She folded the letter carefully and returned it to the bottom of the box. Though Theo should have, by rights, belonged more to Benedict’s childhood memories than her own – Theo being a boy and three years her senior besides – it had never been Benedict with whom he shared his closest confidences. No, from the beginning, it had always been Hetty. There was something in their acquaintance that resisted the usual constraints of age or decorum. Where Benedict had dismissed her with the weary disdain of an elder sibling, Theo regarded as though she were something altogether remarkable: a creature of wit and curiosity, whose schemes were to be encouraged, not curtailed. Even as children, he treated her not as a girl to be tamed, but as an equal adversary in argument, cards, and fencing – sulking briefly when bested before demanding a rematch with crooked grin. He had allowed her to be bossy – indeed, gloriously so – imperious in manner, stubborn to a fault, and at times quite impossible, without once seeking to diminish her spirit. Where others bade her to mind her place and temper her tongue, Theo merely raised a brow and followed her into whatever mischief she had dreamt up that day. More than the laughter and misadventures, heallowed her to be entirely herself – not the version she had cultivated for the benefit of drawing rooms and dinner guests; not the composed eldest daughter, all tidy coiffure and measured steps, trained to speak prettily and sit just so. No, he had seen beneath the façade to the girl who read novels by candlelight long after she ought to be asleep, who wept at Shakespeare and denied it furiously, who lost her temper, her hairpins and, on occasion, her dignity – often all at once – and never, not once, had he asked her to be otherwise. Indeed, she rather suspected he had liked her better before she had learnt how to behave.
A gentle knock at her door roused Hetty from her thoughts. She started, blinking as if awakening from a dream, and glanced down to find her hands still resting atop the closed lid of her writing box. The knock came again, softer this time, followed by a whisper: “Hetty? Are you awake?”
“Come in, Georgie.”
The door creaked open, revealing her younger sister wrapped in a quilted dressing robe, her golden curls neatly plaited for bed and a chamberstick held aloft in one hand. She looked, Hetty thought wryly, rather like a cherub who had been summoned from her celestial rest to deliver unsolicited advice.
“I spied your candle still burning,” said Georgie as she slipped inside, nudging the door shut with a deft backwards push of her heel. “And thought I had better make certain you had not flung yourself from the window in a fit of despair.”
“How bracingly supportive.”
Georgie smiled, all innocence and dimples, and set the candle down upon a side table. “To be perfectly frank, I expected to find you dramatically sprawled upon the chaise with one hand pressed to your brow.”
“I must admit, the thought did cross my mind.”
Georgie crossed to the bed and perched herself atop the coverlet with the ease of one long practised in sisterly intrusions. “You are frightened, aren’t you?”
“Certainly not. Do not be absurd.”
“It is quite all right,” Georgie said gently, drawing her robe closer and settling herself with a solemnity that belied her years. “I do not expect you to confess as much aloud, but I know you, Hetty. I saw your face when they carried him in. And I know precisely the expression you wear when you are pretending not to care… while in truth you are beside yourself with worry.”
Hetty’s throat tightened. “He might have died.”
“I know.”
“I could not breathe,” she confessed in a whisper. “Which is… exceedingly inconvenient.”
“Deeply so,” Georgie agreed. “I suspect falling in love often is.”
“I am not – ”
“I am not accusing you of some dreadful impropriety,” Georgie said softly. “I only ask you to be honest with yourself. I have seen the way you look at him, Hetty. And the way he looks at you.”
“I told you, Georgie, it was all a dreadful scheme. A foolish, hastily constructed plot to rid myself of matrimonial prospects. We are not in love.”
Georgie made a thoughtful noise. “I do not mean this Season, my dear. I mean before. Long before. I remember when you chased him through the orchard with an apple in your fist.”
Hetty raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were eight,” Georgie said, eyes gleaming with the clarity of childhood memory, “and I was seven. He had announced, quite pompously, that he did not believe in fairies. You took grave offence and hurled said apple at his head.”
“I recall no such event, but I can only assume he was being intolerable.”
“Oh, he was,” Georgie said with a grin. “I called him a half-witted toad, and you stood atop the fence post, declared him the most exasperating boy in all of England – but yours nonetheless – and dared anyone to challenge you to a duel should they insult him.”
Hetty gave a soft laugh. “Yes, that does sound rather like me.”
“But it was true, was it not?” Georgie said, her smile fading to something gentler. “You two always belonged to one another in a way the rest of us never quite understood. You were forever vanishing off together, leaving me with the dolls whilst you plotted adventures involving frogs or jam.”
“I never meant to exclude you – ”
“Oh, I know,” Georgie said quickly, reaching for her hand. “Truly, I do. I was not hurt. I saw it, Hetty. Long before you did, I believe. You and Theo always had your own world. I… was never quite invited in.”
Hetty gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “He has always been my dearest friend.”
“Yes,” Georgie said. “And perhaps… something a little more besides. Don’t you think?”
Hetty was quiet for a time. “Do you believe he knows?”
