“How would you know anything about summer?” Percy said slyly, putting on his most jovial tone. “All I have ever seen you do is shy away from the sun, locking yourself away with your books and your imaginary gentlemen. Tell me, do they pay you more attention thanrealgentlemen? If only the church could be persuaded to permit a union between a woman and a fiction, I suspect it would resolve a good portion of the wallflower and spinster dilemma.”
Anna’s hands gripped the armrests of her chair. “Better to be a wallflower and a spinster with dreams than shackled to a life of misery with an unworthy gentleman for a husband.”
“Unworthy?” She could not have pierced him more viciously if she had driven a blade through his heart and twisted, for he knew she was not speaking generally.
Perhaps it was the change in tone, switching from reasonably playful—at least from Percy—to ice cold, or perhaps he had finally noticed the unbridled rage in his sister’s eyes, but Max took that moment to swoop in before any blood could be shed.
“It is a pity that you do not know of anyone suitable for my dear friend,” he lamented to Anna, leaning forward to bring his palms closer to the heat of the brazier. “Maybe, you could ask them to gently nudge some pleasant ladies into Sinclair’s path when we venture to the ball at Westyork. Caroline is debuting this season, is she not? Perhaps, you could introduce them.”
Anna got up slowly and, for a moment, Percy had visions of another summer evening when she was but a child, charging at him like a wild beast. He still bore one tiny scar on his neck where she had clawed at him like a feral cat, simply because he had picked some orchids.
“I would rather shove dear Caro into the path of a runaway horse, Max,” she replied in a saccharine voice that sent a shiver up Percy’s spine. She flashed him a biting smile and announced that she was tired before heading up to the terrace.
Percy watched her go, every step away from him acting like liquor for his soul, relaxing all the muscles he had tightened in her presence. But as his gaze lingered on the blanket-shrouded shape of her, she twisted around at the last moment and shot him a glare so ferocious that he could have sworn it made the fire grow hotter.
“I am sorry to say,” Dickie whispered, smirking, “that if I were asked to bet on your survival until your estate is repaired, I would not wager a single coin.”
CHAPTERTHREE
“Here we are, together again!” Matilda Winter, formerly Elkins, cheered, passing out drinks to The Spinsters’ Club, so they could toast to the momentous occasion.
Anna took her drink and forced a bright smile. “Four out of five is better than our previous attempts.”
It was a heartache worse than any that could be inflicted by a man, scrambling to try and get her friends together in the same room more than once a year. Between children and running estates and other obligations, they still had not managed it that year, though it was already summer. It hurt even more when everyone promised they would be there, only for one of the five to be waylaid by something or other, for though they all denied it, she could see it for what it was: she was being left behind, excluded from a party that they had all been cordially invited to.
“Leah offered her sincerest apologies,” Phoebe Barnet said, putting a gentle arm around Anna’s shoulders. “All three of the boys are unwell at the same time, which must be truly awful, but I suspect she is despairing more over not being here with us. She was dearly looking forward to it when I last spoke to her.”
Anna kept her smile fixed upon her face. “Are your sisters here, Phoebe?”
“I am afraid not.” A furrow appeared between Phoebe’s eyebrows. “Ellen is in the midst of one of her paintings and said she could not possibly be drawn away from her work at such a pivotal moment. And Joanna’s husband has not been well.”
Anna’s smile vanished. “Oh goodness, that is terrible. Is she tending to him, or is she unwell too?”
“Joanna is in Bath,” Phoebe replied grimly. “Her husband is at their estate.”
“Ah…” Anna nodded slowly, for though Joanna had delighted in the prospect of being the Viscountess Broxbridge when she had first married a few years ago, the novelty had worn off within a matter of months. For the Viscount too, if the scandal sheets were to be believed.
Olivia Thorne raised her glass. “Let us not speak of worrisome things. Let us celebrate that four of us are here, for it has been an age since I have seen you all at once! Of course, I see Phoebe often enough, but it is not quite the same as most of the Club being back together.”
Indeed, Olivia and Phoebe lived just half an hour’s walk down a beautiful forest path away from each other, while Anna felt as if she were being moved further and further away from those she loved most. It had not been as difficult when she resided at Greenfield House, but Harewood Court was a considerable distance from anyone.
Then again, she would not allow herself to complain about the lengthy journey when Matilda practically lived on the opposite side of the country, at her husband’s coastal estate.
“May I join?” a shy voice asked, as a slender figure slotted between Anna and Matilda.
Dressed in a delicate gown of lavender muslin, Caroline Barnet was already making something of a name for herself as one of the most beautiful debutantes of the season. The younger sister of Phoebe’s husband, Daniel, and cousin of Olivia’s husband, Evan, the Spinsters’ Club had grown very fond of their honorary member. Protective, too.
“Now, there are five of us,” Matilda said with a reassuring wink in Anna’s direction.
Anna smiled. “Indeed, there are.” She turned to Caroline. “How are you enjoying the evening, dear Caro?”
“I am… overwhelmed, in truth.” Caroline laughed stiffly, adjusting the exquisite amethyst necklace at her throat. “Mama said that this would be good for me, but I cannot say it feels good just yet. There are so many people, and they are all staring! Why must they stare so?”
Matilda pulled a face. “It is what they do. They stare and they gossip. Pay them no mind, for it is driven by jealousy.”
“You must write a book about it,” Caroline said, lowering her voice. “A guide for debutantes to help them navigate society.”
Indeed, though only that close circle of friends knew it, they were standing with one of the most celebrated writers of recent years, who went by the pseudonym ‘Miss Terry.’ Her book about marriage, particularly marriages of convenience, had become a staple in every household’s library, handed discreetly from mothers to their daughters, or purchased outright by worried betrotheds. Her second book about common herbs and flowers, and their many medicinal uses, had also been well received. She was in the midst of writing her third book though, as of yet, she had not revealed the subject.
