Nancy arched a brow. “People have always said things. It is their chief occupation.”
“Yes, but—” Lavinia hesitated, then pressed on. “I saw the announcement about the governess. People are saying you’ve been overwhelmed.”
“People are half-right,” Nancy said, with a rueful smile. “Miss Mercer is a marvel. She had the twins cataloguing earthworms by noon yesterday. I suspect they may unionize against us by Easter.”
Lavinia laughed, visibly relieved. “I’m glad you’re happy. I worried it might be…difficult.”
Nancy set her cup down, suddenly tired. “Marriage is always difficult. Even a pretend one.” The words slipped out before she could catch them.
Lavinia’s eyes widened. “Pretend?”
Nancy waved it away. “That was a joke. The Duke and I are perfectly united in our mutual distaste for convention.”
“Then…you are happy?” Lavinia pressed.
“As much as anyone can be, living among the detritus of other people’s expectations.” She offered Lavinia a piece of shortbread. “Why all the questions?”
Lavinia fiddled with her glove. “I suppose I just—never mind. You always seemed so certain, and now you look…”
“Haunted?” Nancy supplied.
“Maybe a little.”
Nancy snorted. “I’ll try to appear less spectral, for your sake.”
They lapsed into an uneasy quiet, punctuated only by the sound of spoons against china. Nancy found herself staring at the pressed rose, now perched atop the book on the sideboard.
Lavinia followed her gaze. “Is that from the Duke?”
Nancy shook her head. “No idea who sent it. Some wretch with too much time and not enough sense.”
“Oh.” Lavinia was quiet for a moment, then: “You know, sometimes it’s nice to be adored. Even anonymously.”
“Not if the adoration arrives in verse,” Nancy said. “That’s how revolutions begin.”
Lavinia stifled a laugh. “You are impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” Nancy softened, touched her friend’s hand. “Are you well, Lavinia?”
A shadow crossed her face. “Oh, yes. Only…my father is ill again. I worry about him.”
Nancy squeezed her hand. “If you ever need refuge, you know where to find me.”
Lavinia smiled, but the smile was watery. “Thank you, Nancy.”
They finished tea with few words, and soon Lavinia excused herself. Nancy watched her leave, then walked to the window, staring out at the bleak, cloud-pocked sky.
Something was shifting beneath the surface—she could feel it in the way the house breathed, in the half-glances from the staff, in the questions from friends who never used to ask.
She thought of Oscar, the way he always stood a little too far away, the way he’d touched her hand in the hallway and then pulled back, as if burned.
This is what you wanted, Nancy. An arrangement, not romance with fairy tale happenings.
So why did the pressed rose on her table feel like a warning? And why, for the first time in her life, did she wish someone would write a poem for her and mean it?
She put her hand to the glass, watching the world outside, and wondered: who was haunting whom in this marriage?
It was late afternoon when Nancy, driven by equal measures of loneliness and frustration, called for her carriage and directed it to her parents’ London house.
