Both women’s faces settled into identical lines of rebellion. Yet they muttered their agreement, like recalcitrant children being called to the carpet. Clara let loose a small sigh of relief.
“Quite right,” Mrs. Margery Kitteridge, Clara’s cousin and Aunt Olivia’s granddaughter, said with a bright smile. “Phoebe, have you and Oswin discussed where you would like the wedding to be held?”
Phoebe cast a nervous glance at Aunt Olivia and Lady Crabtree. Clara gave her an encouraging nod, to which Phoebe seemed completely immune. It was only when her intended laid a comforting hand on hers, giving it a squeeze, that the tension in her face eased.
The pang of sadness that rose up in Clara stunned her breathless. She had seen proof before, of course, in the past months in London that her sister did not need her as she used to. But this was the first time it had been brought so harshly into focus.
It was as it should be, she told herself stoutly. Phoebe was moving on with her life, and her first thought should be for her future husband. Yet the pain of being left behind did not abate. All the more proof that Clara’s usefulness was at an end.
“Actually, Oswin and I had hoped to be married in a month’s time.” Her eyes drifted to her intended, her hand turning over to grip his. “And we had hoped to marry at the chapel at Danesford.”
“Danesford!” Lady Crabtree sputtered. “I shall not hear of it.”
“Though I take offense at Lady Crabtree’s tone regarding my childhood home”—Lady Tesh speared the woman in question with a stern glare—“for once I have to agree that such a scheme is unthinkable. Why, we shall have to leave London almost immediately.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Peter muttered.
“Well, I do,” Aunt Olivia shot back. “After all, there are still…unfinished things to take care of here in London.” Her eyes drifted to Clara.
It was the briefest of glances, but Clara felt the brand of them on her very soul. Her face flushed hot, and it took all her willpower to keep her expression serene. The hints that Clara should secure a husband were not new; they had begun years before, and at a time when Clara had not yet been considered a spinster firmly on the shelf. At the advanced age of nearly one and thirty, she should have plenty of practice ignoring her great-aunt’s increasingly pointed remarks. Though no amount of time seemed to take away the sting of them.
Blessedly Peter appeared unaware of their great-aunt’s machinations—quite possibly the only person on the planet who was, Clara thought wryly. He scoffed. “I do believe your visits with the fine merchants of London have done enough damage to my coffers, madam. I cannot handle many more ‘unfinished things’ on your behalf.”
“Please,” Aunt Olivia said with a roll of her eyes. “Your bank account has not even been dented by our little shopping excursions.”
As Peter sputtered, no doubt ready for a fight with his favorite adversary, Lenora laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“His Grace and I would, of course, be honored to host the wedding at our home,” she said, giving both Aunt Olivia and Lady Crabtree a look that proved she was every inch the duchess.
“We should, of course, defer to the bride and groom’s wishes,” she continued as the two older women appeared to retreat with reluctance. “Phoebe, a marriage at Danesford would be absolutely lovely. But with only four weeks to plan, and four days of that spent in travel to the Isle, it will not be very grand, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I don’t care for grand,” Phoebe said with a beatific smile for her intended. “If I wear a sack and carry weeds as my bouquet, I would still be the happiest bride in England.”
“And you would be the most beautiful as well,” Oswin murmured with a besotted smile.
Perhaps, Clara thought as she watched the young couple make calf eyes at one another, a hasty wedding was best for all involved. It was a look she saw often, when Peter and Lenora gazed at one another—right before they disappeared with some flimsy excuse, returning sometime later looking decidedly more disheveled. It indicated that time was of the essence where the passions of the newly engaged couple were concerned.
She would not look too closely at the pang in her chest. It was not jealousy; what Phoebe and Lenora had was not something she wanted. Such desires had brought her only grief and were best left in the past with the destruction of her girlhood dreams.
“I think it’s a grand idea,” Clara announced firmly.
As the rest of the party erupted into excited chatter, Aunt Olivia leaned close to Clara. “You’re against me, too?” she hissed. Her gnarled fingers stroked Freya’s scraggly fur, making her look for all the world like a villain in a play.
Clara stifled a sigh. She should have expected the viscountess’s ire; her great-aunt wasn’t one to look kindly on being thwarted. Schooling her features into the pleasant expression she often adopted with the older woman—and just managing to bury the frustration that attempted to rear up—she replied with soothing tones, “There are no sides in this, Aunt Olivia.”
“Of course there are sides.” The older woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Oh, you’re a clever one, aren’t you. I know why you would be more than happy to return to Synne. You think the question of you searching for a husband will be forgotten once we’re away from London and the social whirl.”
Well, she hadn’t until just now. But if that wasn’t incentive, she didn’t know what was.
Rather than admit such a thing, however, she said with what she thought was an impressively innocent expression, “I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”
“Hmmm,” was all Aunt Olivia would say. Though if Clara wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of respect in the woman’s disconcertingly sharp eyes.
The viscountess turned back to the assembled. But any hope that she was done with the subject of Clara’s marital prospects—or lack thereof—was snuffed out the moment she began to speak.
“And will your next eldest son be at Danesford in time for the wedding?” Aunt Olivia asked Lady Crabtree, her voice rising over the general din.
Lady Crabtree raised a perfectly polished brow. “I know not.”
“What of Oswin’s single friends? Will they be present?”
Clara’s cheeks burned. “Aunt Olivia,” she said, feigning a bright smile, “I’m sure we’ll have more information on that soon. For now, let’s keep focused on the pertinent matter at hand. Namely when we should return to Synne.”
“As always, Clara dear, you are the voice of reason.” Margery gave her hand a small squeeze, the compassion in her eyes a potent thing. And was it any wonder? She would have seen Aunt Olivia’s attempts at matching Clara with anything that breathed during their months in London. It was embarrassing, really. Blessedly, however, everyone was oblivious to the painful fact that, even should Clara wish it, she would never know the joys of marriage. She had given up any chance of that fifteen years ago. And it had nearly killed her.
For a moment memories assaulted her, of a time when promise turned to betrayal, hope transformed into despair. When living from one second to the next had taken every ounce of effort she had possessed. She shook her head to free herself from her memories and pressed her lips tight together, annoyance rearing up. It was ridiculous, really. Half her life had passed since then; it should not still have such power over her.