Page 14 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Well, you realized it much sooner than I did. I actually thought it was a plan, until my debut, when I looked around and saw the same old boys. But even then, it only slowly dawned upon me that Daddy could not just sail us to England, drop us off in St. James’s Park in pretty clothes with bags of money at our feet, to wait for lords to happen by. You need connections to mix with the ton. You need a sponsor. You need a bloody clue how English society works.”

“You need to not say ‘bloody.’”

“Well, that was true even in New York.” Dessie half smiled. “I was vexed with Daddy, but more so with myself. You were not waiting for the magical day we sailed away to find our princes.”

“No. I held onto an even more ludicrous dream. Until I resigned myself to being a patroness of the arts rather than a virtuosa.” She had been working with a wealthy friend to establish a National Conservatory of Music in New York, promising funds for scholarships for women. She was proud of their work, even if, privately, she’d thought of it as giving up.

“And I resigned myself to, I don’t know, Winslow Vanderdyke.”

“Eeew! You did not.” Not even thirty, and the unfortunate Winslow already had jowls like a bulldog. Yet he was “old money” New York, so he thought Dessie should consider herself fortunate that he deigned to court her. If his mother let him.

“But then, Lynch came to New York and found me.” Dessie’s voice softened and her eyes misted. “It was meant to be. I married my prince after all.” She dropped into the chair next to Ophelia’s. “But now I am at ‘happily ever after,’ and I can’t be happy because I am increasing and the baby will be born and you will be an ocean away.”

“Oh, Dessie.”

“I would have told you first, Lynch or no Lynch,” she fretted. “But yesterday morning I was sick on his shoe.”

“That sounds more like something I would do.”

“I know! Doesn’t it?”

Dessie leaped from her chair to pour herself a cup of tea from the pot on the sideboard, ignoring the platter of scones.

“Lynch is not wild about the name Ophelia for a daughter, I’m afraid. He wants something—”

“Less tragic?” Ophelia and Desdemona. They used to say they couldn’t imagine what their parents had been thinking. Until she and Dessie began planning to name their firstborn daughters after each other. But that now seemed silly too.

“Yes,” Dessie said, glancing over her shoulder, “but I told him I’m not crazy about Laurence for a boy.”

Laurence. “I’d forgotten that was Lynch’s name. You never use it. Why do you call Trentham ‘Robin’ but not Lynch ‘Laurence’?”

“Laurence?” Dessie’s nose wrinkled. “You can’t be serious.”

Ophelia laughed. Dessie did not. With a wistful expression, she came back to the table, fragrant teacup in hand, and slumped beside her.

“Ophelia, will you stay?”

“Stay?”

“I shouldn’t ask it. I know. It’s too much. Six or seven months, probably. And then, afterward, even if things go well, I wouldn’t want you to leave.”

“Dessie.” She put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Everything will go well.”

“Of course. But—” She bit her lip.

Their mother had died giving birth to their brother, who had not survived. Their father had never really recovered. Neither had they, she supposed. She’d never seen Dessie afraid of anything, until now.

“You know I’ll stay. You only had to ask. So long as Lynch doesn’t mind.”

“He will be thrilled.” Dessie rubbed her eyes as if to clear them, then looked up and smiled. “Oh, thank you, thank you. I feel ten stone lighter. Now it is happily ever after. I can believe so, anyway. But what about you? I mean, now that you have promised to stay with me rather than disappear into the European wilds on tour with Mr. Cameron?”

“I was never going on tour with Mr. Cameron.”

“He’s taken with you, though. And this whole ‘patroness of the arts’ thing—”

“I’m not going to buy myself a pretty piano player.”

“He is delicious to look at, isn’t he? Especially with that tortured lover look on his face, bent over the keys.”