by Ash Krafton
The latter kept her quite sustained long after he dropped her at the gate.
An unfamiliar carriage stood in the stable yard. Through the trees that lined the driveway, Senza spied the coach, as well as the man who’d presumably driven it.
Hmm. They had company. Important company, if the quality of the carriage was any indication. The driver was finely dressed, too, and didn’t even water the horses himself. He stood to the side, speaking to the horse master, while the stable boy tended to the team.
Must be business for Father. A frown darkened Senza’s expression when she remembered meeting Mr. Isling at the train station. How would she explain being there with her “father” if her father were home meeting with an associate?
She bit her lip, her cheeks warming when she thought of Mr. Knell. Oh, that man. Why did he seem intent on turning her life upside down?
One thing was certain. He was within their circle of society, and he was a man of means. Certainly her mother would approve of such a match. And all that talk of magic—why, it was nonsense. Simply a fantasy.
She shook out her skirts, dusty from the walk up the dry lane. Too much had happened to fool herself into believing that lie. It did little to dissuade her.
A proper introduction with her parents. She’d decided. Magic or no, if she had to be married off to someone, it should be the man who called her bien-aimée. It should be the man who haunted her every thought. It should be Mr. Knell.
For the first time in her life, she locked eyes with destiny, stared it down, and did not cringe. If her fate lay in the arms of Mr. Knell, she’d charge headlong into it.
Hoping to avoid any uncomfortable interrogation, she slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind her, heading straight for the steps.
Her mother appeared like a lightning flash in the parlor doorway, her whisper as harsh as her expression. “Where have you been? We have a caller! Upstairs and change. You have five minutes, and that is five minutes longer than any of us should have had to wait.”
Mrs. Fyne took a deep breath and put on a more pleasant tone. “Senza, dear, do join us in the parlor.”
With a swish of skirt, she disappeared into the parlor again. “Out in the garden, as usual. Only needs a moment to freshen up…”
Murmurs of replies, unintelligible but for their owners’ genders. Senza crept up the stairs. Whatever the business, it had her mother in rare form. That couldn’t be good.
Della met her at the top of the stair and whirled her into her chamber, wash basin full, fresh dress laid out. Senza eyed the gown as Della got to work on her with a wash cloth. Not just any dress, either. It was one of her new tea gowns. Robin’s egg blue, trimmed in a complex braid of ribbons, flutters of silk that dripped from the capped shoulders and the waist.
Important company, for sure. Della worked swiftly, combing out her hair and repinning it, adding a small cluster of primrose blooms and matching pink hair pin. Senza was transformed and down the stairs, hastily snatching up her black shawl from where it had been dropped on the bannister. Della deposited her, flush-faced and out of breath, at the parlor door with thirty seconds to spare.
Mother turned and beamed, a picture-perfect smile. “Oh, Senza, there you are. So glad you can join us.”
Senza curtsied to her mother and turned her attention to her guests.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Her mother’s voice came to her as if she stood far away, hollow like a voice in a tunnel. “You remember Mr. and Mrs. Thomas.”
Father was not here. It meant only one thing. If they were visiting with Mother—
Senza’s heart thumped in her throat and she lowered her eyes when she curtsied. The model of feigned shyness, the perfect disguise for terror.
“And you remember their son, Winston,” Mrs. Fyne continued.
Senza forced a smile, aiming it at the floor at his feet.
“Call me Winnie,” he said, and stepped over to her, seizing her hand and pulling it to his mouth. His fingers were warm and damp like over-cooked dumplings. “Wonderful to see you looking so well, Miss Fyne.”
She hadn’t realized he was the perspiring type. Thank goodness for decorum and the call for wearing gloves at the dances. Unfortunate that she wasn’t wearing them now.
“Your, ah, mother said you were in the garden.” He looked over his shoulder to his father, who nodded encouragingly, quite like a barrister would prompt a witness in court. “I should very much like to see your roses, although I daresay they would pale in comparison to the—the lovely blush of your cheeks.”
