Page 73 of A Convenient Fiction

“You can be my friend,” Laura said. “If you ever were to begin with.”

“Of course I’m your friend!”

“When we were children, perhaps, but for many years I think you’ve preferred to look on yourself as my patroness. You seem to congratulate yourself on your charity in visiting me, or including me in one of your outings.”

“I never—”

“And then, at the first sign of scandal, you abandon me. As if our friendship were no more important to you than—”

“Because I didn’t call on you yesterday?” Henrietta’s eyes flashed. “If you must know, I was rather busy, first comforting George, and then placating my father about having welcomed an international villain into our home.”

“If I recall, you were equally busy when my father died. And busier still when my family’s fortunes took a turn.”

Henrietta’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “That’s unfair! I condoled with your family on more than one occasion. If I haven’t seen you as often since, it isn’t for the reasons you’re intimating. The world doesn’t revolve around you—”

“Why did you want me to be your companion?” Laura asked abruptly. “We hadn’t seen each other in months. You might have asked anyone.”

Henrietta didn’t answer.

“What was it about George’s return that prompted you to summon me?”

“Whatever you’re implying—”

“All I know,” Laura said, “is that George was never so attractive to you as when I fancied him. Just like the dolls we used to play with as children. You only ever wanted the toys that other girls did. That was part of your fun, wasn’t it? Having something that everyone else wanted? That I wanted?”

Henrietta’s face was ashen.

Laura felt a little ashen herself. She didn’t know if she was destroying their friendship, or salvaging it. “But I don’t want George anymore. I haven’t for a very long time. It was Alex I preferred. Which meant that you must prefer him, too.”

“You’re painting me out to be a horrible person.”

“That’s the difficulty of it. You aren’t horrible. You’re a good person. Generous. Kind. But when it comes to suitors—to possessions—you’re not very nice, Hen. Not to me.”

“And what of you?” Henrietta returned. “Did it never occur to you how I feel? George may claim to admire me, but he was forever looking at you. Mr. Archer was, too. You always contrive to make yourself more interesting—more appealing in spite of your lack of fortune. Is it any wonder I sometimes like to put you in your place?”

“We’re not in competition.”

Henrietta folded her arms. “It often feels as though we are.” She came to the window, and plumped down beside Laura.

Her arrival displaced Magpie. He leapt from the window embrasure, his tail twitching with irritation as he trotted from the room.

“It could never have worked between Mr. Archer and me anyway,” Henrietta said at last. “He would have been far too difficult for me to manage.”

It was the closest thing to an olive branch Laura was likely to get. She didn’t have the heart to reject it. “No more difficult than George.”

“Oh, George is easy. If you can limit his drinking, and give him a purpose to which he can turn his attention.” Henrietta frowned. “Though I will have to address his gambling habits.”

“Does this mean—?”

“That I’ll marry him? I expect I will. Someone must take George in hand. I suppose it was always going to be me.”

“I wish you luck.”

“I’d wish you the same if Mr. Archer hadn’t disappeared without a trace.” She cast Laura a curious glance. “Did you really like him, Laura?”

“I still do,” Laura said. “Very much.”

“Enough to have him as a husband?” Henrietta laughed. “Well, if you can manage it, I’ll see that the church is decked out in ribbons and roses myself—and I’ll loan you Papa’s carriage.”