Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rosalie
Rosalie stands in her foyer, staring at Mother, Christopher, and Aunt Genevieve. Amalie wanted to come with them; Christopher
tried to invite her for . . . more tea. But in the only words she’s spoken to them since the Upper Rooms, Mother said they
needed to speak as a family on some matters, and Christopher could see her tomorrow.
Rosalie doesn’t know if she should be hopeful or terrified.
They’re all just standing there, slowly pulling off gloves in the most stifled silence she’s ever heard. Rosalie looks at
each of them, not sure what to say, not sure what to ask for. She feels numb and frantic all at once.
Mother finally moves, heading for the stairs.
“No,” Aunt Genevieve says, her voice like a whipcrack.
Mother pauses and Rosalie takes her first deep breath since the cloakroom.
“We are talking about this. Family meeting, now.”
“Genevieve, this can wait until the—”
“FATHER,” Christopher bellows. Rosalie, Mother, and Aunt Genevieve jump. “You heard Aunt Genevieve,” Christopher says sternly.
“Sitting room, now.”
Father appears in the hallway from his study, rubbing his hands together eagerly and yawning. He’s such a gossipmonger, even
exhausted by the trip back from London.
Rosalie might vomit.
“What’s the news?” Father asks. “Did anyone choke this time? I hope it was Mr. Martin. He could use a good wallop on the back.”
Mother sighs gustily. Mr. Martin could use a good wallop, Rosalie thinks idly, swaying in place.
“We’ve important family matters to discuss, George,” Aunt Genevieve says, taking Rosalie’s hand. “Sitting room, now.”
Rosalie grips her hand, following her upstairs and toward the sitting room. She tries to keep herself calm, to hold on to
Aunt Genevieve. If her parents—if this is—
The sitting room is dark and drafty. Christopher hurries to the fireplace and gets a fire going while Aunt Genevieve and Rosalie
sit on one of the settees, Mother and Father settling on the other. They don’t need the staff for this. This is . . . private.
Christopher comes to sit on her other side. Rosalie wishes they’d gone upstairs to Mother’s drawing room so that she doesn’t
need to stare at where she pushed Catherine up against the bookcases when they kissed for the first time.
“Do you want to start?” Aunt Genevieve asks softly.
Rosalie blinks. Father’s leaning in, his hands between his knees, expecting her to provide some salacious season gossip. By
contrast, Mother’s almost leaning away from her, like she wants as much distance between them as she can get.
Rosalie opens her mouth, parched and horrified. She doesn’t know if she can tell him this—can rip his world apart like she’s
clearly done to her mother. But Father just looks back at her, open and receptive.
They don’t talk about important things much, but he always listens to her.
“I . . . don’t want to marry Mr. Dean,” she hears herself say, struggling to maintain eye contact.
Father blinks back at her. “You don’t?”
“No,” she says, her voice cracking.
“Well, that is a surprise,” Father says, sitting up straight. “Has he done something, other than show a preference for the
Pine girl?”
Rosalie swallows hard. It can’t be worse than Mother’s reaction . . . can it?
“I—I don’t want to marry him because of—because I . . .” She can’t push it out of her mouth, not with him staring at her like
that.
“Rosalie has developed feelings for Miss Pine,” Mother says.
Rosalie flinches. Mother doesn’t meet her eyes, looking calmly instead at Father, who’s staring back at her, mouth gaping.
Rosalie’s whole body goes stiff with terror. Aunt Genevieve’s hand comes to covers hers where she’s twisted her fingers into
the lace cover of her dress.
“Does Miss Pine share her . . . affection?” Father asks, his voice sounding hollow against the quiet crackling of the fire.
“She does,” Mother says. “I suggest we allow them a year, maybe two, together before deciding on the proper future for them.
Genevieve has rooms at Jones House. They could return for relevant social functions regularly, so their absence could be easily
waved away. And after the various scandals with Mr. Dean that I now realize they architected, it would likely be for the best
anyway.”
Rosalie’s barely breathing. Her body feels frozen, her fingers tingling from where she’s holding too tightly to Aunt Genevieve
and the settee below her.
Father looks over at her, appraising. Rosalie stares back, desperate to know what he’s thinking. She wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to fling her arms around her mother and shake her all at once.
If this was what she was thinking the whole time, could she not have said, instead of storming out of the water closet, leaving
Rosalie to think that—to feel—
“Will that suffice?” Father asks, looking now to Aunt Genevieve.
“It’s not my choice to make,” Aunt Genevieve says firmly. “But I would love to have them.”
“Rosalie? Is that what you want?” Father asks.