Senza gaped a moment, at a complete loss for words. If roses could be half as flustered as she, they’d redefine the color red.
When she remained silent, her mother supplied a response. “Of course, she would be delighted. Wouldn’t you, Senza?”
“Of course,” Senza echoed. Best to fall back on the habits of proper protocol. The rigidity of her social training provided a certain backbone she was suddenly lacking. “Absolutely delighted. If you would come this way, Mr. Thomas?”
“Winnie,” he said with a smile that split his face. He trapped her captive hand under his arm, which was as warm as his hands had been.
Senza didn’t look at her mother as they exited the parlor through the rear door.
The conservatory in the next room had a corner that was floor to ceiling windows and a door that led directly to the rose garden. She turned and spared her mother a scathing look once out of the line of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas’ sight before going outside.
She tugged her hand loose from his to close the door, making a bigger deal out of fixing the latch than was necessary. Clasping her hands to her chest, she led him down the path to the garden gate. He hurried ahead of her to push it open.
He had manners, she’d give him that. However, he lacked a certain element of grace. She scowled. Mr. Knell wouldn’t have had to hurry ahead to awkwardly open the gate. He simply would have arrived at the gesture as if it had been rehearsed to the point of perfection.
“I’m sorry to hear you are still mourning,” he said. “I know it’s not customary to take callers while in this state.”
She didn’t want to discuss her current state, whether it was the one in which she still drowned or the one in which he supposed her to be. “Your father, he has business with my father, does he not?”
Winnie clasped his hands behind his back and pretended to admire a climbing vine, loaded with scarlet blooms. “You mean today, or in general?”
“Today.” She had to push the word past the fist in her throat.
“Yes, especially today.”
“And…” Her voice faded when her heartbeat broke into a gallop again. “Why especially today?”
“Oh, well, you see, I passed my examination into the Law Society.” He poked at one of the flowers, watching it quiver on its delicate stem. “My clerkship is going splendidly well at my father’s practice.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Yes. Father says I’m sure of a place in his firm.”
Senza waited patiently while he teased the roses. When he said nothing further, she prompted him. “And?”
“Oh, yes, well, then I suppose after I take on my appointment, I shall take up residence of my own in London. Several promising locations close to our home near Chancery Lane, beautiful houses.”
“London. How exciting.”
“Yes. I’m sure you would truly enjoy the city. So much diversion to keep a lady busy.”
“I imagine there is.” She eyed him. What was he playing at? Was this how he was going to spring it on her—innocuous chatter about London before launching the inquest? He was a law clerk, after all, son of a prosperous barrister. The inquest was bound to be brutal.
He ceased his prodding of the rosebush and turned to face her. “Not while one is in mourning, of course. It wouldn’t be seemly. I think it uncommon good luck that our parents have found so much in common.”
He stood a tentative
step closer to her. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better.”
“Mr. Thomas—”
“Winnie. Please.” His face was alight with eagerness. “No need to stand on formality, Miss Senza. Not when we will be seeing so much more of each other.”
Her eyes slid sideways and she resisted turning toward him. “How much more, exactly?”
He only smiled.
And his smile was nothing at all like Knell’s. Senza re-wrapped her shawl, covering as much of herself as she could. A twist of nausea snaked up her throat. There was only one reason the Thomases would be here in private discussion, allowing Senza unsupervised in the garden with their son.
Suddenly, being called out for her deceit at the train station would have been much preferable.
“Are you cold, my dear?”
“Oh, yes, Mister—Winnie. There’s a terrible chill. I’d like to go inside, if you don’t mind. I’ve been outside most of the day and I’m feeling quite overexposed.”
“You have taken on a bit of a pall, my dear. You mustn’t exhaust yourself. Let me help you.”
But Senza was already passing him, striding for the door and going inside without waiting for him. He followed behind, chatting amiably, oblivious to her disposition.
