Chapter 36
The Bonds of Sisterhood
She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been …
Jane Austen, Persuasion
Devon wanted to stay the night. Clara very much wanted to let him. With Devon, she could be weak. If she needed to spend the whole night sobbing on his shoulder, he would never speak a word of admonishment. He’d just hold her close until she was finished.
Had they still been on the cusp of their engagement, she might have yielded to both their desires.
But the fact was that Father’s death meant they could not make any formal announcement for at least another six months.
Even then, they’d risk accusations of unseemly haste.
And if it became known that Devon had spent the night under her roof before that time, the gossips would make all manner of guesses as to why the haste was needed.
Clara wondered what Devon would say if she suggested they climb into a carriage and ride for the Scottish border. She strongly suspected he’d drive them himself.
But she would not do that, of course. No. She would stay put and make sure that the world saw that all the Kinsdale daughters properly mourned their ridiculous, profligate, elegant, astonishing father. That they would present the correct face to the world, no matter what it cost.
Devon, being Devon, understood all of this, even when she was barely able to say any of it.
He had kissed her before he left, kissed her like it was the first time—when they were hidden in the walnut grove, when she turned to see him looking at her like he was seeing the future open up in front of him and it was beautiful.
The memory of that moment still made her shiver with warmth and need, and she suspected it always would.
And what have I given him? Clara thought sourly as she climbed the stairs. He’s laid his life and his heart at my feet, and what am I returning?
Clara ruthlessly shoved this thought away.
Devon stays because he loves me. I have hidden nothing from him.
He has already seen all of us. He grew up knowing who we were, the way we grew up knowing him, and his brother.
He already knows the worst and he accepts it.
He is strong enough, experienced enough, to understand me. Understand all of us.
I can trust him.
I will trust him, and I will not weaken in this.
She had reached the door to the apartments she shared with Elizabeth and Cynthia. She took a deep breath and forced herself to adopt an expression of calm. Only when she felt sure she had succeeded did she open the door.
All the sitting room lamps had been lit, and the golden light rendered the place almost cheerful.
Cynthia sat at her writing desk, sorting through a pile of condolence cards she had promised to answer.
Elizabeth stood at the window, looking out over the darkened garden.
She had her face turned mostly away, but even so, Clara could see her cheeks were flushed.
Is it embarrassment or anger?
Cynthia’s face was also unusually pink and her eyes glimmered in the lamplight.
So. They’d been arguing. Cynthia, at least, had been crying.
Clara decided she would ignore these facts. For now.
She made herself sweep past her sisters and head for the boudoir, then sit down at her dressing table.
“Do you know, I was thinking we should have Mrs. Kendricks pack away Mrs. Lynn’s things,” she said as she began removing her earbobs. “She will need them sent on to her, eventually, after all, and when they are cleared away, one of us can take the room. We are so crowded in here.”
“What does his grace say?” asked Elizabeth from her post by the window. “You’d best make sure it is in line with his wishes.”
“Elizabeth, please,” sighed Cynthia. “Let it be.”
But Elizabeth, clearly, was not interested in letting anything be. Looking in her mirror, Clara saw her sister stalk over to stand in the doorway.
“What were you two talking about so long?” Elizabeth’s question sounded like yet another taunt. “What portion of our future were you and he deciding this time?”
Clara found her patience had run entirely dry. She twisted around on her stool. “Since you ask, we were discussing the fact that Father left no will.”
There was a clattering sound. Cynthia had dropped something. Now she ran to stand in the doorway beside Elizabeth. Stand, and stare.
“Yes, believe it,” said Clara coldly, even though neither one of them had spoken.
“Our father—who could not stand to acknowledge the fact that his hair had gone gray—refused to consider the idea that he might die. So, he has left the entire estate in disarray. Which means, as I understand it, the creditors will have first grab at anything that isn’t part of the entail.
” She stood, fists clenched, emotions coming close to choking off her breath.
“So, Elizabeth, I suggest that you be a little nicer about Casselmaine,” she said. “Because as soon as our Irish cousins can be traced, we could all very well find ourselves out in the hedgerows.”
Cynthia was trembling. Elizabeth wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Stop it! You’re upsetting her!”
“She should be upset!” shouted Clara. “We all should! And you should be helping, not making things even worse!”
“I—” began Elizabeth.
The last of Clara’s patience snapped.
“You!” she cried. “We would not be in the middle of this disaster—Father dead, the admiral dead—if you had not brought that woman into our family!”
