by Mary Blayney
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Light filtered through the thin gauze curtains her mother favored in the summer months. The morning room was Christiana’s favorite this time of year and she sat with her sister in companionable silence.
“Have you had any word from Lord Morgan?”
Joanna’s question was so unexpected that Christiana set her teacup down with an audible rattle.
“Letters you mean? No. He never called on me while we were still in London, why should he send a letter now?”
“He did call. More than once.”
This time Christiana did spill her tea. She brushed at the spot on her skirt with some annoyance. “He did?”
“Yes, but Mama would not let him be announced. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do, you were so distraught and not thinking clearly. So I did not try to convince her otherwise.”
“I told him that I never wanted to see him again and I meant it.”
“You do not. Perhaps then you did, but only because you did not know your own mind. You have had time to grieve now and I can not believe that he is not foremost in your thoughts.”
“Do you think that I am so shallow that I can overcome my sorrow in a month and move on to my next conquest? Or is that since you are engaged you think you can read my heart too.”
“No, I could do that before I was engaged.” Joanna spoke with a complacent confidence that was mildly infuriating. “Before I was engaged and understood true happiness I was willing to wait until you understood your heart for yourself. Now, Richard’s death has complicated everything and I think I must take firmer action.”
“I do not want to hear this, Joanna.” She stood up to leave the room and was halfway across it when Joanna spoke again.
“You never loved Richard.”
If Joanna had hit her with a cane, it could not have hurt more. She whirled around. “I did love Richard.”
“Christy, be honest. You told me yourself that you were not going to marry him. Now, because you feel guilty for not realising it sooner, you are willing to marry his memory.”
“I did love Richard, Joanna.” Her voice was wooden. “Just not enough.”
“Oh, please, Christy. You loved him as much as he would let you. You know as well as I do that he was selfish and self-righteous and once you saw a little more of the world you realized that there were other matches that would suit you infinitely better.”
It might be true. It was true, but the callous assessment of her feelings pinched her heart. She expected more sympathy from Joanna.
“I suppose you are an expert on courtship now that Lord Monksford of the thinning hair and middle years has proposed. Is he your heart’s delight?”
Joanna was shocked at first, then angry. “Never ever belittle him again, Christiana.” Joanna’s eyes filled with tears. “I have not spoken to you of him because—because I did not want my happiness to make your pain worse, but now I am angry enough not to care.”
Joanna walked over to Christiana and led her back to the sofa. “Life goes on, Christy. Sit down.” Christiana did as she was told, already regretting her meanness. Joanna did not sit but began to pace in front of the sofa.
“First, Lord Monksford is only thirty-two years old.” She took an angry breath and expelled it, managing to calm her voice. “He has two dear daughters who need a mother and hopes to have a son one day. He has a wonderful estate not more than a day’s journey from here and it very much needs a lady’s hand. He is wealthy and does not bet on horses or keep a mistress. He is everything that is good.”
The anger disappeared completely with the last phrase.
“But I am not marrying him for his house, his children, or his wealth.” Joanna stopped pacing and came back to sit down beside her sister.
“Christy, he actually listens to me when I talk. He never scans the room for someone more important or prettier to talk to or dance with.
“He brings me nosegays because he has found out that they are my favorite sort of flowers. While we were visiting, he had his cook prepare my favorite dishes. He actually knows what they are. I am not sure Mama knows what they are.”
She leaned closer. “Christy, he does not know the color of my eyes. I love him for that alone. He is looking for someone to share his life and not someone to adorn it. Yes, Christy, he is my heart’s delight. I cannot imagine happiness without him.”
They were both crying now. That lasted all of a moment before Joanna brushed at her eyes. “And this crying has to stop! It is ruining our complexions.”
“Very generous of you, Joanna, but I am the only one who is a watering pot these days.”
“Perhaps, but look at the frown lines I am getting from worry over you.”
Christiana did look and could see nothing but happiness beneath the tears. “I am so sorry, Joanna.”
“Yes, I know you are. Now you can prove it by not letting it happen again. John Monksford is the world to me and I want you two to love each other as sister and brother.”
Christiana nodded. “Of course I will. How could I not, when he has made you so happy?”
“There is one more grace I will ask of you, dearest.” Joanna pulled a letter from her pocket and handed it to her. “I am going to consult with Mama about dinner.”
She walked to the door but turned around once more. “Do think of him kindly, Christy. He does care, I am sure of it.”
“More love-dazed wisdom?”
“No. I watched the two of you for most of a Season. Do read his letter and begin to think about the future at least a little.”
Joanna closed the door softly and for a moment Christiana stared at the envelope. It was addressed directly to her, with the Braedon frank in the corner. What room had he written this in? How many sheets had he ruined before he had it exactly as he wanted it? Holding it gave her no insight so she broke the seal and read.
Dear Christiana,
The London we shared is cold and lonely without you. But I know that it is not nearly as empty as your world is right now. To lose someone loved and longed for is an immeasurable loss. I send my deepest sympathy to you and Richard Wilton’s family and hope that his death in service to King and country will, in time, bring comfort.
Morgan Braedon
She read it five more times. How thoughtful. How sweet. But Joanna was wrong. It was a sympathy note, not a declaration.
She stared at the ceiling, refusing the tears. It was something that Joanna, aglow with her own personal happiness, could not understand. Not only was Richard dead, but she had lost Morgan Braedon too.