“Of course it is,” Mother says archly.
“Let her have her say,” Aunt Genevieve says curtly.
Mother holds up her hands and then waves to Rosalie to weigh in.
Rosalie sits there staring at her parents, hope and relief and a strange rage warring in her chest. Was it always this simple?
Was this always allowed? She’s been living and preparing for a life she’s never wanted for as long as she’s been alive. And
the whole time, if she’d just said, “I want something else,” they would have listened?
She feels betrayed. And angry. And grateful. And, and, and—
“Rosalie,” Aunt Genevieve says softly.
“Yes,” Rosalie exclaims, almost shouting. Everyone jumps.
She sits for a moment, breathing hard, trying to rein in the overflow of emotion before she starts yelling. But no one else
says anything. They’re all sitting there, waiting for her to say words she has no idea how to say.
She’s known this about herself her whole life, how can she not have the words now?
“Rosalie and Miss Pine told me and her mother that they would like to be together,” Mother starts.
“Clara,” Aunt Genevieve scolds. “Let her talk.”
“Well, she’s not saying anything!”
Rosalie cringes and Christopher leans forward. “Perhaps this isn’t the easiest thing to discuss. You could give her some grace,”
he says firmly.
“You already know?” Father asks. He sounds so like his normal self, curious and engaged.
“Of course I know. I’ve been paying attention. I’ve been here,” Christopher replies, his voice cold.
“My responsibilities in London—”
“And I asked,” Christopher says over him. “You decided she was supposed to marry Mr. Boring two years ago and never bothered
to ask if she even liked him, let alone if marriage was what she wanted.”
Rosalie places her hand on his arm. Christopher looks over at her and she can’t help but smile. His defense shifts something
in her chest.
“I’ve never wanted to marry any man,” Rosalie hears herself say. “I’ve known that for a very long time, but I didn’t think
there was any . . . alternative, until I met Catherine.” Christopher takes her hand and squeezes. “She’s the most wonderful
person I’ve ever known, and I want the chance to be with her and to decide with her what our life could look like, if all
of you and her parents can support that.”
Father’s lips twitch, almost like he might smile, but Mother’s face is still blank. She’s still too calm, too collected, and
it puts a sliver of doubt into Rosalie’s otherwise rising hopes.
“But if the . . . solution you’ve come up with is that Catherine and I can be together for a few years, but then we’ll still be expected to part and marry, I don’t want it.
” Mother purses her lips and Rosalie finds herself leaning forward, pulling Aunt Genevieve and Christopher with her.
“It would hurt too much. It would hurt more than losing her now. Can’t you see that? ”
“If Aunt Genevieve can’t have them live at Jones House forever, they can come live with me,” Christopher says quickly. “And
they’ll never have to marry, if that’s what they want.”
“I never said they couldn’t stay with me forever,” Aunt Genevieve says, affronted.
“Well, at some point you’ll die,” Christopher says.
Rosalie gasps and Aunt Genevieve snorts. She thinks she hears Father laugh across from them, but she’s too busy staring at
Christopher, aghast.
“Well, she will!” Christopher says, meeting her eyes. “I’m the only one who can offer you a permanent residence after the
rest of them croak. You’ll have to take it.”
Mother, Father, and Aunt Genevieve let out varying noises of disagreement. Rosalie laughs, and it’s such a freeing, wonderful
feeling.
“I already told you I would,” she says, gripping his hand.
“You made this offer already?” Father asks, bringing both their gazes back to him. “Where will you live?”
“The northern estate,” Christopher says. “Or I’ll find another residence if you won’t have us there until I inherit.”
“You’d be willing to spend your own money to give your sister a safe place to live?” Father presses.
“I’d be willing to spend all of my money to give her a safe place to live,” Christopher says simply, as easy as breathing.
“If you won’t support her, I will.”
Rosalie presses her shoulder into his, so incredibly grateful for him, and for Aunt Genevieve, still clinging to her other hand.
Father’s stern face slowly cracks into a smile. “I am proud of you,” he says.
Christopher’s face stills, his hand going slack around her own.
“It seems you’ve made rather excellent use of this season. I regret that I doubted your intentions, staying here rather than
coming with me to London. I will be proud to have you inherit the title, when I finally croak.”
It makes everyone except Mother laugh.
“Thank you,” Christopher says, his voice trembling. “I would do it for Rosalie even if you hated me for it, though, so don’t
be too proud.”
“I’ll be proud of my son if I want,” Father argues. “You cannot stop me.”
Rosalie stares at him. More words that should have been said so much sooner.