Chapter Twenty-Three
Rosalie
Henrietta and her mother have strung flowers between the two small oak trees and woven them into the fence. Henrietta’s parents
are flitting amongst the beautiful tables set up by the back doors, receiving endless congratulations. It’s an oversized,
joyous celebration packed into a compact space, just like Henrietta. Rosalie can practically feel happiness floating on the
air.
Christopher is prattling on at her side, their arms looped together as they make a small circuit of the back garden. She’s
not paying attention, too busy swiveling her head to try to find Catherine.
She should be here. It’s the only thing that’s kept Rosalie moving all morning. Mother was too busy to come, Father’s back
in London, and without word from Catherine for over a week, Rosalie’s nearly coming out of her skin. She would have much preferred
to stay home and wallow.
But Henrietta deserves to be feted and celebrated and fawned over.
“Mr. Tisend, I need you,” Amalie says, appearing on Rosalie’s other side.
“All right?” Christopher asks Rosalie.
“Let Amalie steal you for whatever shenanigans she needs,” Rosalie dismisses, giving him a practiced smile.
Amalie tuts, but grabs his arm, grinning at Rosalie. Rosalie watches them go, noting the way Amalie’s pretty blue dress complements Christopher’s starched blue shirt. She wonders if they coordinated.
Rosalie and Catherine could wear beautiful matching gowns, or contrasting colors. Could coordinate their bonnet ribbons to
each other’s dresses. It would be charming. She wants the opportunity to be that sappy.
But Catherine isn’t here. Rosalie has combed her eyes over every inch of the garden, and she and her mother are suspiciously
absent. So is Mr. Dean. Rosalie hopes they’re at separate functions. Hopes that Mr. Dean isn’t presently getting down on one
knee.
Rosalie twists her fingers together, trying to focus on the pull of her kid gloves as the fabric bunches between her fingers.
She wishes Mother had been able to come now. At least she’d have someone to talk to.
She should be used to being left behind. All of her other friends, Jane—they’ve all left her for happy marriages.
Except this time, she does have someone of her own. She just can’t parade her around like Christopher does with Amalie. Can’t
present her proudly like Mr. Rile will do with Henrietta.
It’s then Rosalie realizes she’s been standing alone for ten minutes, and not one person has come to greet her. In fact, no
one appears to be looking her way at all. But she can see people watching her covertly. Judging. Pitying.
It’s dreadfully uncomfortable to be stared at this way. Her stomach clenches unpleasantly. How much worse must it have been
for Mrs. Pine?
Blessedly, Henrietta and Mr. Rile finally make their entrance, appearing through the back doors of Henrietta’s townhouse to thunderous applause.
Henrietta beams out at her guests, holding Mr. Rile’s hand.
Mr. Rile looks incredibly chuffed, standing there in what must be a new navy tailcoat with a light pink cravat.
It matches Henrietta’s stunning pink dress, embroidered up to her thigh with delicate white flowers. Her bright cheeks are
stretched wide, eyes shining even at this distance beneath her pink-and-white-trimmed bonnet.
Rosalie listens to Henrietta’s parents introducing Mr. Rile as their son-in-law-to-be. She watches Mr. Rile and Henrietta
struggle to keep their eyes from each other, barely listening.
Rosalie glances to the side of the patio and notices Christopher and Amalie standing rather close together too, beaming at
Henrietta. It might be them next. Which would be wonderful.
She’ll be gaining a sister, rather than losing a friend. And Henrietta will still visit.
Amalie catches her eye as the speeches wind down and jerks her chin, summoning Rosalie over. She goes, ignoring the feeling
of eyes on the back of her head.
She reaches her brother and Amalie just as Henrietta comes barreling over to them, dragging the still-grinning Mr. Rile behind
her. Christopher bumps Rosalie’s shoulder.
“Congratulations,” Amalie says, taking Henrietta’s free right hand. “Let me see.”
Henrietta beams, turning her hand so they can look at the beautiful pearl-and-gold engagement ring that adorns her short finger.
“Well done,” Christopher tells Mr. Rile.
“She deserves the best,” he says, standing flush with Henrietta, his wide cheeks pink.
“You both do,” Rosalie says. “I’m so happy for you,” she adds, glancing at Mr. Rile before meeting Henrietta’s eyes.
“We owe it all to you,” Henrietta says.
“We do,” Mr. Rile agrees. “You gave me the courage I needed to walk up to the most beautiful woman at that ball.”
Rosalie watches them look at each other. It feels different, this time. You can’t be forced into love. Both people have to
want it. It’s work, to make the life you want. She didn’t understand before.
