One Moonlit Night (Moonlight Square: A Prequel Novella) (15 page)

After supper, all four of her sisters present got to work helping third-born Martha move out of the bedchamber she had shared with fourth-born Gwendolyn since toddlerhood. By order of precedence, Martha had been awarded Abigail’s former room.

Betsy was still a little bitter about having lost out, since she often got her way through sheer willpower. But the youngest, Jane, was determined to be helpful. “Don’t worry, Bets. If anyone ever
does
want to marry Trinny, you can have
her
room. Not that we’re trying to get rid of you, Trin.”

She laughed. “Of course not. I’m not going anywhere,” she teased. Then the girls stampeded upstairs to get the move over with.

Even with the help of a couple servants, it was sure to be a tedious job, for Martha tended to be highly particular about how her things had to be arranged. She was a little obsessed with neatness and quite hated dust.

Trinny watched them all go clomping off, making no move to follow. Though it was the usual—or at least, self-appointed—task of the eldest to take charge and supervise such projects, she needed time alone. She was still too raw emotionally to join in the madness and inevitable chaos of the great move.

Instead, she made use of the last golden rays of sunset pouring into the drawing room to finally sit down and start working on her hats. Determined to create something of sufficient taste and gentility that would impress even the most fashionable milliners of London, she laid out all her supplies on the drawing room table.

She had purchased three plain bonnets and a variety of ribbons, beads, nice braiding, some lace and silk flowers, and even a little artificial bird that she was just dying to pin on the front of some hat, though she feared that might be her own eccentric taste tempting her a bit too far.
What woman really wants a bird on her head?
she wondered.

Nevertheless, merely taking out her wicker head form, her craft glue, and her almighty pincushion cheered her up considerably.
This is going to be fun,
she told herself.

But even still, she could not focus. Maybe it was just her sisters’ elephantine footsteps and the bellows of normal family life coming from upstairs that made it difficult to concentrate. Plus, the artificial bird was staring at her with its beady little eyes. She turned it around, then tried again.

Right
. Determined to keep her mind distracted with any topic that wasn’t Gable, she started draping various types of ribbon around the first bonnet’s crown, trying this and that without committing to anything yet.

After all, she had the entire night to decide.

And the night after that.

And the night after that…

She swallowed hard as another tremor of dread shook through her. For one terrified heartbeat, she stared unseeingly at the array of colorful fripperies before her, while the clock’s tick-tock boomed in the relative quiet of the drawing room, and the long, empty evening stretched out before her.

Well, she’d better get used to it. Find a way to fill the time. Find a way not to die of loneliness. How was it even possible to miss someone you had only known for a few weeks?

She shoved Lord Sweet Cheeks out of her mind with a will, resolved to make him once again the stranger that he used to be to her. She even refused to acknowledge that it was the night of the lunar eclipse he’d mentioned. It had said so in the paper.

She refused to think of him setting his telescope up on his roof across the street, watching the moon disappear into blackness and then return again.

If he even remembered. If he wasn’t already lost in dissipation this evening with his handsome rakehell friends…

Get out of my head, you bounder!

“Ahem.” She shook off thoughts of him, took a deep breath, and then decided to pin the blue ribbon around the crown of the first bonnet. A boring choice, maybe, but that shade of cornflower blue would be flattering to nearly anyone, and besides, this was just the first step.

At least it was a start.

She had better come up with something brilliant soon, she mused, since she had staked her future on this. It was supposed to satisfy her for a long time to come, after all, and even earn her a little genteel income. But her heart kept asking,
Is this all there is?

She suddenly jabbed her finger with a pin and let out a yelp of pain.

She dropped the hat—pins, ribbon, and all—and immediately looked at the red dot on her fingertip, her eyes smarting. And then, out of all proportion to the tiny wound, real tears filled her eyes.
Even the hats hate me.

Oh, not again!
she thought in annoyance. Good God, she had been a watering pot of late. She had managed to hide it from her family so far, refusing to let them hear her weep or see her mope, but at that moment, with her tears falling on her fripperies, Betsy and Jane came tromping into the room.

“I’m not helping her if all she’s going to do is yell at me! How am I supposed to know what shelf Martha wants her stupid Wedgwood figurines to go on?”

“At least she wasn’t giving you all the heaviest boxes—”

The bickering stopped abruptly.

The two youngest Glendon girls froze at the sight of their eldest sister bawling like a cake head over a bunch of hats.

They looked at each other in distress, and then gaped at her again.

“What’s wrong?” Betsy demanded in her blunt way.

“What do you think?” Jane whispered at her in annoyance.

“I’m fine,” Trinny sobbed out. “Please go away.”

“No,” her sisters said in unison.

Trinny cast about for something to dry her eyes with, but all she had was her sleeve. It was pointless, anyway. Now that she had started, she couldn’t stop crying. It was dreadful.

She hated that her little sisters were seeing her like this. They were but children, and the eldest was supposed to be a pillar of strength.

They crept over uncertainly to her, one on either side.

“What’s wrong?” Jane asked, laying a hand on Trinny’s shoulder.

“You’d better tell us or we’ll go and get Mama,” Bets threatened.

“Don’t…” They were too young to understand the subtleties of her foolish heart, no doubt, but Trinny was too burdened to hold back her grief anymore. She couldn’t hold back. “It’s just, I see it now—what I did wrong.”

They sat down slowly on either side of her as the awful words escaped her in a whisper of blazing anguish.

“I’m not a quiz, I’m a coward. He was right.”

“Who was right?” Betsy asked.