The visit lasted nearly an hour longer, and Senza endured the polite conversation and happy glances with a frozen smile. Inside, her mind had crystalized into needles of panicked thoughts, each one bearing the name and the essence of Mr. Knell. She struggled to feign interest in the conversation, constantly pushing up her eyebrows to mimic delighted engagement.
Her mother seemed as if she’d fallen head over heels for Winnie. Although the word engagement wasn’t spoken, she knew it perched on the tips of their tongues. And if she were to continue her melancholy seclusion, she was certain Winnie Thomas would be a frequent caller, a companion to lift her spirits.
She kept her thoughts to herself for the remainder of the visit, enduring Winnie’s hearty well-wishes for her solace. Mrs. Fyne saw the Thomases outside to their carriage. When the door closed behind them, she took a deep breath and beamed at her daughter. “Well, that went quite well for a first meeting.”
“Why do I suspect there is more going on than you are telling me?
“I’ve never made a secret about my intentions, Senza. Our first and foremost task was to find you an advantageous suitor. Winston Thomas rather fits the bill.”
A suitor? All suspicions confirmed, she swallowed hard as her stomach clenched. “He is a nice fellow, mother, I would not deny that. But he isn’t my type.”
“And you do know your type, then?”
“Yes. I think I do.” Tall, but not lanky. Strong shoulders, since he lifted her from the phaeton without so much as bracing himself. Nice arms that made walking beside him a pleasure. A stubborn lock of hair that tumbled over his eyes, both boyish and secretive. The smile that squeezed her from the insides, making her want to pop.
And who was capable of performing magic.
Biting her bottom lip to keep the impossible perfection of his being from escaping, Senza wrung her hands. How on earth were she to describe him? Even if he wasn’t perfectly other-worldly, there was no way to tell her mother she was interested in a man her parents did not know.
If only they’d had more time—just a ball, even a small one, so he could have made himself known to her father.
Instead, she’d given herself to selfish isolation, allowing her fear and her feelings to make her a prisoner. She’d never been self-indulgent before but it was all too clear now. She’d doomed herself.
She steadied her breath. “I don’t think we should be hasty, Mother.”
“You don’t? You have not been out since Felicity died, Senza. The world can’t wait forever, dear. Life goes on and everyone has been going on without you. At least Winston Thomas has not forgotten you—”
“Mother, please! Don’t do this to me. I beg you. Do you not love me at all?”
“I do this because I love you. I want to see you in a happy, prosperous marriage. This is why we are made women; because a man is just a man. A woman is the embodiment of strength, and passion, and fury, and above all things, she is adaptable. We alone can bear this burden, to be the one who makes success of a marriage. You will have a prosperous husband who cares for you, a beautiful home, a chance to be part of the London society. This is all we’ve been working toward, Daughter.”
“But, I barely know him. I do not love him—”
“You will get to know him. Love doesn’t simply bloom upon the first meeting. He and his parents have graciously accepted our invitation that they stay here for an extended visit. The city is so dreadful in summer, the heat so oppressive. Mr. Thomas’s work prevents them from travelling to Brighton, so a stay in the countryside provides an excellent tonic for Mrs. Thomas’s health.”
Senza’s eyes felt like they’d pop. “They are staying here? With us?”
“Of course! Winnie and Henry get on splendidly, and Mr. Thomas can make the trip to the city by train. Oh, it does remind me of my own courtship. Your father made his commission at an age earlier than any of his peers. He was destined for a life on the sea. So dashing, in his uniform. To be an officer’s wife—I cannot begin to explain the distinction.”
Senza glared at her mother. Her voice was like iron. “Winston Thomas is no Bertram Fyne.”
“No. He isn’t. But he is educated, and has a stable future, and he seems to have a special consideration for you. He isn’t in need of your inheritance. That means he is interested in you, and not your money.”
“Other men might feel the same, Mother. You can’t sell me off to the first one that knocks.”