“I’ll take credit for that first introduction, but the rest was all you,” Rosalie says, speaking toward Mr. Rile but staring
into Henrietta’s widening eyes. “You both braved so many seasons, found each other, and fought to have each other. That is
the true accomplishment, and I am sure you will continue to make each other happy in this next chapter of your life together.
Because you are wonderful, and beautiful, and worthy of all the happiness to come.”
Henrietta bursts into tears, lurching forward to wrap her free arm around Rosalie. Rosalie huffs in surprise, wrapping both
arms around her friend while Amalie, Christopher, and Mr. Rile watch in amusement. Henrietta’s still holding Mr. Rile’s hand.
“Thank you,” Henrietta whispers, pulling back, eyes shining, nose a little red.
“Of course,” Rosalie says, squeezing her hand before bringing the ring up for closer inspection. “Truly, well done, Mr. Rile.”
She glances his way and finds his eyes a little moist too. Her words were meant for Henrietta, but it’s good they meant something
to him. After all, they’re a pair now. He’ll always be around as long as Henrietta’s in her life. Which Rosalie hopes she
is forever.
Henrietta steps back, taking Mr. Rile’s proffered handkerchief with a watery smile. “So,” she says with a great sniff.
Rosalie catches Amalie wiping at her own eyes. Saps, all of them. She’s ignoring her own suspiciously moist cheeks.
“Will Catherine be coming?” Henrietta asks.
All thoughts of tears disappear as Rosalie shifts, uncomfortable. Christopher loops his arm through hers, squeezing, and Rosalie
squeezes back.
“Her cousin, Mr. Finch, just returned from London, and they had to spend the afternoon with him,” Amalie says.
Rosalie looks over at her too quickly. God, but that actually hurt her neck.
“She sends her deepest apologies,” Amalie says, passing a note over to Henrietta. “And an invitation to walk with her on Wednesday.”
“Oh, that’s lovely of her,” Henrietta says.
A sharp twang of jealousy slaps at Rosalie’s chest. Catherine’s allowed to write to Henrietta. And to Amalie, apparently. It’s only Rosalie, and Christopher, who are seemingly on Mrs. Pine’s unacceptable
list.
She wonders how many letters they’ve exchanged. What Catherine’s told Amalie. Is she reading anything new? Has she mentioned
Rosalie?
“Perhaps I can reply tonight to confirm the walk,” she hears Henrietta say.
“When did you last see Miss Pine?” Rosalie asks, blinking as the words spill too loudly out of her mouth.
They all turn to look at her and Rosalie fights a wince.
“We walked yesterday morning. She asked me to pass this along to you as well,” Amalie says, giving her such a look as she
hands over another sealed envelope.
Rosalie all but snatches the letter from Amalie’s hand, ignoring her friends’ inquisitive looks.
“I need to visit your powder room,” she says, pulling her arm from Christopher’s and turning on her heel to march into Henrietta’s
house.
She hurries up the stairs and into Henrietta’s room, closing the door firmly behind her. She takes a moment to get her breathing
in check and lets herself slump against the door.
She combs her eyes over Henrietta’s tidy white vanity, the large white four-poster bed pushed into the corner, the armchair
beneath the tall window along the opposite wall. Henrietta’s beautiful charcoal sketches and watercolors cover almost every
surface of the room. Scenes of her garden, Rosalie’s garden, Aunt Genevieve’s garden, portraits of Amalie, and Rosalie, and
Mr. Rile, Henrietta’s parents—the room is like a collage of Bath, all from Henrietta’s artistic and quirky point of view.
The beautiful art helps her calm down enough to sink into Henrietta’s armchair. She opens Catherine’s letter with shaking
hands, horrified to find herself so excited and anxious over something so simple as a letter. But it’s been a week. She’s starved for news. And she’s just left her happy happy friends with their happy happy suitors/fiancés.
Dearest Rosalie,
I hope you won’t be upset that I’ve given Amalie this letter. She is entirely on our side and has promised, with your darling
brother’s help, to orchestrate whatever we should need to see ourselves through.
I find myself at a loss for exactly what to ask for, but it’s a comfort to know our friends will support us.
Rosalie swallows hard. Helping Amalie and Henrietta, giving them perfect lives, has always seemed so much easier than opening her messy chest to ask for what she wants. What she’s wanted. To tell them who she is.
She should have asked Amalie and Henrietta to help give her cover with Catherine weeks ago—months, really. She doesn’t begrudge
Catherine for being brave enough to reach out and ask for help from the people who love them.
I’m hoping they can at least arrange a meeting for us. My father and Lord Dean have been failing to choose a date to confer,
but I don’t believe we can rely on that forever. One of them will run out of obligations at some point.