing into the shop, the front door
tinkling behind her.
Her words land like an icy breeze. Mother scoots back from Rosalie, and Aunt Genevieve wipes discreetly at her eyes before Madame Florent walks into the seating area.
“Wonderful,” Mother says. “Thank you so much. I’ll change first, shall I?”
She stands and lets Madame Florent lead her into the fitting room, leaving Rosalie and Aunt Genevieve sitting alone.
“I—” Rosalie starts.
Aunt Genevieve shakes her head. “Later.”
Rosalie meets her eyes, wanting to argue, but the anguish on her face stops her cold. “Uncle Walter mentioned you’re planting
a garden at the estate. What are you having planted?” she asks instead.
Two hours later, Rosalie’s stomach is hot with anxiety and she can tell Mother’s getting a headache. Aunt Genevieve’s personal
sitting room is a comfort. Rosalie stares around at the bright paintings of floral gardens and lets herself sink into Aunt
Genevieve’s worn cream settee. Mother settles in the blue armchair and they sit, waiting, while Aunt Genevieve paces at the
end of the low table between the other settee and Rosalie’s perch.
“When I came back to Bath, married, why didn’t you write to her?” Aunt Genevieve asks.
“She wouldn’t have read my letter,” Mother says softly. “We spoke only once, after. She told me she never wanted to see me
again. And I couldn’t—I don’t blame her.”
“I don’t either,” Aunt Genevieve says, a bite to her voice that wasn’t there before. “She wouldn’t have told anyone,” she
adds.
Mother looks up at Aunt Genevieve. “I know.”
“And yet you let my brother command you to ruin her reputation anyway? You took his word, his stupid, irrational, angry— He
was so mad, Clara. He wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“His little sister had been hurt. He loves you so. And he was hurting. I couldn’t make that worse. And . . . and Eleanor was fine. Mr. Pine is a good man. The man she would have married anyway.”
“Then why go so far as to let Captain Daniels ruin another reputation?”
Mother sighs and twists her hands together. “I thought he might get to her before I could convince her. The same way he seduced
you. I didn’t want to see him hurt someone that I loved again.”
“So you hurt her instead,” Rosalie surmises, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You chose for her so she couldn’t
make the wrong choice.”
Mother meets her eyes, her own full of anguish. “Eleanor was safe. Genevieve was safe. My two favorite people were settled,
even if it meant they were far away. I had to protect them, I just had to.”
Rosalie scoots down the settee, reaching out to take her mother’s hand, squeezing hard. The gossip, and the social clout,
and the endless shopping and fashion—it’s all been a way to fill the gaping hole left behind by Aunt Genevieve and Mrs. Pine
disappearing. A way to keep herself safe, so she wouldn’t be left behind again.
“I’m so sorry.” Aunt Genevieve settles on the other settee, reaching out to take Mother’s other hand. “I didn’t know what
it cost to protect my honor. Had I known, I—”
“No,” Mother says swiftly. “No. It was worth it. You met Walter. You have a wonderful life. We keep our secrets.”
Mother and Aunt Genevieve share a look and Rosalie watches, something catching in her chest. Would Mother protect her like that if she knew how Rosalie truly felt? Are her secrets worth protecting, worth ruining friendships, worth the sacrifice?
“Do you think, if I came with you, we could convince Mrs. Pine to give up on her . . . revenge?” Aunt Genevieve asks gently.
Rosalie’s whole body strains to keep still, to keep her hope from bursting from her mouth. She should have told Aunt Genevieve
right at the start of the season. Saved herself, and Catherine, and everyone, a whole lot of hurt.
But Mother shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter why I did it; she was ruined. You don’t forget that.”
“Maybe—” Rosalie hears herself say.
“No,” Mother says firmly. “She won. Miss Pine can have Mr. Dean, and that will be the end of it.”
They sit for a moment in a strangely calm silence. Rosalie should feel relieved, elated. But it all seems so hollow.
“Well, that’s one thing sorted, at least,” Aunt Genevieve says, her voice loud after the quiet. “And I have my own apology
to make, to you,” she adds, meeting Rosalie’s eyes.
“Pardon?”
“I know your mother thought Mr. Dean a good prospect, but it’s been clear for ages that I made a mistake in introducing you.
The man is a dud.”
“Genevieve!” Mother scolds.
“He is,” Aunt Genevieve insists. “He never paid Rosalie the proper attention. He barely pays anyone attention. He would have
been an inattentive, vapid husband, and our Rosalie deserves far better. I should have said something a long time ago.”
“He . . .” Rosalie starts.
“I suppose I thought finding you someone sensible was safer than letting you bungle through the world on your own,” Aunt Genevieve says.
“You and Mother did all right,” Rosalie says. Aunt Genevieve and Mother chuckle wetly.
“Only because we had each other,” Aunt Genevieve says.
“And we got lucky,” Mother says.
Rosalie turns to look at her, surprised. “I always assumed marrying Father was rather calculated,” she admits.
Mother smiles, releasing her hand to smooth Rosalie’s hair. It’s so gentle. Rosalie’s eyes burn and she blinks rapidly. She
and her mother haven’t sat still like this, close like this, in years.
“If he hadn’t been the son of an earl, I would still have been swept off my feet and carried away,” Mother says. “I wasn’t
looking for a love match. I frankly didn’t think one was possible.” Rosalie’s chest clenches; she knows that exact feeling.
“But he was so damn charming, and lovely, and kind—I was utterly taken immediately. That he came from such a good family and
with such a great sister was pure luck. It was a charmed thing. And you deserve a charmed thing, just like I got,” she says
softly.
Rosalie’s eyes are dangerously close to dripping now. “Really?”
“We’ll find you the perfect man,” Mother adds. “Someone with whom you can fall head over heels.”
The warm, pleasant feeling in Rosalie’s chest disappears in an instant. More men? She’s finally dispatched of Mr. Dean and
they’re going to find more?
“And we really ought to find someone better for poor Miss Pine,” Aunt Genevieve adds. “That could be your penance for what
you put Mrs. Pine through.”
Mother scoffs. “She’d never allow it. That girl will be the next viscountess. Eleanor always got what she wanted.”
“Except when you got what you wanted. Can’t we put your stubborn heads together, find these girls something better?”
Mother’s laughing, but there’s something in Aunt Genevieve’s gaze. It’s the same little spark she had at the painting tea,
when she captured Rosalie and Catherine staring at each other.
“The Hamlen brothers aren’t bad to look at,” Mother says.
“Oh, goodness, yes, the tall one in particular,” Aunt Genevieve agrees, looking back at Mother.
“Well, he’ll have to be for Rosalie, then.”
“Why must you try to pair the poor thing up with the tallest men? She’ll have a permanent neck condition,” Aunt Genevieve
chides.
Rosalie forces a smile, her stomach clenching with unease. She’s gotten Mother to give up on Mr. Dean, which is no small feat.
But Mother could have leagues of other men to suggest. Rosalie could be going on courting outings for the rest of her life.
And Catherine will be left either to marry Mr. Dean, or else go on to court yet more men herself.
How long can they knock down suitors? Long enough for their families to give up? Long enough for her and Catherine to figure
out a way to convince both their mothers into letting them be spinsters?
They need more time.