“He isn’t the first, Senza. But he is the most promising. And the way you’ve been hiding yourself, you’ll be lucky if anyone even remembers you. Think on that when you’re putting on your veils tomorrow.”
Her mother hitched up her skirts and stormed out of the room, leaving Senza alone.
Alone had been preferable for so long. Now, it just seemed like a punishment.
The very next morning, Senza packed up every scrap of black clothing she owned and had Della stuff them into a trunk in the attic. She refused to become a captive audience, left to the mercy of a suitor.
Especially a suitor that was not of her own choosing.
Mrs. Fyne’s approval of Senza’s recovery from her melancholy was quite evident. Although she never forthrightly accused her daughter, surely Mrs. Fyne did not actually believe an elevation of spirits had thrust her daughter back into the sunlight.
As her mother had promised, Mr. Thomas brought his family to stay at the Fyne home. Senza remained aloof, insisting that Aggie spend the summer with them, as well. Winston Thomas strolled about with quite a puffed chest, one step behind Senza, one step ahead of Aggie. Flanked by two eligible ladies, he must have fancied himself quite a fortunate man.
Fancied himself an artist, too. He spent a portion of every day behind his easel and canvas, painting every inch of the Fyne manor. It was the only time Senza was free to go about without her Thomas-shaped shadow. Aggie was content to sit with him, reading and chatting as he painted, always bathed in the glow of happiness.
Despite the wellspring of cheer that seemed to have moved into Fyne manor, there was no such lightening of the shadows that encased Senza’s spirits still. A peculiar agitation had settled itself into her chest and she only found relief when maintaining a state of constant distraction and perpetual movement.
If she sat still, or allowed her mind to rest, her thoughts turned straight to Mr. Knell like a compass needle finds magnetic north. A mantra would burn in her mind: he is not here, he knows how to avoid death, I am alone, without. If anyone knew the thoughts that pursued her, she would be hauled off to a sanitarium and locked away.
Not thinking of him allowed her to not think about worse things. Better not to think.
Carriage rides to town were no longer relaxing, th
e act of sitting idly by an impossible task to perform with grace. She insisted on walking, much to Aggie’s dismay. The strenuous exertion took the edge off the buzzing of Senza’s fretfulness, made use of the excess energy, allowing her to appear calm and composed, a pleasing disposition.
Even more dismaying was the pace to which Senza set their walks to town, and Aggie invariably arrived out of breath and near exhaustion.
“Please, Senza, I beg you.” Aggie leaned against the fence rail and set her fan into frantic motion. “Let us find someplace to sit. My feet are positively on fire. Why didn’t you allow Winston to drive us in?”
“He’d only be bored by ribbons and hats, Aggie, and I need something new for the dance on the weekend.” She craned her head, peering down the street. “Let’s go to the milliner’s. He has a lovely bench out front.”
While they strolled through town, now at a pace more befitting to ladies of means, they greeted familiar faces, chatting and waving. Aggie’s face beamed at the attention. Senza was less enamored. Many of these people frequented the same parties to which Senza was invited, and while they behaved most friendly now, Senza remembered their evaluating stares, their not-so-discreet whispers.
To them, she was a topic of speculation, a social barrier. As long as she was single, every other girl of a marriageable age would remain single, too. And every single one of them noticed she no longer wore black. She was once again a threat.
Their friendly overtures were thin veils, just enough to conceal their true feelings toward her. They didn’t know her, didn’t know her personality or her dispositions. They knew her only for her outsides, and from a distance at best.
Senza was keener than they gave her credit, yet never allowed them to see the wounds their ignorant barbs rent within her. Her smiles were dazzling, even if they never reached her eyes. Such were the trappings of decorum. In all appearances, Senza was the ideal of feminine beauty and charm.
And inside, she cringed. She was competition. They had every reason to feel as they did, because they had no idea Senza would never seek marriage with one of the county’s eligible bachelors. Her heart had been stolen.