“An astute observation.”
“Stop it.” Mary’s voice sharpened. “Talk to me properly. What’s wrong?”
Where could Cressida even begin? How could she explain to her thirteen-year-old sister that she’d fallen in love with a man who couldn’t trust her? That she’d given Theodore everything—her body, her heart, her foolish hope for their future—only to discover she meant nothing?
“Marriage is an adjustment,” she said finally. “That’s all.”
“That’s a lie.” Mary’s chin set stubbornly.
“Mary—”
“You’ve been gone for months. And now you’re here without him, looking like someone died. So don’t tell me it’s just an adjustment.”
Cressida looked away, focusing on the window overlooking the garden. She’d spent so many afternoons at that window, watching for the post, hoping for letters from Harriet.
“He doesn’t trust me,” she heard herself say. “I thought he was learning to, but I was wrong. I’ll always be wrong, because he can’t let me in. He won’t. And I can’t keep pretending that’s enough.”
Mary’s hand found hers, small and warm. “What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. No great betrayal or scandal.” Cressida laughed, the sound jagged. “Just the truth, delivered clearly. I’m a contract he signed. That’s all I’ll ever be.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
Despite everything, Cressida smiled. “Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps. Definitely.” Mary squeezed her hand. “You’re the cleverest person I know. And the kindest. And if he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m accurate.” Mary’s chin lifted with familiar stubbornness. “And you shouldn’t have to settle for someone who makes you miserable.”
Cressida wanted to argue, to defend Theodore, to explain that he wasn’t trying to make her miserable. He simply didn’t know how to be any other way. That his damage ran so deep, she’d never reach the bottom of it.
But she was so tired of defending him. Of making excuses for his coldness, his withdrawal, his absolute inability to believe anyone might love him without an ulterior motive.
“I’ll be fine,” she said instead. “It’s difficult right now, but it will get easier.”
“Will it?”
“It has to.”
Mary looked at her for a long moment, old beyond her years. “You know you can stay here as long as you need. I’ll debut soon, and if Mama and Papa try to send you off to Aunt Agatha again, I’ll set myself to becoming more unsuitable than you could ever dream of. I’ll read novels. I’ll slouch. I’ll drop my fan at every opportunity. I’ll talk about animal husbandry in detail. I’ll—I’ll ride to the hunt!” Her eyes lit up, as if she looked forward to the challenge of unsuitability.
“Mary, no! I want better for you than what I was trapped with.”
Mary sniffed. “I’m their last chance at respectability. They won’t dare shuffle me off like they tried to do with you. Whateverhappened, whatever he said, you don’t have to go back if you don’t want to.”
The offer landed with unexpected force.
Stay. Remain in this house where her parents viewed her as social currency, where every conversation centered on what her marriage could do for them. Or return to Ashmere, to Theodore’s careful distance and locked rooms and the constant feeling of reaching for someone who kept pulling away.
Neither option felt like home.
“Thank you,” Cressida said quietly. “But I can’t stay forever.”
