Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
“Nothing, honey—” His brow lowered. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine,” she said slowly, hoping they’d leave it be. Had she hoped the nerves would settle now that Jameson was due to be reposted here? Yes. Apparently her body hadn’t gotten the memo.
Constance studied her carefully. “Do you want to chat later?”
“Of course not. I’m glad you’re here.”
Constance nodded, but there was an odd, firm set to her mouth. She looked…somehow older this morning.
Jameson brought the fried sausages and potatoes to the table while Scarlett sliced a loaf of bread. They tucked in, and Scarlett nearly sighed with relief as her stomach settled.
“Would you two like some privacy?” Jameson asked from his side of the square table, his gaze bouncing between the sisters.
“No,” Constance answered, setting her fork on a half-empty plate. It wasn’t like her to leave half her breakfast, but she hadn’t exactly been normal the last two months. “You should hear this, too.”
“What is it?” A weight settled on Scarlett’s chest. Whatever her sister was about to say, it wasn’t good.
“It would be a waste for me to take the teller training,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be allowed to keep my commission.”
Scarlett paled. There were very few reasons a woman would be forced to resign her commission. “What? Why?”
Constance fumbled her hands in her lap for a moment, then lifted her left hand to reveal a sparkling emerald ring. “Because I’ll be married.”
Scarlett’s fork fell from her hand, clattering against the plate.
Jameson, to his credit, didn’t move a muscle.
“Married?” Scarlett ignored the ring and locked eyes with her sister.
“Yes,” Constance said, as though Scarlett had asked if she wanted more coffee. “Married. And my fiancé isn’t exactly supportive of my role here, so I doubt I’ll be encouraged to keep it once we’re wed.” There was no emotion in her voice. No excitement. Nothing.
Scarlett’s mouth opened and shut twice. “I don’t understand.”
“I knew you wouldn’t,” Constance said softly.
“You have the same expression you wore the day our parents forbade you from marrying Edward until after the war.” Dutiful—that was it. She looked resigned and dutiful. The nausea returned with a vehemence as that foreboding feeling slipped from Scarlett’s chest to her belly. “Who are you marrying?”
“Henry Wadsworth.” Constance lifted her chin.
No.
Silence filled the kitchen, sharper than any words could have been.
No. No. No. Scarlett reached for Jameson’s hand under the table, needing an anchor.
“It’s not up to you,” Constance argued.
Scarlett blinked, realizing she’d spoken out loud. “You cannot. He’s a monster. He’ll ruin you.”
Constance shrugged. “Then he ruins me.”
If it dies, it dies. Her words as she planted the rose yesterday echoed in Scarlett’s mind. “Why would you do this?” She’d been home this last weekend. “They’re making you, aren’t they?”
“No,” Constance rebutted softly. “Mummy told me they’re going to have to sell the rest of the land around the house at Ashby.”
Not the London house…their home. Scarlett pushed past the pang of regret at the news.
“Then it is their fault for not managing their own finances. Please don’t tell me you agreed to marry Wadsworth in an attempt to keep the land. Your happiness is worth far more than the property. Let them sell it.” More importantly, Constance would never survive a marriage to Wadsworth. He’d beat her spirit to death and body close to it.
“Don’t you see?” Pain flickered over Constance’s features. “They’d sell off the pond. The gazebo. The little hunting cottage. All of it.”
“Let them!” Scarlett snapped. “That man will destroy you.” Her hand gripped Jameson’s.
Constance stood, then pushed her chair under the table. “I knew you wouldn’t understand, and you don’t have to. It’s my decision to make.” She strode from the room, her shoulders back and her head high.
Scarlett raced after her. “I know you love them, and you want to please them, but you do not owe them your life.”
Constance paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I have no life left for myself. All I have are memories.” She turned slowly, losing her polished facade and letting her anguish show.
The pond. The gazebo. The hunting cabin. Scarlett’s eyes drifted shut for the length of a deep breath. “Poppet, owning those places will not bring him back.”
“If you lost Jameson, and you had a chance to keep the first house you lived in at Kirton-in-Lindsey, even if only to walk through the rooms to talk to his ghost, would you?”
Scarlett wanted to argue that it wasn’t the same. But she couldn’t.
Jameson was her husband, her soul mate, the love of her life. But she’d loved him for less than a year. Constance had loved Edward since they were children, swimming in that pond, playing games in the gazebo, stealing kisses in the hunting cabin.
“There’s no saying the land would even be there by the time you wed.” Which hopefully wouldn’t be this summer—only a few weeks away.