Chapter 48
With a smile on her face, Cynthia floated on air, walking back along the private path up to Turner Hall. She spent most of the time staring at the ring, twirling it around her finger. There was a white dress in her wardrobe she hadn’t worn all summer. That would be her wedding dress to Jonathan. It wasn’t fancy, but she didn’t want fancy. All she wanted was her life with the man she loved and who loved her.
Dashing across the foyer and taking the stairs two at a time, she hurried along the corridor to her mother’s rooms. At the end of the hallway, Freddie was leaning against the wall.
“Cyn,” he said and stood in the middle of the hallway blocking her way. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. And you’d better tell Imelda to stay the hell away from me. You had no right to tell her about Jonathan and me.”
“I’m sorry. I told her not to tell anyone. I can’t believe she told her parents.”
“She didn’t directly, but she was talking to you in the butcher’s shop. This is your fault and, by extension, hers and her parents’ fault. I wouldn’t be in this mess if you had never told her. Did you know father is planning on making me marry the man from last night?”
“I told you not to go in the study.”
“You should’ve told me why I shouldn’t go in there. And you should’ve told me you betrayed my confidence,” Cynthia yelled.
“I’m sorry, Sis. I had no idea what would happen.”
Freddie’s bottom lip wobbled and tears formed in his eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“Jonathan proposed half an hour ago,” she said, lifting her engagement finger. “I’m going to marry him before I have to marry Sullivan.”
“Don’t you need father’s permission? Imelda does.”
“Imelda is seventeen. The law says anyone over twenty-one doesn’t need permission.”
“I’ll do anything to help you, Cynthia,” he said quietly.
“Do not tell anyone anything, not a word.”
“I promise.”
“What’s going on out here?” Their mother asked, coming out of her room. “I was having a nap to get rid of my headache, and now you two arguing has made it worse.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll go,” Freddie said and left them.
“Mother, can I talk to you?”
“I’m awake, so you might as well get whatever it is off your chest,” she answered, narrowing her gaze at Cynthia’s left hand.
Cynthia followed her mother into her suite of rooms. Victoria Turner had the corner set of rooms in the west wing overlooking the gardens. There was a small flat roof space with a table and chair that she envied. It was the perfect vantage point to see everyone and everything on Turner Hall grounds. But, with all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Cynthia knew she wouldn’t get a chance to have these rooms now that her father had found out about Jonathan.
“What is it?” her mother asked, sitting daintily on a settee from a hundred years ago. Her floral dress blended well with the upholstery.
“I don’t want to marry Sullivan. But father says I have to.”
“You do. Your dalliance with that Jonathan fellow has embarrassed the family. We needed to make arrangements quickly. What were you thinking?”
“I’m thirty years old and in love. I thought I was going to marry the man who has proposed and live in the town.”
Her mother reared back like Cynthia had told her she would forever parade naked through the high street. Mouth agape, hand on her choker necklace and a full step back. “You will not. No Turner will live in the town like a pauper.”
Cynthia rushed over to her mother, held onto her clasped hands and pleaded. “But I love him.”
Wrenching her hands away from her daughter, Victoria walked to the mantlepiece over an unlit fire. She looked in the ornate mirror hanging above the marble mantlepiece and patted the back of her intricate French pleat. Then, looking at Cynthia in the reflection, her features turned hard.
“I don’t care. You should have thought about that before you shamed the family name.”
“How have I shamed the family name?” Cynthia flapped her arms to her side, looking around for a clue.
“Are you a virgin?” she clipped.
“Mother!”
Turning to face Cynthia, she placed her hands over her stomach. “Answer the question, Cynthia.”
“No,” she answered quietly.
“As I thought. Your father has promised Sullivan you are still a virgin. So act like it on your wedding night.”
“I’m not marrying a man twenty years older than me.”
“You will marry who we say you’ll marry or suffer the consequences. You were born into this family as the eldest child. You are to inherit Copper Island and the Turner legacy. You will marry well, not be a poor teacher’s wife, and live in poverty.”
“But mother?”
“Not buts child. Do as you know you’ve been trained to do your whole life. You know that we have been preparing you for an arranged marriage. Why do you think you get a pass when all the other generations have had no say?”
Fury laced her veins, making her brave to stand up to her mother. “Because it’s the twentieth century, and I’m over the age of twenty-one.”
“I wouldn’t cross your father or your Grandfather. You may live to regret it,” her mother warned.
“I’ll live to regret it if I don’t marry Jonathan Cranford,” Cynthia said, holding up her ring.
“Is that all the man could afford? That wouldn’t keep us in food for a week.”
“It doesn’t matter how much the ring cost. It only matters about the meaning behind it,” Cynthia argued.
“You live in a fairy-tale world. This is the real world. You’re a Turner. Do not forget that.”
Cynthia stared at her mother in disbelief.
“I have a headache coming back on. Leave me to nap,” Victoria said, shooing her away with her hand.
Tears formed in Cynthia’s eyes as she backed away, not taking her eyes off her mother, who had closed her eyes and rested the back of her hand on her forehead, slumping back on the settee.
Cynthia was determined never to turn into her mother.