Mattie shook her head at Emma. “Why can’t you show an ounce of compassion for Franny and her circumstances?”
“I am not entirely sure why she is so sensitive,” Emma argued. “People die all the time. You can cry for a day or two, but then you must move on.”
Rising, Mattie said, “I should go speak to Franny.”
“Why?” Emma asked.
Mattie didn’t understand what was wrong with her sister. “You upset her, and she hardly ate her soup. I am hoping that I can convince her to come back down for supper.”
Emma looked uninterested. “Suit yourself.”
Mattie had had just about enough with Emma. How could someone be so utterly self-absorbed and rarely show an ounce of compassion for anyone? She knew there was no point in arguing with Emma, but she found herself at her wit’s end. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded.
“What is wrong with me?” Emma repeated in surprise. “I have done nothing wrong except tell the truth.”
Mattie tossed up her hands. “No, you only tellyourtruth. Which is always wrong. You can’t even muster up enough compassion for what our cousin is going through.”
Emma tilted her chin. “How long must we cater to Franny’s whims?”
With a disbelieving huff, Mattie turned herattention towards her father. “Will you please try to talk some sense into Emma?” she asked.
Her father tipped his head, his expression solemn as he went to address Emma. “Mattie is right?—”
Emma cut him off. “Why are you taking her side?”
Mattie pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Because, dear sister, you run roughshod over everyone. You are being intolerably rude to Franny and are balking at tradition by wearing pink when we are supposed to be in mourning. Do you care about anyone but yourself?”
“You are just upset that Lord Winston didn’t show up this evening, and now you are taking out your frustrations on me,” Emma stated.
Mattie knew there was no point in continuing this argument with Emma. Her sister would never see reason so why bother trying? With a sigh, she turned and headed towards the stairs. Reaching Emma’s bedchamber, she knocked gently.
No response.
She opened the door and stuck her head in. “Can I come in, Franny?” she asked. “Just for a moment?”
Franny sat on her bed, wiping away tears. “Is Emma with you?” she inquired warily.
“No,” Mattie assured her, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “I figured that she had upset you enough this evening.”
Swiping at the tears that continued to fall down her cheeks, Franny asked, “Are you glad that my parents are dead, too?”
Mattie’s heart dropped at that question. “I do not share Emma’s sentiments. I wish your parents were still alive. I truly do.”
Franny huffed. “Why is Emma so insensitive?”
“That is an excellent question. How long do you have?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood. “I suppose we should have suspected Emma’s callous behavior at a young age whenshe kicked some dolls out of her collection for not being pretty enough.”
“I miss my parents,” Franny murmured, her voice breaking.
Mattie sat down next to Franny and slipped her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I know you do, and there is nothing wrong with that,” she said. “But you must know that my father and I are here to support you the best way we know how.”
“I don’t want Emma to have the bedchamber with green-papered walls,” Franny revealed. “That was the room that my mother promised me before they left for India.”
“Then it should be yours,” Mattie responded.
Franny looked unconvinced. “What about Emma?”
Mattie tightened her hold on Franny. “I am sure she will complain and pout, but she will come around.”
