Part 3 (1/2)

”I think it's divine that Honoria asked you to be the maid of honor,” Frances gushed. ”It's so romantic. Maybe you can write a scene like this in your play, Harriet.”

”That's a good idea,” Harriet replied. ”I could introduce a new character. I'll have her look just like Sarah.”

Sarah didn't even bother to turn in her direction. ”Please don't.”

”No, it will be great fun,” Harriet insisted. ”A special little tidbit just for the three of us.”

”There are four of us,” Elizabeth said.

”Oh, right. Sorry, I think I was forgetting Sarah, actually.”

Sarah deemed this unworthy of comment, but she did curl her lip.

”My point,” Harriet continued, ”is that we will always remember that we were right here together when we thought of it.”

”You could make her look like me,” Frances said hopefully.

”No, no,” Harriet said, waving her off. ”It's too late to change now. I've already got it fixed in my head. The new character must look like Sarah. Let me see . . .” She started scribbling madly. ”Thick, dark hair with just the slightest tendency to curl.”

”Dark, bottomless eyes,” Frances put in breathlessly. ”They must be bottomless.”

”With a hint of madness,” Elizabeth said.

Sarah whipped around to face her.

”I'm just doing my part,” Elizabeth demurred. ”And I certainly see that hint of madness now.”

”I should think so,” Sarah retorted.

”Not too tall, not too short,” Harriet said, still writing.

Elizabeth grinned and joined in the singsong. ”Not too thin, not too fat.”

”Oh oh oh, I have one!” Frances exclaimed, practically bouncing along the sofa. ”Not too pink, not too green.”

That stopped the conversation cold. ”I beg your pardon?” Sarah finally managed.

”You don't embarra.s.s easily,” Frances explained, ”so you very rarely blush. And I've only ever seen you cast up your accounts once, and that was when we all had that bad fish in Brighton.”

”Hence the green,” Harriet said approvingly. ”Well done, Frances. That's very clever. People really do turn greenish when they are queasy. I wonder why that is.”

”Bile,” Elizabeth said.

”Must we have this conversation?” Sarah wondered.

”I don't see why you're in such a bad mood,” Harriet said.

”I'm not in a bad mood.”

”You're not in a good mood.”

Sarah did not bother to contradict.

”If I were you,” Harriet said, ”I would be walking on air. You get to walk down the aisle.”

”I know.” Sarah flopped back onto the sofa, the wail of her final syllable apparently too strong for her to remain upright.

Frances stood and came over to her side, peering down over the sofa back. ”Don't you want to walk down the aisle?” She looked a bit like a concerned little sparrow, her head tilting to one side and then the other with sharp little birdlike movements.

”Not particularly,” Sarah replied. At least, not unless it was at her own wedding. But it was difficult to talk to her sisters about this; there was such a gap in their ages, and there were some things one could not share with an eleven-year-old.

Their mother had lost three babies between Sarah and Harriet-two as miscarriages and one when Sarah's younger brother, the only boy to have been born to Lord and Lady Pleinsworth, died in his cradle before he was three months old. Sarah was sure that her parents were disappointed not to have a living son, but to their credit, they never complained. When they mentioned the t.i.tle going to Sarah's cousin William, they did not grumble. They just seemed to accept it as the way it was. There had been some talk of Sarah marrying William, to keep things ”neat and tidy and all in the family” (as her mother had put it), but William was three years younger than Sarah. At eighteen, he'd only just started at Oxford, and he surely wasn't going to marry within the next five years.

And there was not a chance that Sarah was going to wait five years. Not an inch of a chance. Not a fraction of a fraction of an inch of a- ”Sarah!”

She looked up. And just in time. Elizabeth appeared to be aiming a volume of poetry in her direction.

”Don't,” Sarah warned.

Elizabeth gave a little frown of disappointment and lowered the book. ”I was asking,” she (apparently) repeated, ”if you knew if all of the guests had arrived.”

”I think so,” Sarah replied, although truthfully she had no idea. ”I really couldn't say about the ones who are staying in the village.” Their cousin Honoria Smythe-Smith was marrying the Earl of Chatteris the following morning. The ceremony was to be held here at Fensmore, the ancestral Chatteris home in northern Cambridges.h.i.+re. But even Lord Chatteris's grand home could not hold all of the guests who were coming up from London; quite a few had been forced to take rooms at the local inns.

As family, the Pleinsworths had been the first to be allotted rooms at Fensmore, and they had arrived nearly a week ahead of time to help with the preparations. Or perhaps more accurately, their mother was helping with the preparations. Sarah had been tasked with the job of keeping her sisters out of trouble.

Which wasn't easy.

Normally, the girls would have been watched over by their governess, allowing Sarah to attend to her duties as Honoria's maid of honor, but as it happened, their (now former) governess was getting married the next fortnight.

To Honoria's brother.

Which meant that once the Chatteris-Smythe-Smith nuptials were completed, Sarah (along with half of London, it seemed) would take to the roads and travel from Fensmore down to Whipple Hill, in Berks.h.i.+re, to attend the wedding of Daniel Smythe-Smith and Miss Anne Wynter. As Daniel was also an earl, it was going to be a huge affair.

Much as Honoria's wedding was going to be a huge affair.

Two huge affairs. Two grand opportunities for Sarah to dance and frolic and be made painfully aware that she was not one of the brides.

She just wanted to get married. Was that so pathetic?

No, she thought, straightening her spine (but not so much that she had to actually sit up), it wasn't. Finding a husband and being a wife was all she'd been trained to do, aside from playing the pianoforte in the infamous Smythe-Smith Quartet.

Which, come to think of it, was part of the reason she was so desperate to be married.

Every year, like clockwork, the four eldest unmarried Smythe-Smith cousins were forced to gather their nonexistent musical talents and play together in a quartet.

And perform.

In front of actual people. Who were not deaf.

It was h.e.l.l. Sarah couldn't think of a better word to describe it. She was fairly certain the appropriate word had not yet been invented.