Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Breakfast with Edmund had become a habit no one in the family had formally agreed to.
But here he was again, the fourth morning in a row, seated across from Rosalie at the small round table in the drawing room with a cup of tea cooling at his elbow while he read his book in a low murmur.
Against her expectations, this moment had become one of the more restful hours of Rosalie’s day, and she looked across at steadfast Mr. Sinclair with tepid, yes, but slowly growing affection.
When he paused to turn the page, moving on to the next chapter, Rosalie laughed softly. “You need not come every morning,” she said, though her heart was not entirely in the objection. Though I find you to be an excellent reader.”
“I know I needn’t,” he replied, smiling above the page. “But I find I like your drawing room considerably better than I like my own these days, and don’t you agree your mother seems fortified by the presence of many people?”
“Certainly,” Rosalie agreed, taking a sip of coffee. The taste reminded her of her father, who was still upstairs and resting, growing stronger every day. She breathed in deeply and felt her eyes sting with tears again, until she sensed Anna looking at her across the table.
Her sister usually said nothing at all at breakfast. She had been frosty since the argument in their father’s sickroom, polite in front of their mother and cold everywhere else.
Rosalie had not yet found the right moment to close the distance between them, in part because she was not entirely certain she wanted to be the one who apologized first, like always.
“Doctor Brown comes at eleven,” Lady Winthrop said as she entered, standing behind the seat she had left empty beside Mr. Sinclair. “But I do not think I shall be able to eat a single thing until he has gone... You will not mind if I retire to my room?”
“Of course, not,” Mr. Sinclair replied, half-tilting his book and smiling. “But rest assured, the doctor will bring good news.”
“Yes, well... We also said that on Tuesday.” Nodding, Lady Winthrop excused herself and closed the door behind her.
Rosalie stared down into her plate until Anna set down her cup with more force than the gesture required. “Rosalie?” she asked gently. “We should walk a little outdoors now that breakfast is concluded.”
The request was odd enough. Anna rarely asked for anything so directly. But Rosalie rose at once, murmuring an excuse to Mr. Sinclair, who inclined his head and returned to his reading.
Outside, the morning was gray, fog pooling at the bottom of the garden and muffling the ordinary sounds of the street beyond it and the other houses.
The grass was wet with morning dew, and Rosalie picked up her skirts as she walked behind Anna.
Her sister walked a little way down the central path before she stopped, her arms wrapped around herself against the spring cold.
“I have been unkind to you,” Anna said without preamble, turning to face Rosalie.
“Since the sickroom. I know it, and you certainly know it... It’s as though I have watched myself be unkind for many days and have not been able to stop.
And I know that is not an excuse, but it is all I have to give you at this moment. ”
Rosalie froze, dropping her skirts in surprise. “You have been frightened. We all have felt the same.”
“And while that is generous of you, sister, I do not entirely deserve that from you.”
Anna stared at the house, something working behind her eyes.
Rosalie turned to look as well, flooded with memories of their childhood: two little girls playing in the garden on early summer days before they left for Cornwall; lessons with their governess in the schoolroom; Anna’s first dress fitting; Rosalie’s frequent returns from the library, moments of excited reading interrupted by Anna, who had met so many interesting people in town and could not wait until dinner to tell her sister...
“I said cruel things to you that morning, and for all I know they are unforgivable,” Anna said. “Things about knowing what would happen, about thinking myself cleverer than you, I believed them. But... I cannot make peace with it.”
A hand came and closed around Rosalie’s, and she stared down at their joined hands, smiling at the immediate comfort provided by the sisterly gesture.
“I have spent your whole life believing I knew better than you about what would make you happy. I have arranged things to that end, and I pushed you, maybe too far away. And I never once stopped to ask whether you wanted my help, because I suppose I felt... Well, why would she not want my help?”
“Anna...”
“You must let me finish, or my hubris will prevail, and I will lose my courage.” Anna’s eyes brightened with tears.
Her eyes were the same shade as their father’s.
