‘Well, really,’ Lady Wainwright exclaimed. ‘You must teach that girl better manners, Cynthia. Otherwise she will never marry.’
‘I am not sure that Jo wishes to marry,’ her mother said with a fond look at her second daughter as she stood talking to the curate. ‘She is rather a bluestocking, I am afraid, though where that came from I do not know. I suppose her father, for it is not from me. I was never much given to study.’
‘You were always something of a featherbrain in your youth,’ Lady Wainwright said. Marianne made a movement of protest for it was not the truth, but her mother’s expression prevented her from speaking out. ‘However, we shall not draw comparisons. Marianne is decidedly the beauty of the family, and she does get that from you, for you were a beauty in your day, Cynthia.’
‘How kind of you to say so,’ Cynthia said and smiled faintly. ‘I believe I was admired once upon a time.’
‘You are still very handsome,’ Marianne said, rushing to her defence. ‘No one could think otherwise.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Lady Wainwright said, surprising them. ‘I think you might make another match if you set your mind to it, Cynthia, which would be much the best for you if it could be achieved—that is why Marianne must make a good marriage. She will then be able to introduce her sisters into her circle and perhaps you, too, may meet someone suitable.’
‘Oh, no, I do not think—’ Once again Mrs Horne was saved by the arrival of her maid, this time bearing a letter. ‘Yes, Lily, is that for me?’
‘Yes, it is, ma’am,’ Lily said and beamed at her. ‘It has come all the way from Cornwall and the post rider says that he is to return for your reply in the morning—unless you wish to give it now?’
‘That sounds urgent,’ Cynthia said and took the letter. She broke the seal in an agitated manner, because she knew it must be from Lady Edgeworthy, her Aunt Bertha. She scanned the lines swiftly and then closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Oh, dear, it seems that my Aunt Bertha has been ill, Marianne, and she begs that you go to her at once, for she needs a companion.’
‘Marianne is to come to Bath with me,’ Lady Wainwright cried. ‘You must write and tell Lady Edgeworthy that it is impossible—or send one of the other girls.’
Cynthia sat up straight in her chair, because she was caught on the horns of a dilemma, but for once she was not prepared to give in to her sister. ‘I am sorry, Agatha,’ she said. ‘Marianne is Bertha’s godchild and I think, in this instance, I must deny your request. Bertha is elderly and possibly frail. I know that she loves Marianne dearly, and I think she must take precedence this time.’
Lady Wainwright gave her an awful look. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would withdraw her favours from the family, but she knew that it was not in her power to deny them the Lodge. Wainwright had been most insistent that he wanted to give them a home of their own, and had even inclined towards letting them stay at the Vicarage. His wife had persuaded him that it would look odd if he did, so he had substituted the Lodge, though he had told his wife that he might look out for a larger establishment for them in time.
‘Well, I suppose if she has been ill…’ Lady Wainwright rose to her feet. ‘I shall have to think about this again, Cynthia. I am not sure whether or not Josephine is ready to go out into society, but I will let you know my decision in a few days.’
Marianne smiled and went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. ‘It was very kind of you to think of me, Aunt,’ she said. ‘But I am sure my great-aunt needs me or she would not have sent all this way and paid for a reply.’
‘No, perhaps not.’ Lady Wainwright nodded. ‘You are a good girl to give up pleasure for yourself in favour of Lady Edgeworthy. I shall consider whether I think Josephine is ready to accompany me to Bath, but I must confess I should have been happier with you.’
Marianne made no answer, but went to the door to see her aunt off. She returned to find the parlour in turmoil. Jo had returned to the room and was venting her frustration at not being able to tell Lady Wainwright what she thought of her invitation, and Mrs Horne was trying to soothe her.
‘You never know, she may decide that you are not good mannered enough to accompany her,’ Marianne said with a sparkle in her eyes. She dodged the cushion Jo threw at her. ‘Well, you do not exactly put on your best manner when she is near, Jo—do you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ her sister said, her cheeks pink. ‘But she is so—so smug!’
‘Yes, she is,’ Marianne agreed. ‘And some of the things she says to Mama make me want to strike her, but we must be careful. Politeness keeps us from saying too much—and her husband has done a great deal to help us these past months.’
‘Indeed he has,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I do not know how we should have managed without him. Besides, you will meet others like your aunt in company, Jo. You have to learn to bite your tongue, my dear. It will not do to be churlish or ill mannered, for you would soon find yourself unwelcome.’
‘I know,’ Jo said and looked slightly ashamed. ‘But she does try my patience so. If she asks me to accompany her to Bath, I need not go—please say I may refuse her, Mama.’
‘I cannot compel you to go,’ Mrs Horne said and looked distressed. ‘But it will make things so difficult, Jo, my dear. You know your aunt as well as I—and, besides, it might be a good thing for you. She is sure to buy you some new clothes, and you may meet someone nice.’
‘I am not sure that I wish to marry,’ Jo reminded her. ‘It is a pity that I am not Aunt Bertha’s godchild—I would willingly exchange places with Marianne.’
‘You might enjoy yourself in Bath,’ Marianne reasoned. ‘You are always saying that there are never enough books in the library in Mallham, Jo. I dare say there will be many more in Bath, for it is a fashionable spa.’
Mallham was the small neighbouring village, and their nearest town was Huntingdon, a drive of some fifteen miles. While the Reverend Horne had lived, they had managed to visit the town every few weeks to purchase or borrow books, but now, without the carriage that they could no longer afford, it was impossible.
‘Yes, I suppose there is that,’ Jo agreed, looking thoughtful. ‘And there may be some literary circles I might join for the time we are there.’
‘There is also the matter of Lucy’s future,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I know she is young yet, but she will wish to marry one day, and I shall never be in a position to give her a Season in town. Your godmother may do something for you, Marianne, and Jo may find a husband in Bath…if she wishes—but what of Lucy?’
The sisters turned to look at Lucy. She was sitting by the window, looking out, her head full of dreams, hardly aware of the discussion going on behind her, but she turned to look at them and smiled.
‘Did someone speak my name? I was dreaming again…of a knight on a white horse who came and rescued me from the castle of the wicked witch. He took me to his home in a land where the sun always shines, and then I sent for all of you to come and live with me. And we were all happy ever after.’
‘Oh, Lucy,’ Mrs Horne said and shook her head, smiling because, though she tried very hard not to favour her, Lucy was her baby and her darling. ‘You read too many fairy stories, my love. I fear that you will be disappointed one day when you discover that the knights you dream of are only fables.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ Lucy replied, uncurling from her seat in the window and coming towards them. She was perhaps potentially prettier than either of her sisters with hair that floated like white gold about her face and made her look like one of the princesses she dreamed of, her eyes a deep-sea blue that seemed as mysterious as the ocean. ‘I just like to dream because everything is so awful. I did hear what my aunt said, but neither Marianne or Jo want to go with her.