“Did Mary not tell you we want an audience with you?” her mother persisted from the other side of the door.
That startled Hannah upright. “She did. I…fell asleep. Forgive me.”
She could hardly allow her dearest Mary to suffer because of her own disinclination to be subjected to this awful discussion. Again.
With a huff, she pushed up from the bed, nudging the old journal under her pillow as she did so. A weight settled on her shoulders like a cloak as she went to her door.
Lady Westwich’s smiling face met her. “Ah, my beautiful daughter. I’m well aware of how much you dread this, but it must be done.”
“Perhaps it would be advantageous to forego it this year?” Hannah suggested hopefully. “After all, I’ve been well informed from our previous discussions, and I—”
The tuck of her mother’s lips downward stifled her futile argument.
Hannah’s shoulders drooped in defeat. It would be better simply to have the arduous chat and be done. Resigned, she followed her mother down the curving staircase into the library, where the family spent most of their time. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, beating back the worst of the winter’s chill. It had been an extraordinarily cold winter and had even snowed several times.
But now was not the time for thinking of the crunching of snow beneath her boots or how it dusted the world like finely sifted powder. Now was for enduring the worst lecture of the year.
Lord Westwich looked up from the high-backed sofa by the hearth. “Ah, our darling daughter.”
“Your only daughter.” Hannah approached and sank into the plush chair she favored on the nights she whiled the hours away with a good book, a habit she’d picked up from Elizabeth.
“Our only child.” His dark blue eyes, so like her own, met her mother’s and they both frowned.
And here it came…
“Which is why we want to see you wed,” Lady Westwich began.
Hannah sighed. “No one will have me.”
“Because you do not present yourself.” Her father waved for her mother to sit beside him, and she did as he bade, a force united.
Hannah clenched her back teeth and steeled herself for the onslaught.
“You befriend men, but not in a manner which encourages their romantic interest,” her mother said gently.
Ah, and the pontification of her failings with Lord Ranford. It was a low blow to open with.
They must be desperate.
“If you’re referring to Lord Ranford,” Hannah said curtly. “He was disinclined to see me as anything more than a friend.” She dropped her attention to her hands in her lap to prevent her parents from seeing how much the truth of her words still pulled at her.
Yes, she’d vowed never to wed years ago, but Lord Ranford had created an eagerness to see him whenever they parted. She had dared to hope…
No. She had been foolish even to bother.
And she wouldn’t do so now. Not again.
It was far better to think of a spinster’s estate in the country with her friends than winding another inevitable path toward a wounded heart.
“A friendship can always blossom into something more,” the baroness said with a note of saccharine optimism.
“Your mother would be an exceptional grandmother.” Her father smiled at her mother, besotted in a way that always made Hannah turn away with a wrinkled nose.
Her mother didn’t notice Hannah’s disgust, too distracted by her father’s adoration. “And your father would be an exceptional grandfather.”
This was truly intolerable. It was one thing to suffer through her failings in securing a husband. It was entirely another to be forced to witness her parents’ open affection for one another.
Hannah’s gaze slid toward the window.
Was the weather fine for riding?
As she’d hoped, it was still a beautiful day with the sun gleaming high in a clear blue sky.
“We want marriage for you,” her mother went on. “And grandchildren for us.”
Movement in the tree near the window caught Hannah’s attention. A fluff of gray wriggled on a branch.
“London is not to your preference, we know,” her mother continued. “But if you fall in love with a man—”
“One with a good name,” her father interjected.
Hannah craned her neck. Was it a kitten?
“Yes, of course,” her mother agreed. “A man of wealth with a good name. Then you can retire to the country as often as he allows.”
It wasn’t a kitten exactly, but a very small cat. The poor creature opened its pink mouth in a silent mewl, its claws scrambling on the bark of a limb far too slender.
Hannah sat upright.
“Are you listening, child?” Lady Westwich asked.
“There’s a cat outside,” Hannah said plaintively. “I think it needs help.”
“Hannah.” Her father’s voice was stern with disapproval.
The animal’s tail spun and flexed forward in its attempt to gain purchase. Needle-like nails raked against the branch, and it cried out once more. It was going to fall.
“We have funded your pursuit for three seasons now without result,” Lord Westwich continued. “Not even one suitor has called upon me.”
The cat was going to slip if Hannah didn’t do something. Being so little, surely, the tumble would be an awfully long way down.
“Hannah, are you listening?” her mother demanded, her voice sharp with dwindling patience.
“I am undesirable.” Hannah finally turned her attention to her parents. “I’m too much of too many things and not enough of others. I’ve made my peace with being a spinster. Perhaps you ought to as well.”
A glance toward the window showed the cat now clinging on by only one scrawny front leg. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she lurched to her feet.
“Please do excuse me.” With that, she tore from the room in a most unladylike manner that sent her skirts whipping up around her knees and her slippers skidding over the silk carpets.
Her mother called out behind her, that blasted octave on the last part of Hannah’s name trailing after her as she raced to save the poor defenseless cat from certain death. Thankfully, the butler was used to Hannah’s impetuous behavior and effortlessly darted from her path as she flew by.
“Mind the carpet, Miss Bexley,” he said in his bored drawl. “It slips.”
“Thank you, Jones,” she called out as she bounded like a dancer over the confounded thing.
If he replied, she didn’t hear as she was already pushing through the door, out into the bright sunshine, ice-cold and crisp with the earthy fragrance of nature. The chill did not touch her despite lacking a coat, not with such urgency forcing her onward.
She rounded the corner with precision as the tree came into view and picked up her pace.
The cat squirmed, the little limb no longer strong enough to support its weight, and it dropped. Hannah screamed and held out her skirt in a final bid to save the poor thing.
It landed with a plop that tugged at her dress, but she caught it. There was a moment where their eyes met in mutual surprise, her in shock that she had actually managed to secure it in the drape of her skirt, and it to be in such a peculiar situation as a lady’s skirts.
Before Hannah could even register that she was standing in the middle of the lawn with her hem pulled to her knees, the cat hopped from the hammock of her skirt and darted off. A small smear of blood remained on the white muslin of her day dress.