“I want the best for you, Rosie. That has never once been false. But I have gone about it as though your life were a puzzle that I alone could put together, ignoring the fact that you are a grown woman entirely capable of solving it yourself. If anything... you are the last person in this family who has ever needed managing. But maybe ignoring that was easier than just admitting I could not fix everything for everyone I loved.”
Rosalie cast a glance over her shoulder at the window of her father’s room. “Which I suppose has never been truer than now.”
“Changes in one’s health often put things into new perspective.”
Rosalie felt her throat tighten with emotion. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Thank you for saying what you did... I did not expect it, but... perhaps we both needed to hear what you said.”
A small, wry smile crossed Anna’s face. “I think so.”
“It has not always been in vain. You have occasionally given me good advice.” Rosalie had expected Anna to laugh, but she looked down soberly instead. “What is it?”
“No good advice about love,” Anna murmured, then sighed.
“I have not exactly set the finest example of restraint myself. I did steal William out from under Beatrice’s nose after all, though I have never once regretted it, whatever it cost either of us in reputation at the time.
Perhaps that is why I thought I understood love well enough to dictate the course of your love.
But I didn’t attain my own happiness through science.
It was only luck, and a little daring, and a man who wanted me as badly as I wanted him. ”
Nodding, Rosalie ignored the growing unease in her chest. Anna so rarely spoke about her history with William, who, at the time they met, had been courting Beatrice. Their whirlwind romance had set the ton on fire. But Anna and William were perfect for each other. It had been worth the pain.
Worth the pain, Rosalie caught herself thinking. How much pain have I suffered waiting for love in this life?
Anna drew a breath, and her posture shifted.
“Before we go back inside, I must tell you something else that will likely please you less. I am returning to Scotland within the week. William writes that he cannot bear the separation any longer, and I find I feel the same way... And there is rather more reason for it now than there was a month ago... In fact, it was the reason I came down in the first place.”
“What was the reason?”
Anna’s smile broke fully open. “I am with child, dear.”
Rosalie’s eyes filled at once with tears, grief and joy arriving together in a confusing rush. “Oh, Anna...” She embraced her sister tightly. “That is wonderful... But... does Mama know?”
“Only you,” Anna said. “I do not want to say it while Father is so unwell. Maybe you will think that is selfish of me—and if so, I shall tell Mother before I leave.”
“I think she would like that,” Rosalie said, holding her sister a moment longer before releasing her. “It would give her hope for the future, no matter what comes.”
“You shall be a very wise and kind aunt,” Anna said, beaming. “But come, let us return indoors before the sky breaks. Mr. Sinclair will be wondering where we have gone regardless.”
“Yes,” Rosalie said, a strange knot forming in her chest where the ache had been. “Mr. Sinclair...”
They returned indoors together, arms linked. Anna went up to check on their mother with a plate of breakfast, leaving Rosalie alone at the table with Mr. Sinclair and his book.
She studied him for a moment, his steady hands, the crease of concentration at his brow, the easy comfort of his company.
And she asked herself, not for the first time, whether she could ever come to feel for him what Anna so clearly felt for William, whether the quiet warmth she felt in his presence could ever grow, and whether, in his heart of hearts, he genuinely wanted her enough to set the world on fire.
Without meaning to, her thoughts turned to that meadow full of lavender and violets, and a man’s fingers against her cheek. When she raised her cup to her lips, the coffee had gone cold, and her fingers were trembling.
She had tried hard not to think about him in the week since her return. His call with Lady Chipping had been salt in the wound. Why had he come? Just for show? And why did she hope he had been driven instead by yearning for her, a desire to see her again and make the world right?
A knock at the door interrupted them. A footman with the newspapers. Usually, they went to the baron, but in his absence Mr. Sinclair had been handling their delivery. After finishing her breakfast, Rosalie took The Morning Post and rose to take it up to her mother.
She glanced at Edmund, who had gone still with a tightening around the mouth, his eyes moving too quickly down the column for mere casual reading.
“Mr. Sinclair?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately. When he finally set the paper down, he stood up and left the room. Rosalie could not help herself. She inspected the broadsheet he had left open.