“Oh, yes,” Seline said, dry as sand. “No one would expect that of us.”
Once that was done, everyone in the carriage released a long breath and Seleste said, “Is it possible to be crushed to death in two hours?”
“Oh, please. You’re about as wide as a twig,” Sesily said. “It’s impossible to squash you. Push over.”
“There. Is. No. Room!” Seleste protested.
Sesily sighed. “Need I remind you what happens when I am not comfortable in a carriage?”
A collective groan rose from the rest of the occupants, and Sera laughed. “That was the second reason why she couldn’t sit on the floor.”
“If you vomit upon me . . .” Seleste warned.
“I’m simply saying that you would do well to remember that your kindness could mean the difference in trajectory. And with Sophie with child . . . one never knows what might sympathetically follow my own unfortunate projection.”
Seline wrinkled her nose and looked to Sophie. “Don’t you dare.”
Sophie shrugged, a twinkle in her eyes, her fan flying through the air. “One does never know.”
Seleste groaned. “Remind me again why we are all in this carriage when we all have husbands and carriages of our own?”
When Sophie, Seline, and Sesily spoke, it was in unison. “For Sera.”
Seleste nodded and sighed. “The things we do for sisters.”
Sera looked to the window, unable to speak for the knot that formed in her throat at the words. She had been gone for three years. She’d left without a word, without stopping to tell her family—whom she had always loved beyond reason—what had happened. She’d dashed a note through her tears on the Bristol docks, telling them only, She did not live. I’m for America.
And once in Boston, she had not written, too afraid of what setting pen to paper might release. Sorrow. Grief. Regret. She’d stayed away, and they’d lived their lives. But when she’d returned, they had not hesitated. They’d resumed their loyal devotion, as though she’d never left.
Even though she’d missed so much. Two marriages. Four children. Birthdays and balls and scandals and so much that seemed at once less important and infinitely more. Her chest tight with emotion, Sera inhaled sharply in the silent carriage, nothing but the clattering wheels on the cobblestones to cover the sound.
Sophie leaned forward, reaching across to place her hand on Sera’s skirts. “Sera.”
Sera shook her head, unable to find words.
“You needn’t say anything,” she said. “We are beside you.”
Sera looked to her sister, the one she remembered holding as a baby. Dear Sophie, who had always been the quiet one. The unassuming one. Out of place. Except never unassuming. When it came time to show loyalty, it was Sophie who was always willing to fight.
It had been Sophie who had pushed Haven directly onto his ass in a fishpond when they’d happened upon him at a garden party with another woman. Believing Sera had betrayed him. Believing she had lied, and not only in omission.
It had been Sophie who defended her, even as she had not defended herself.
The actions had ruined Sophie’s reputation summarily. One did not strike a duke without repercussions—not even a duke to whom you were related. And still, her sister had not hesitated.
And truthfully, the image of Haven waist-deep in a fishpond was not unwelcome on Sera’s darkest nights.
But Sophie was wrong. Sera did have to speak now. If only to say, “I am very happy to be . . .” She trailed off, uncertain of the end of the sentence. It had seemed possible that she might finish with home.
Certainly, a scene such as this, crowded into a carriage with her sisters—who had once known her best in the world—had been home. But things had changed. And then there had been a time—fleeting and disastrous—when home had been wherever Haven was. And then there had been the hope of home again, lost with the child that had been so full of promise. Now, the truth—home was a strange, ephemeral thing. Was it possible that no one ever honestly knew its embrace?
No. Home wasn’t what made her happy in that moment.
She forced a smile. Looked at each of her sisters in turn. “I am very happy to be with you.”
That much was the truth. Even as they trundled toward Highley, where she would match her husband to another. As though it were a perfectly ordinary thing for a wife to find her replacement. As though it did not sting that he had clearly been planning to replace her all along.
Not that it should matter. And it didn’t. Not really. It was just pride.
That was it.
She looked to the window again.
“So . . .” Sesily began, and Sera prepared for the question, knowing that she had no doubt unlocked a deluge of them. And it was only fair, was it not? They were here, piled into a carriage with virtually no information about whys and wherefores, simply because she had asked. Certainly they deserved some answers.
She looked to Sesily who, of course, was the first to leap into the breach. Sesily had never in her life kept quiet when there was something important to be said. “Yes?”
“Is Caleb very handsome?”
There was a beat as the question fell into the carriage, surprising everyone. Seleste grinned. “You’ve finished with the men of England, then? On to America?”
“I’m not unwilling to consider the possibility.”
“Mother will go mad if you marry an American!” Sophie said. “Remember how furious she was when Seline married ‘that horse breeder’?”
“First,” came Seline’s exasperated reply, “Mark is not just any horse breeder. He’s richer than half the aristocracy.”
“Which means virtually nothing,” Sesily interjected. “Everyone knows half the aristocracy are poor as church mice.”
“Second . . .” Seline pressed on, “Mother knows better than to interject herself into another marriage. It hasn’t gone terribly well in the past. We’re headed to the country to secure Sera a divorce, for God’s sake.” It was difficult to argue that. “Which brings me to third, Mother will be thrilled beyond words to see Sesily married to anyone. Even a barkeep. From America.” The last was said the way one might pronounce a dread disease. Plague. Or leprosy.
“Not a barkeep, per se,” Sera said, softly.
They all heard her nonetheless, Sesily’s wide grin, the only indication that they were eager for her input. “Which brings me back to the important question at hand.”
Seline spoke at the same time. “Pub owner, then.”
“We prefer tavern,” Sera said.
Sophie shot forward again. “We.” She looked at the others. “She said we.”
“Bollocks,” Sesily said, reaching for the narrowly cracked window at the side of the coach and pushing it open as far as it would go—unfortunately, not far enough to move the air in the conveyance. “I suppose the more important question is not whether Mr. Calhoun is handsome, but rather if he is claimed.”
Sera shook her head. “He is not.”
“Handsome?” Sesily teased. “Pity.”
“Claimed.” Sera laughed, enjoying the feeling, rare and welcome. “He’s quite handsome, as a matter of fact.”