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Authors: Jillian Eaton
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around her head.
“This would not have anything to do with a certain husband of yours, would it?” asked Josephine, arching one eyebrow.
Margaret scowled. Had she known her friends had planned on putting her through an inquisition she never would have invited them over for morning tea. Sitting next to Grace – the lesser of two evils, as far as she was concerned – she snapped her fan shut and fixed Josephine with a hard stare. “If you must know, gossiping old biddy that you are, my imagined ‘glow’, as you put so eloquently put it, may have something to do with a certain husband of mine. But that is all I am going to tell you about that,” she said primly.
“Oh pooh.” Josephine waved her hand in the air. “You are no fun at all. What about you Grace? Are you glowing?”
“Me?” The youngest woman exclaimed in surprise. “I’m not even married yet!”
“That certainly didn’t stop me,” said Josephine.
“Then or now,” Margaret said pointedly.
Josephine lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. “Yes, well, not all of us are in love with our husbands.”
“How do you know I am in love with Henry?” asked Margaret curiously. Was it that obvious? Color stole into her cheeks as she recalled the events of last night… And this morning… And again after breakfast. When she had learned Grace and Josephine were not only in London, but were coming to call, it had taken a whirlwind of maids to make her presentable. Even now her skin felt flushed and damp beneath her undergarments, and no amount of powder had been able to fully disguise the faint bruises around her throat courtesy of Henry’s roaming lips. A high necked gown had fixed the problem, but Josephine’s knowing gaze revealed she knew exactly why Margaret had chosen that particular gown to wear for their visit.
“Darling, it is written all over your face. I am happy for you, truly I am, but you must know that loving one’s husband is the exception in marriages like ours, not the rule.”
Grace sat up a little straighter and frowned. “I love Stephen,” she said. “And we are going to be married.”
“Don’t remind me,” Josephine muttered.
Sensing an impending battle, Margaret hurriedly rang the bell to signal for tea. It came out on a silver platter and was poured into matching blue and white porcelain cups. The women sipped delicately, giving their thoughts time to settle, and when they began talking again the topic of Grace’s impending marriage was wisely put by the wayside.
“So where is your delightful husband?” Josephine asked as she stirred another lump of sugar into her tea.
“He left this morning to attend to some business. An accountant of his has been stealing money for quite some time, and –”
“Oh is that why he ran off with your dowry?” Grace interrupted, her dark eyebrows rising.
“Yes, exactly so.”
“A good excuse as any, I suppose,” said Josephine.
“Has anyone heard from Catherine lately?” Margaret asked, smoothly changing the subject.
“I have!” said Grace. “I received a letter from her just yesterday. She and Marcus have decided to stay in the country with the children for the Season.”
Josephine set her cup down with a sharp clink . “Stay in the country?” she repeated, visibly horrified. “For the entire Season? They’re not coming to London at all?”
“Not at all,” Grace confirmed.
“How lovely for them,” said Margaret. She and Henry had already discussed when they would be leaving the city. Their social standing obligated them to attend at least one ball, but after that they were returning to Heathridge with all due haste. London had never held the same allure for Margaret as it had for her friends and Henry had no preference one way or the other. He would go, he had told her this morning as they lay curled in each other’s arms, where ever she went. It was ironic, really. At the beginning of the summer she would have given anything to leave
“This would not have anything to do with a certain husband of yours, would it?” asked Josephine, arching one eyebrow.
Margaret scowled. Had she known her friends had planned on putting her through an inquisition she never would have invited them over for morning tea. Sitting next to Grace – the lesser of two evils, as far as she was concerned – she snapped her fan shut and fixed Josephine with a hard stare. “If you must know, gossiping old biddy that you are, my imagined ‘glow’, as you put so eloquently put it, may have something to do with a certain husband of mine. But that is all I am going to tell you about that,” she said primly.
“Oh pooh.” Josephine waved her hand in the air. “You are no fun at all. What about you Grace? Are you glowing?”
“Me?” The youngest woman exclaimed in surprise. “I’m not even married yet!”
“That certainly didn’t stop me,” said Josephine.
“Then or now,” Margaret said pointedly.
Josephine lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. “Yes, well, not all of us are in love with our husbands.”
“How do you know I am in love with Henry?” asked Margaret curiously. Was it that obvious? Color stole into her cheeks as she recalled the events of last night… And this morning… And again after breakfast. When she had learned Grace and Josephine were not only in London, but were coming to call, it had taken a whirlwind of maids to make her presentable. Even now her skin felt flushed and damp beneath her undergarments, and no amount of powder had been able to fully disguise the faint bruises around her throat courtesy of Henry’s roaming lips. A high necked gown had fixed the problem, but Josephine’s knowing gaze revealed she knew exactly why Margaret had chosen that particular gown to wear for their visit.
“Darling, it is written all over your face. I am happy for you, truly I am, but you must know that loving one’s husband is the exception in marriages like ours, not the rule.”
Grace sat up a little straighter and frowned. “I love Stephen,” she said. “And we are going to be married.”
“Don’t remind me,” Josephine muttered.
Sensing an impending battle, Margaret hurriedly rang the bell to signal for tea. It came out on a silver platter and was poured into matching blue and white porcelain cups. The women sipped delicately, giving their thoughts time to settle, and when they began talking again the topic of Grace’s impending marriage was wisely put by the wayside.
“So where is your delightful husband?” Josephine asked as she stirred another lump of sugar into her tea.
“He left this morning to attend to some business. An accountant of his has been stealing money for quite some time, and –”
“Oh is that why he ran off with your dowry?” Grace interrupted, her dark eyebrows rising.
“Yes, exactly so.”
“A good excuse as any, I suppose,” said Josephine.
“Has anyone heard from Catherine lately?” Margaret asked, smoothly changing the subject.
“I have!” said Grace. “I received a letter from her just yesterday. She and Marcus have decided to stay in the country with the children for the Season.”
Josephine set her cup down with a sharp clink . “Stay in the country?” she repeated, visibly horrified. “For the entire Season? They’re not coming to London at all?”
“Not at all,” Grace confirmed.
“How lovely for them,” said Margaret. She and Henry had already discussed when they would be leaving the city. Their social standing obligated them to attend at least one ball, but after that they were returning to Heathridge with all due haste. London had never held the same allure for Margaret as it had for her friends and Henry had no preference one way or the other. He would go, he had told her this morning as they lay curled in each other’s arms, where ever she went. It was ironic, really. At the beginning of the summer she would have given anything to leave
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