Elizabeth flushed scarlet. “I would not have had to bring her if you had been in the least willing to remember the loyalty you owed us, and our mother!”
“I said I’d marry Devon to save us!”
“You said you’d marry him to rule over us!”
“Stop it, both of you!” shouted Cynthia.
Silence fell so abruptly, Clara found her ears ringing. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She sat down gracelessly on her stool, both hands pressed against her stomach.
Elizabeth turned away and stalked off into the sitting room. Clara could see her by the hearth, staring at the empty grate.
Cynthia came into the boudoir and dropped onto the bed, plainly as exhausted and heartsick as Clara.
“It’s no good, Clara,” she said, and the defeat in her voice pierced Clara’s heart.
“What’s done is done, and whatever Elizabeth’s part in it, it was Father who let himself be so deluded.
Anyway, it’s over tomorrow. Mrs. Lynn will be taken away for trial, and she will hang, and that will be an end to it, or as near as an end can be. ”
“Only it won’t,” said Clara.
“What?” croaked Elizabeth.
“Casselmaine is going to ask for the inquest to be delayed.”
“What?” Cynthia’s hand clenched around a fistful of counterpane. “Why would he?”
“It seems there are some questions about Elizabeth’s statement.
” Clara was answering Cynthia, but she kept her face turned to Elizabeth.
Talking between rooms was unseemly. Father would have admonished them for it, but she did not want Elizabeth to miss a single word.
“It seems that in her sworn statement Elizabeth said Father was thinking of separating from Mrs. Lynn. It also seems she said he was quite discontent and ordered that the party be broken up early. The problem is that I, and a dozen others, heard Mrs. Lynn tell him it was time to end the evening.” Clara turned her gaze back to her younger sister, who perched on the edge of her bed, her fists knotting up bunches of the covers.
“It also seems she said she spoke to you, Cynthia, at the party. But we all know you were in this room the entire time.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Elizabeth.
“Miss Thorne told me, and Mr. Harkness confirmed it.”
Elizabeth snorted. “And you believe them?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Clara. “Especially since what you were really doing was sneaking about and meeting strange men in the garden!”
Elizabeth’s mouth snapped shut.
“Yes, I saw you,” said Clara. “And I saw Mrs. Lynn keep Miss Thorne from following you out. I’ve said nothing because you’re my sister and I love you, but I don’ t know how much longer I can protect us! You have to stop! Whatever it is, you have to stop!”
Tears sprang into her eyes and Clara wiped uselessly at them. She yanked out the central drawer of her vanity and began hunting for a handkerchief.
“I told the truth,” said Elizabeth behind her. “Cynthia will bear me out.”
Clara found a handkerchief. It was an old one. The linen had been washed so many times, she could have read a novel through it. She pressed it against her eyes.
She noticed that Cynthia had not yet said anything. So did Elizabeth.
“Cynthia?” Elizabeth prompted, worry plain in her voice.
Cynthia looked away.
“Oh, yes, pretend you can’t hear me,” sneered Elizabeth. “Pretend you didn’t bring this trouble on yourself when you agreed to bring the oh-so-helpful Miss Thorne to plague us all!”
“You may yet have reason to be grateful to Miss Thorne,” Clara told her.
“She has managed to trace some London collaborators of Mrs. Lynn’s.
She may be able to use these additional days to blacken that woman’s character to the point where the coroner and the magistrates will overlook whatever lies you have convinced Cynthia to swear to. ”
She sat there, meeting her sister’s outraged stare, and not flinching, not even blinking.
Slowly, Elizabeth withered. She blinked and fumbled at her sleeve. At last, she pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She turned and strode out of Clara’s field of view.
Clara got to her feet and followed. Elizabeth had turned to the window. She stood, framed by the deepening darkness on the other side of the glass. She was breathing light and quick, trying to dissolve the sobs so clearly knotting inside her.
Clara wanted to say something to soothe her pain, but she could not for the life of her think what that might be.
At last, Elizabeth’s breathing eased. She turned away from the window and faced Clara.
“Very well,” she said. “You may tell his grace I agree entirely with the decision to delay the inquest, if that will help anything. Indeed, I find upon reflection that I welcome it, because in the end I know it will be proved that I have—that we have—done the right thing.”
Cynthia was behind her. Clara could feel her there.
“Have you?” she asked. “Both of you?”
“Yes,” said Cynthia. “And yes, I will swear it.”
“Then,” said Clara, “there is nothing else for us to do.”