Read Online The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove by A.B. Michaels - Free Book Online
Authors: A.B. Michaels
Ads: Link
think this marriage is, as you would say, ‘ill advised.’” She put down her sketch and turned to him directly. “Father, I don’t think I can do this. Truly. Emma loves George with all her heart, and he loves her. It’s abhorrent for me to marry him when they should be together.”
Her father, dressed impeccably as always, began to pace the room. He was an elegant, small-statured man with dark hair and a substantial mustache, now infused with gray. He rarely raised his voice to either his servants or his daughters, but everyone who knew Richard Monmouth Bennett sensed immediately where they stood in relation to him, which could usually be described as “beneath.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, your sister is already married,” he said. “And even if she weren’t, young George is the last of his line and needs an heir. Emma isn’t capable of providing such, and you are therefore elected to take her place.”
An incipient feeling of despair began its familiar journey from the pit of her stomach up into her throat. She already knew every step in this choreography, but for reasons she didn’t understand, she felt powerless to change the routine. Yet she tried. She always tried.
“Father, doesn’t it matter to you that I don’t love George and that he doesn’t love me?”
“What do you know of love?” Her father practically spat the words. “You are, what, twenty-two? You have no idea what that word means in its deepest, most spiritual, most heavenly sense. And trust me, you do not want to know, for when you lose that love, it is a pain that defies description.”
As if he had struck her, Lia felt the blow. “I know you loved Mama dearly,” she said.
Her father glared at her. “Beyond measure,” he said. “And when Catherine died, a very large part of me, the very best part of me, died with her. You were, I’m sorry to say, inadequate compensation.”
Lia looked down at her charcoal-stained fingers. The sense of shame never lessened. “I know I could never replace her, but—”
“Your mother was a saint, and there was only one thing she ever asked for. You know what that was, don’t you?”
Lia nodded. “To see our family joined with the Powells…but with Emma and George, Father, not with me.”
“Enough,” her father ordered. “The situation…was such that Emma needed to help the family by marrying Hiram. She did her duty, and now you will do yours.” He pinned Lia’s violet eyes with his own dark orbs and delivered the coup de gr â ce. “You owe this to your mother. It’s the least you can do.”
The conversation ended where it always did, with Lia turning silent. Her father left the room, but before exiting he turned to deliver one more directive. “Madame LeFever and your sister will be here at six o’clock this evening. You will be ready and cooperative when they arrive.”
The generously proportioned, heavily made-up Madame LeFever arrived at the appointed hour and was shown to Lia’s upstairs sitting room. “I am gratified you were able to reschedule your appointment,” the modiste sniffed. Two female assistants trailed in her wake carrying tailoring supplies and two oversized garment bags. Lia said nothing as the assistants bustled about, helping her to undress and try on the dramatic embroidered silk wedding gown that she was to wear in two weeks’ time.
“I don’t like to boast,” Madame LeFever said in a conspiratorial tone, “but because of my, shall we say, connections , the gown you are wearing is quite similar to that which will be worn by Princess Maude of Great Britain for her wedding, mere days before your own.” The dressmaker looked smug. “You will be in the height of fashion, I can assure you.”
Lia was standing on a bench having her hem pinned when the door opened and her sister Emmaline Grace entered the room. Emma was twenty-nine years old and a stunning, golden-haired version of their mother—a sharp contrast to Lia, who, like her
Her father, dressed impeccably as always, began to pace the room. He was an elegant, small-statured man with dark hair and a substantial mustache, now infused with gray. He rarely raised his voice to either his servants or his daughters, but everyone who knew Richard Monmouth Bennett sensed immediately where they stood in relation to him, which could usually be described as “beneath.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, your sister is already married,” he said. “And even if she weren’t, young George is the last of his line and needs an heir. Emma isn’t capable of providing such, and you are therefore elected to take her place.”
An incipient feeling of despair began its familiar journey from the pit of her stomach up into her throat. She already knew every step in this choreography, but for reasons she didn’t understand, she felt powerless to change the routine. Yet she tried. She always tried.
“Father, doesn’t it matter to you that I don’t love George and that he doesn’t love me?”
“What do you know of love?” Her father practically spat the words. “You are, what, twenty-two? You have no idea what that word means in its deepest, most spiritual, most heavenly sense. And trust me, you do not want to know, for when you lose that love, it is a pain that defies description.”
As if he had struck her, Lia felt the blow. “I know you loved Mama dearly,” she said.
Her father glared at her. “Beyond measure,” he said. “And when Catherine died, a very large part of me, the very best part of me, died with her. You were, I’m sorry to say, inadequate compensation.”
Lia looked down at her charcoal-stained fingers. The sense of shame never lessened. “I know I could never replace her, but—”
“Your mother was a saint, and there was only one thing she ever asked for. You know what that was, don’t you?”
Lia nodded. “To see our family joined with the Powells…but with Emma and George, Father, not with me.”
“Enough,” her father ordered. “The situation…was such that Emma needed to help the family by marrying Hiram. She did her duty, and now you will do yours.” He pinned Lia’s violet eyes with his own dark orbs and delivered the coup de gr â ce. “You owe this to your mother. It’s the least you can do.”
The conversation ended where it always did, with Lia turning silent. Her father left the room, but before exiting he turned to deliver one more directive. “Madame LeFever and your sister will be here at six o’clock this evening. You will be ready and cooperative when they arrive.”
The generously proportioned, heavily made-up Madame LeFever arrived at the appointed hour and was shown to Lia’s upstairs sitting room. “I am gratified you were able to reschedule your appointment,” the modiste sniffed. Two female assistants trailed in her wake carrying tailoring supplies and two oversized garment bags. Lia said nothing as the assistants bustled about, helping her to undress and try on the dramatic embroidered silk wedding gown that she was to wear in two weeks’ time.
“I don’t like to boast,” Madame LeFever said in a conspiratorial tone, “but because of my, shall we say, connections , the gown you are wearing is quite similar to that which will be worn by Princess Maude of Great Britain for her wedding, mere days before your own.” The dressmaker looked smug. “You will be in the height of fashion, I can assure you.”
Lia was standing on a bench having her hem pinned when the door opened and her sister Emmaline Grace entered the room. Emma was twenty-nine years old and a stunning, golden-haired version of their mother—a sharp contrast to Lia, who, like her
Similar Books
