“Oh, she doesn’t have to,” Petunia replied with a wave of her hand, her silver bangles catching the light. “Being here for you, talking to you before your imminent marriage is something I must do. As your guardian. Like a mother would, and should.”
The warmth in her aunt’s voice was unyielding, wrapping around Peggy like a comforting shawl. Petunia had always been more than a guardian; she was their anchor, their unwavering pillar of love and guidance.
“Thank you, Aunt Petunia,” Peggy murmured, her smile softening.
“Nonsense, child,” Petunia said briskly. “Now, we must begin preparations for your trousseau.”
Peggy stiffened, her heart lurching at the thought. “Oh, but we cannot afford such?—”
“Balderdash!” Petunia cut her off with a decisive gesture. “Our finances were in a worse state when Elizabeth got married, and yet we managed to provide her with a perfectly respectable trousseau. You shall have one too. I will sell Anna’s dogs if I must, but no niece of mine is marrying without a proper trousseau.”
Peggy blinked at her aunt, momentarily startled into silence before a soft laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, and Titan would fetch quite a handsome amount, don’t you think?” she said, her tone warming despite her earlier gloom.
“Quite the little imp, that one,” Petunia agreed with a conspiratorial smile. “Just don’t let Anna hear our contingency plan to sell her beloved dogs.”
Peggy chuckled, the sound easing the tension in her chest. “My lips are sealed.”
Her thoughts drifted momentarily to Anna’s dogs: the boisterous Titan and the dignified Newfoundland, Plato. WhileTitan could charm anyone with his antics, Plato was the epitome of decorum—a sharp contrast that never failed to amuse Peggy. She shook her head, a genuine smile curving her lips for the first time that day.
It was a small reprieve, but it was enough. For now.
“Oh, my throat feels quite dry,” Petunia announced, rising with a flourish from her seat. She adjusted her shawl as she made her way to the liquor cabinet, her movements purposeful yet unhurried.
Margaret arched a brow, setting her embroidery aside. “It is not yet dinner, Auntie,” she said.
“And what of it?” Petunia retorted with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Would you care for a glass, my dear? Brandy or whiskey?” She had already reached for the decanter and began pouring before Margaret could respond. “Whiskey for me,” she declared, as though her choice were a matter of great consequence.
Margaret hesitated, her first instinct to refuse. “I—” she began, only to have her aunt’s encouraging smile cut through her reluctance.
“Go on,” Petunia urged, swirling the amber liquid in her glass with practiced ease. “Your uncle and Elizabeth are not here to scold us about ‘indulging too freely in our cups.’” Her voice took on a pompous tone as she imitated Sebastian’s usual admonishments, finishing with a mockingly prim expression.
Margaret chuckled despite herself, her fingers tracing the folds of her dress. “In that case,” she said, allowing a small smile to escape, “perhaps I shall have something mellower than whiskey.”
“That’s my sensible girl,” Petunia said approvingly, pouring a measure of brandy into a delicate snifter and handing it to Margaret.
Margaret accepted the glass, feeling its warmth even before the brandy touched her lips. The gentle heat that spread through her chest brought a measure of comfort she had not anticipated.
“Speaking of Elizabeth,” Petunia began as she reclaimed her seat with a satisfied sigh, “I’ve written to her about your wedding.”
Margaret’s fingers froze around the stem of her glass. The thought of writing to Elizabeth had lingered at the back of her mind, but the ordeal of recounting recent events—particularly the more mortifying aspects—had kept her from putting pen to paper. “Thank you, Aunt,” she murmured, relief softening her voice. “That saves me the trouble.”
Petunia patted her hand gently. “I thought it best to keep her apprised. Besides, I suspected you might have too much on your mind to manage such correspondence.”
Before Margaret could reply, the library door opened, and Anna swept into the room, her gaze landing immediately on the decanter perched prominently on the table. Her expressionturned mockingly aghast. “You traitors,” she declared, marching toward them. “Holding a secret revel without me, are you?”
“Oh, you sniff out a party from miles away, don’t you, Anna?” Peggy teased, a wry smile tugging at her lips as her cousin poured herself a second glass of whiskey.
“Nothing quite like a companionable drink with two of my favorite women in the world,” Anna replied with a wink, raising her glass in a mock toast.
Petunia laughed softly, swirling her whiskey with the practiced ease of a woman entirely at home in her indulgences.
“You two could set up house together and grow old sharing drinks,” Peggy said, shaking her head at how utterly content they looked over their glasses. She imagined the pair with streaks of silver in their hair, still ensconced in their eccentric habits.
“Oh, that’s the plan, Peggy. That’s the plan,” Anna agreed, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Her cousin had long declared herself content with spinsterhood, reveling in the freedom it afforded her.
The three of them shared another round of laughter, the sound filling the library and momentarily softening the edges of Peggy’s worries.
“Just don’t tell your uncle we’ve been drinking,” Petunia warned, though her tone was more conspiratorial than serious. “Or Elizabeth when she visits,” she added with a knowing smirk.
