"I was perfectly civil."
"Being civil isn't the same as trying, Amelia."
My father is a good man in most respects and he loves me, but tonight he looks at me with an expression that makes me feel like a child again, being told that what I wanted wasn't quite the point.
"I'm not interested in James Durham," I say.
"You're not interested in anyone. You're twenty-seven, and you've become far too particular."
There it is.
"Particular," I say.
"You know what I mean."
"I do, yes. You mean I haven't settled for someone who bores me, or irritates me, or I don’t find attractive."
He sighs and sips his whisky, looking out across the party where Cecily is laughing at something Connor has said. Her hand is on his arm, her whole body angled toward him with that easy, natural happiness. "Your sister is going to have everything she wants. I'd like the same for you."
"So would I," I say. "I just don't want it with someone who isn’t going to be a good fit."
He doesn't answer and eventually he drifts back toward the center of the room while I stand at the window alone. I’ve alwaysbeen someone whose company people find a little too much, whose standards people find a little too high, whose life is going exactly the way she planned it. Except for the part where she keeps coming home to a quiet apartment and the feeling that she is somehow still waiting for something that hasn't arrived yet. Or maybe doesn’t even exist.
I want a husband. I want children. I want Sunday mornings and a family that belongs to me. That's not particular or difficult. That's the most ordinary thing in the world, and somehow I've made it to twenty-seven without it while everyone around me acts as though I'm the problem.
I finish my champagne and get another one.
It's near the end of the evening that I end up in the small sitting room off the main hall looking for my coat and instead finding my cousin Harriet.
Harriet is two years older than me, married, and has always operated with a cheerful disregard for social propriety that I've quietly admired. She's sitting on the arm of a chair with her shoes off and her phone in her hand, and she looks up when I come in and says, "Oh thank God, someone I can actually talk to."
"I was looking for my coat."
"Your coat can wait. Come and sit down. I've had three glasses of Margaux and I want to tell you something interesting."
I sit. "How interesting?"
"Very." She leans forward with the brightness of someone about to say something they know they probably shouldn't. "I overheard some talk between the men earlier…" she trails off and waits for my response.
Irritation tingles over my skin. I hate this to-ing and fro-ing that gossipers employ.
"Just spit it out Harriet, I’m tired and the hotel has a bath with jets that I’ve been looking forward to all night."
"Urgh, fine," she says rolling her eyes. "You are no fun. I overheard them talking about an auction."
I shake my head and paw through the hangers looking for my coat.
Harriet continues, unfazed by my lack of interest. "Where powerful men go to find wives.” She glances at the door, then back at me.
I frown at her. She can’t be serious.
“Have you heard anything about Lionel Pietty?”
I shake my head slowly. The name isn’t ringing any bells for me. But why would it? I’m only in America for my sister’s engagement party. I fly back to the UK in three days.
Harriet settles back with the air of a woman about to become the center of the gossip world.
“It’s being held in three weeks, somewhere just outside of the city. Eligible women, eligible men, negotiations. It all sounds so scandalous—” a shiver of excitement runs through her, “so exciting.”
