My eyes lower to the ring on my finger, its weight pressing against me like a chain. The diamond is ostentatious, gleaming mockingly in the afternoon light. It isn’t me. It’s too grand, too impersonal, nothing like I would have picked for myself. But then again, none of this was mine to choose. My parents arranged my engagement to Phillip Winthrop without even asking for my opinion. Why would they allow me to help select the ring?
The Winthrops and Albrights make a perfect match, or so Cheyenne’s society believes. The Winthrop fortune comes from lumber, ours from the railroad. One industry feeds the other. Practical. Beneficial.
Suffocating.
Our engagement was announced last month, and the wedding is set for August. My mother, thrilled to orchestrate the social event of the season, suggested I spend the summer in Hawthorn with my aunt and uncle. I eagerly agreed. Let her and her circle fuss over dresses, parties, and flowers. This summer is my last taste of freedom before the weight of expectation swallows me whole.
The car sways again as Briggs turns up the drive to my aunt and uncle’s estate. Finally. After six hours on the road, my legs ache to be free. The house rises ahead—three stories tall, its grand columns spilling long shadows across the gravel. As we pull to a stop, the front door swings open and Aunt Izzy steps outside, her smile as warm as I remember from my childhood.
Briggs circles to open my door, offering his gloved hand. The late afternoon sun bathes the house in gold as I climb out, pausing to take in my surroundings. Hawthorn is the same as it was six years ago. A sleepy main street, endless pastures, quiet dignity. Untouched by time.
“Clara!” Aunt Izzy exclaims, pulling me into her arms. She kisses my cheek, the scent of lavender clinging to her.
“Aunt Izzy, so good to see you,” I say, returning her smile, though it feels tight at the edges. She loops her arm through mine and leads me inside while Briggs tends to my trunk.
Aunt Izzy decidedmy arrival called for a grand affair, inviting every important name in Hawthorn to dine with us. The result is a blur of polite conversation, words drifting around the table without ever landing anywhere meaningful. I sit at the long mahogany table, toying with the napkin in my lap while they talk of business, investments, and garden parties. Nothing that interests me.
“Oh, we simply must call on her when we’re in Cheyenne next.”
“I heard his profits doubled this year.”
“Isadora, you must have your staff prepare those lemon tarts again for the bake sale.”
Their voices fade in and out until my uncle’s tone cuts through.
“Clara?”
I lift my head, smiling as though I’ve been listening all along. “Yes, Uncle Julian?”
“I was telling Mrs. Williams that you’ll be helping to organize the charity ball for Memorial Hospital this fall.”
I nod. “Yes. We’re raising funds for tuberculosis research and treatment.”
Across the table, Mrs. Williams softens, her expression touched with sympathy. “Such a terrible disease. It’s wonderful you’re involved in such meaningful work.”
I glance at the rim of my untouched wineglass, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “It almost feels ridiculous, doesn’t it? Planning a party in the name of death.”
The table stills. Forks pause midair. A silence gathers, heavy and suffocating. My stomach knots as I scramble to recover.
“Of course,” I add quickly, lifting my eyes, “it’s an important cause.”
Mrs. Williams smiles again, though a little too carefully. “Yes, of course. It’s always good to feel like we’re doing something to help the cause.”
From across the table, Aunt Izzy’s gaze narrows in subtle warning. I press my palms against my lap, shrinking under it.
The staff clears the plates swiftly, replacing them with custard and fruit tarts. Conversation shifts, safer and shallower, until dessert is finished. The men retire for brandy, as expected, and the women move to the sitting room.
Nodding when required, I listen their conversation as it circles through fashion trends, marriages, travel plans. The day has worn me thin, and the warmth of the room lulls my eyelids down.
It isn’t until Mrs. Williams speaks my name that I blink back into focus.
“Clara, the county fair is next weekend. I hope your aunt will allow you to attend.”
My interest sparks. At last, something that sounds entertaining. But before I can answer, Aunt Izzy interjects.
“Josaphine, of course, we’ll be there. It’s one of the county’s grandest events.”
I smile politely. “It does sound like fun. Hopefully, I’ll see you there, Mrs. Williams.”