She didn’t answer that, charging on in a strangled whisper. “I sabotaged myself at every turn. All my p-possible matches. I pushed them all away. And now here I am.”

Jane tilted her head, gazing at her. “Didn’t you like any of your suitors?”

“Some of them weren’t so bad! And one,” she choked out, “was wonderful. But I drove him away just like all the others. Because he’s the one that scared me the most.”

The girls stared at her somberly.

“What do you mean, scared you?” Bets asked, sneaking a glance around and keeping her voice down. “Did he try to, you know…take liberties?”

“No, nothing like that,” Trinny said, shaking her head.

“Then what were you afraid of?” Jane persisted in concern.

“Honestly, I don’t even know now. I-I guess I was afraid of getting hurt, because, deep down, I didn’t really think I was good enough for him,” she breathed, trembling. “That it was a fluke that he ever noticed me in the first place and his interest would soon pass. So rather than risk getting hurt, I pushed him away before he got a chance to reject
me
. And now look at me! I brought the thing I feared upon myself.”

The girls gazed at her for a long moment.

“Well, you still have us, Trinny,” Jane said softly. “We’re your sisters, and we’ll always love you.”

Bets gave a solemn nod. “Even if you are an odd duck.”

With that, both girls hugged her, and Trinny cried harder, but only for a bit.

At length, comforted by their sweetness, she managed to regain at least some of her composure. “Thank you,” she said with a sniffle. “Would one of you dear things please fetch me a handkerchief?”

Headstrong Bets must have been sitting there longing to flee the drama, for she jumped up at once and dashed off to carry out this request without so much as a put-upon eye roll.

Jane patted Trinny’s shoulder again, frowning with concern, waiting with her for Betsy to bring back the handkerchief. Once she did so, Trinny blew her nose and wiped away her tears.

Her sisters then endeavored to make her smile and had changed the subject to something inane when Papa happened to walk by the open doorway.

“Oh, there you are,” he said, and came back.

As he walked in, the earl’s watchful gaze skimmed his eldest daughter’s face, probably noting the messy, telltale signs of recent tears—swollen eyes, red nose, and general beaten-up air—but he did not address it.

Nor did he look surprised.

She cleared her throat and tried to act natural. “Was there something you wanted, Papa?”

“Actually, a courier just delivered this for you.” He came toward her carrying a small letter. “I think it’s an invitation of some sort.”

Before handing it to her, he bent down and gave her a kiss on her temple. “And my dear?” he whispered. “You have my permission to accept.”

With that, Papa handed her the missive, tugged affectionately on a lock of Jane’s hair, then walked out.

The youngest skipped out after him. “Papa, did you know Mrs. Faber’s cat had kittens? They’re
so
cute
!”

“The answer is no, and you should be getting ready for bed,” he said, but Jane persisted, pleading as only the baby of the family could plead, the two of them vanishing down the hallway.

“Who’s it from?” Bets asked, nodding at the letter.

Trinny furrowed her brow. “It doesn’t say. Lady Delphine asked me if I wanted to join her book club. I think it meets tomorrow. But I don’t see why Papa would make a point of giving me permission to go to that…”

She cracked the seal and unfolded the little letter. The message was very short.

Meet me at the gazebo at ten tonight. We need to talk. Please.

Roland

Trinny gasped, jolted, and her fingers flew to her lips.

“Well?” Betsy demanded.

“Er, I was right. Just the book club,” she forced out, barely able to speak.

Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Then why do you look like you’re going to faint?”

“B-because she says we’ll be reading Lord Byron.”

“Ohhh. Maybe I’ll tell Mama!”

“Elizabeth Anne!”

“Just teasing. Oh, Lord Byron, you’re so wicked!” she mimicked as she flounced off making kissing noises and trying to taunt a reaction out of her eldest sister.

Trinny waited until the little menace had gone, holding the letter flat against her chest.

She did not need an overly curious fifteen-year-old nosing in when her world was suddenly spinning out of control. After all, maybe she had read it wrong. Maybe her eyes had deceived her from all her wishful thinking…

Hoping against hope, she peeled the letter back from her chest and warily peeked at it again, then gulped. What did he want to tell her? Was it good news or bad?

Did he want to reconcile or merely see the look on her face when he informed her that he’d pledged himself to another girl from his father’s bride list?

The question shook her.

Still bewildered by her father’s cryptic comment, her mind was in too much of a whirl to think clearly about it. She didn’t trust herself in this state to figure it out until she heard the truth from Gable himself. She must not jump to conclusions. Her heart could not stand to be wrong on this point.

And she dared not be late. If she didn’t appear on time, he might get angry all over again and leave.

Then she glanced at the clock and nearly shrieked to see that the appointed time for their rendezvous was only fifteen minutes away…and she still looked a wreck from crying.

She leaped up and flew out of the drawing room, leaving all her hats and supplies where they lay. She pounded up the stairs and pushed past the stream of her sisters and servants trudging back and forth between the two bedchambers with all of Martha’s things.

“Excuse me!”

“You could help us!” Gwendolyn called in reproach.

“No time!” Rushing into her own chamber, Trinny shut the door behind her and seized upon the task of trying to make herself look presentable.

Crossing to the chest of drawers, she let out a yowl of horror when she saw her reflection in the mirror above it. She looked like a blubbering, red-nosed dud. And Gable was sure to be his usual calm, unflappably cool, and deliciously gorgeous self.

“Just perfect!” she hissed at her reflection as she poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin. Angrily splashing water on her face, she freshened her mouth, and, as an afterthought, changed out of her staid, spinsterish day gown into a pale muslin frock that was a little more lively and a bit lower cut.