Their mother’s lips fell agape, and she floundered about several moments for words. “This is the lesson you should choose to remember?”
“This one is as good as any,” Sylvia countered, taking it upon herself to pour a cup anyway. She tried to hand it to her mother.
The countess made no attempt to take the offering. “No. No, it is not. There are any number of lessons I’ve imparted that are a great deal more important.”
“Such as not moving out by oneself?” Lila volunteered.
Their mother looked to Lila. “Precisely.”
“Thank you,” Sylvia mouthed.
Her sister winced. “I’m sorry.” Clearing her throat, she lowered her teacup to her lap. “I . . . What I intended to say is though it might seem sad and disappointing to see Sylvia leave”—Lila’s recovery emerged halting and disjointed—“many women move outside of their family’s households.”
“She is a widow,” her mother cried.
When no other response was forthcoming, Sylvia asked, “And?”
“And you belong at home with us. Widows are prey for”—their mother dropped her voice to a loud whisper—“all manner of scandalous, wicked men.”
“Why are we whispering now? Are there scandalous, wicked men about whom we fear offending?”
The door opened, and they looked to the front of the room as Henry strolled in. “Lila!” he exclaimed. “I heard you—”
Both sisters spoke as one. “Get out.” The last thing Sylvia required was two overprotective family members attempting to dissuade her from her course.
“Do not order your brother gone,” the dowager countess commanded. She thumped a palm on the curved arm of her chair. “I would have him join us.”
The three March women stared back at Henry.
He looked amongst them and must have seen something more menacing in facing a pair of March sisters than a single angry mama, because he hastily backed out of the room.
The moment he’d closed the door behind him, Sylvia refocused on the countess. “There are no worries about scandalous gentlemen. I’ve no interest in letting myself dally with the wicked.” Or dally with any man, for that matter. Not ever again. No good came from such dealings. Life and love had taught her that much.
Her mother pounced. “They’ll do it anyway. The world will take it as an indication of how you intend to live, and . . . and . . . there is your son.”
Sylvia’s heart pulled. Her son, Vallen, was her world. The only gift left to her by a husband who’d never truly loved her. Not in the way she’d loved him. Not in any way, really.
Pushing aside that useless self-pitying born of an understanding she’d come to terms with, Sylvia took the opening left by her mother. “My son will be with me. I’m not leaving him here.”
“And do you expect he’s going to serve as a protector?” her mother asked incredulously.
“Of course n—”
The countess’s challenges kept coming. “He should not be exposed to all the widow-hunting gentlemen who have their sights on you, Sylvia.”
“He’s not going to be exposed to widow-hunting gentlemen,” she said, exasperation sweeping in. “Quite the opposite.” What she intended in moving out would see her home insulated from all men.
“Furthermore, are they realllly gentlemen?” Lila pointed out.
No, her sister was correct on that score. Sylvia joined in. “And are they really hunting?” After all, women weren’t fowl or deer.
“Yes!” their mother cried. “They are, and that there is the very reason you should not do this thing you are suggesting.”
“I’m not suggesting it, Mother,” she said gently. “I’m doing it.”
That pronouncement was met with a sudden onset of thundering silence so heavy the distant rattle of carriages rumbling past filled the parlor.
The countess’s lower lip trembled wildly, and she raised her wrinkled kerchief to her mouth.
“Here.” Lila collected the forgotten cup of tea from Sylvia and handed it over.
This time, their mother took the offering. The tip of her index finger sticking out, she raised the cup to her lips and sipped daintily at the contents. With her other hand, she dusted a tear back from the corner of her eye. And when she lowered the kerchief to her lap, Sylvia’s stomach turned over.
For she recognized that glimmer in her mother’s eyes. She recognized it all too well.
Setting her teacup down, the countess moved to the edge of her seat . . . And for one fleeting moment born of hope, Sylvia thought her mother would storm off.
But then the countess wouldn’t do anything so uncouth as walking briskly, which was why the leading pillar of society was responding as she was to Sylvia’s announcement.
And only one of her announcements at that . . . What would she say when she discovered the other reason Sylvia had called this meeting together? Her mother rested a hand on Sylvia’s knee, as she’d done whenever she’d doled out some maternal request she expected met.
Not allowing her that opportunity, Sylvia spoke quickly. “I’m not intending to live alone. I’m planning to have company.”
Her mother froze, from her silvery eyelashes on down to the gloved palm that still rested on Sylvia’s skirts; not so much as a part or sliver of her moved. And then her shoulders sagged slightly.
“Companions! Yes, that is a splendid idea,” she said, clapping excitedly. The dowager countess sagged slightly in her seat. “You should have said as much. We shall find you the most respectable ones!”
Both sisters exchanged a look.
“No. No,” Sylvia said. “That won’t be necessary. I already have them.”
That brought the countess up short. She swiftly found her footing. “Very well . . . You found your own companions.” And since the door closed and their meeting began thirty minutes earlier, their mother smiled her first smile. “That is very reliable of you.” The countess trilled a laugh and gathered her teacup. “And here I was worrying, and all for naught. I should have known better, as you were ever the most dutiful of the daughters.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Lila muttered.
The most dutiful of the daughters. But then, that was how everyone and anyone in Polite Society and her family had come to view Sylvia. Always proper, always doing that which the ton expected of good young ladies. And mayhap that was also why no one had ever truly been able to love her . . . because she had been sculpted by the most illustrious governesses and shaped into a clump of colorless clay.
Sylvia tensed her mouth.
No longer. The days of being the vapid, soporific lady were at an end. “They are not companions, Mother.”
Her mother’s smile wavered ever so slightly. “Beg pardon? You just said—”
“They are not paid companions, that is.”
“Un . . . paid companions?” That teacup found its place once more on the countess’s lap. “Are you in dire financial straits?” Not awaiting an answer, she looked to the doorway. “I knew we should have had your brother remain. He would—”
“My finances are in order.” Sylvia’s husband had offered little in terms of happiness, but he’d left her comfortable enough with resources to see herself cared for.