“What?” asked Elizabeth.
“Nothing,” he said, backing down the stairs with a grin on his face.
Her brows pulled together with suspicious amusement. “I know that grin, Oliver Turner. What are you off to do?”
“Oh—nothing important. I simply want to get my name in the betting books at White’s. There’s no chance Kensworth House is still going to be standing at the end of the Season with both you and Rose living under its roof.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she smirked. “If I had a something in my hand I’d throw it at you.”
“My point exactly.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth entered the house and closed the front door as lightly as possible before hugging the wall as she ascended the stairs. The middle of the stairs were the creakiest, therefore she needed to avoid them at all costs. Once finally at the top level, Elizabeth tiptoed across the floor, holding her breath and praying that Mary wouldn’t see her pass by. She loved her sister dearly, but Mary seemed intent on discussing every aspect of Elizabeth’s life, and she could not stand it any longer that day. Her well of patience had run dry.
Elizabeth had almost made it to the opposite side of Mary’s door, holding her breath and pursing her lips together in quiet concentration until she was stopped by Mary’s voice. “Elizabeth, love? Is that you?”
Elizabeth shut her eyes tightly and she let out a defeated breath. Caught by the mother hen again. “Yes. It’s me,” she said, turning to walk into Mary’s room, resigning herself to an afternoon of smothering and unwanted conversation.
“Oh, good!” said Mary, with a bright smile, sitting propped up on her bed by a mountain of pillows and surrounded by dozens of fashion plates.
Elizabeth chuckled at the sight and moved toward her sister’s bed. “Are we trading in our coverlets for fashion magazines now? I’m not sure that will keep us as warm in the winter.”
Mary’s light grey eyes squinted in a mock smile. “Very funny. But no—I’ve just been rethinking your wardrobe for the Season.”
Elizabeth groaned and pushed a pile of papers aside so she could dive onto the bed beside her sister. “No more talk of gowns, please. I’ve had quite enough of that with Mama over the past three months of preparation.” Elizabeth snuggled up to Mary and looped her arm around her sister’s. If she was going to listen to Mary’s constant interference, she was going to listen while resting comfortably.
Mary was ten years older than Elizabeth, and often acted more like a hovering mother to her than even Mama did. In fact, Mama was more like Elizabeth in temperament, always quick to dive into an adventure and slow to enter a ballroom. That was how Elizabeth knew Mama was likely not sorry in the least to have to stay home and nurse Kate back to health. Elizabeth almost envied Mama. Almost. But knowing she was most likely having to hear at least fifteen times a day how Kate was near her death, and that the family should be brave after she passed, made her feel grateful she was in Town and not back home at Dalton Park. She could practically hear her younger sister declaring that if the family harbored even an ounce of affection for her, they would not touch that dreadful black—because to Kate, wearing black was the equivalent of torture.
Mary picked up a picture of a lady in a bright pink dress and eyed it closely. “I’m just not certain you have enough color in your wardrobe.”
Elizabeth snatched the picture out of Mary’s hand and tossed it off the bed. “Leave my wardrobe alone, Mary,” she said with a playful scowl before she wrapped her arm back around her sister’s. “Believe me, I have more than enough color variations.” Thoughts of that turquoise dress came racing back to mind and Elizabeth cringed. Despite her sisters’ attempts to sway her dislike of it, Elizabeth still thought it made her look like a trifling piece of shrubbery.
“Why don’t you let me fetch your sewing and you can focus all of this obnoxious—er, I mean, endearing attention on making new gowns for the baby?”
Elizabeth grinned at her sister, but Mary’s body stiffened. She looked up from the fashion plate she had been studying, and for a brief moment, stared out into the room before turning her attention back to the image again. “Are you sure you don’t like this one? I think the pink would really set off your blue eyes.” Was that it, then?
Flags raised in Elizabeth’s mind at her sister’s blatant attempt to change the subject. Something was wrong with Mary—the rock of the family, the sibling who always had everything well in hand. Elizabeth had no intention of telling Mary how much she admired her, looked up to her. Mary was accomplished, loved, prepared and confident in the face of all trials. At least, that was always how she had appeared when she would swoop back in from London with all of her fantastic tales of Society and culture.
In those moments, Elizabeth had always stood by, silently admiring her older sister and wishing she could be her. She also wished she could be one of Mary’s friends and confidants— and Carver’s as well. Instead, it often felt as if her older siblings only interacted with her when it was required. The older Elizabeth became, the more strained her relationships with her siblings felt. Although they were close, there was still a wall between her and Mary that she wasn’t sure how to scale. And if she were being honest, she was a little afraid to even try.
When Elizabeth did not acknowledge the picture of the horrid pink gown Mary was holding, Mary held it clos
er to Elizabeth’s face. “What do you think? Shall we have it made for you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? I’m certain it will make your eyes look dazzling.” Here was Mary pushing again. Was there ever a time when Elizabeth had asserted her opinion and Mary had accepted it without argument?
“I do not doubt its ability to bring out my eyes. My fear is that those who have to look at me in it will not be too pleased when they are left blinded.”
Mary smirked down at her. “Now you sound like Kate, with your dramatics.” She paused and squinted. “Or Carver, with your sarcasm.”
“Or Robert, by combining them?”
Mary chuckled and finally pushed aside the fashion magazines to nestle down into her pillows next to Elizabeth. It was in those small moments when Mary would relax her shoulders that Elizabeth saw hope for the two of them as friends. “I think it would be more like Oliver. I don’t think Robert is capable of dramatics.”
At the mention of Oliver’s name, Elizabeth’s mind flew back to how it felt having him hold her in his arms standing in the alley. And the way he had looked at her—it almost gave her hope for a future with him.