Sage’s fingers curled around a fold in her dress. She’d once asked Father if he was disappointed his only child was a daughter, and he had looked her in the eye and said, Never. “Without girls, there would be no more boys.”
“There’s no denying that,” the matchmaker snapped. “But in giving your husband no heir, you fail.”
The last two words felt like they were meant for the present moment: you fail. What had possessed her to abandon the proper responses? Her mind scrambled to repair the damage, but nothing that wasn’t both honest and insulting would come to her lips.
“Should you produce no heir after a time, will you stand aside for one who can?”
What would Father say to that? Sage looked at the floor and inhaled slowly to calm the tremor in her voice. “I…”
The matchmaker continued, “When you have a husband, Sage Broadmoor, you must endeavor to create more honor than you bring to the marriage.”
Something inside Sage snapped when she heard that again—they were changing her name, like she should be ashamed of who she was. “Fowler,” she said. “My father’s name was Fowler, and so is mine.”
A look of disdain crossed Mistress Rodelle’s face. “You cannot expect to be accepted with such a name. ‘Sage Broadmoor’ sounds like a bastard, but ‘Sage Fowler’ sounds like a commoner’s bastard.”
“It is the name my parents gave me.” Sage quivered with resentment. “They valued it, and so shall I.”
The matchmaker’s words lashed out like a whip. “No man of breeding would value such a name above the filth of a common whore.”
Sage leapt to her feet, lightning flashing through her veins. Mistress Rodelle’s thoughts were laid bare. And Sage had submitted to this, betraying everything her parents had suffered at the hands of people like her. “I would rather be a whore than the wife of a man of such breeding.” Her voice pitched higher with every word. “Your name speaks of the same breeding, and I want no part of it!”
A palpable silence hung in the air.
“I think we are finished.” The matchmaker’s voice was so calm, Sage wanted to rake her painted nails across the woman’s face. Instead she tripped across the rug and flung the door open. Aunt Braelaura froze in her pacing next to the wagon. When her eyes met Sage’s, they widened in horror.
Sage hiked her skirt up to her knees and ran down the steps and across the street, stomping so hard her shoes were sucked off her feet into the mud. As she passed her aunt, collecting stones and muck on her stockings, she heard the matchmaker call out from the door in a voice everyone in the village could surely hear.
“Lady Broadmoor. You may tell your husband I will return the deposit on your niece. There is nothing I can do for her.”
As the driver scrambled to help Braelaura climb up and then turned the wagon to the road, Sage marched out of the village without looking back.
4
SAGE CREPT INTO Garland Hill in the early morning light two days later, wearing breeches and her father’s faded leather jacket. Uncle William had been so stunned by her disastrous interview that he hadn’t raged or yelled as she had expected, just dismissed her from his presence. Until he felt ready to deal with her, Sage had a narrow timeframe to decide her own fate by finding work. Yesterday’s inquiries in Broadmoor Village had yielded nothing, and asking around Garland Hill would probably be just as fruitless, but it was the only other place within a day’s walk. She’d also come to a very difficult realization.
Her tantrum could very well affect the matching prospects of her younger cousins, and Aster already started at a disadvantage. After tossing and turning all last night, Sage knew what she had to do.
She had to apologize.
So now she stared at the bell outside the matchmaker’s home as the village stirred around her. There were noises coming from behind the house, and she slipped down the alley and saw movement in the kitchen window. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the back door just loud enough to be heard.
Mistress Rodelle peered with one eye through the crack before fully unlatching the door. She wore no face paint at this hour, and her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a loose braid that draped over the shoulder of her plain wool dress. “You’ve come back, eh?” she grunted. “Thought of some better insults?”
Sage had been ready to identify herself, but it now appeared unnecessary. “Y-you know it’s me?” she stammered.
“Of course it’s you.” The matchmaker scowled. “I know what you look like without your face caked and your figure padded. Do you think my evaluation begins when you ring my bell? What is it you want?”
Sage lifted her chin. “I would speak with you, please, woman to woman.”
Mistress Rodelle snorted. “Where is the other woman, then? I see only a proud, spoiled girl-child on my step.”
The insult rolled off Sage’s back. Nothing said today could make things any worse, which was an odd kind of comfort. She held herself still until the matchmaker opened the door wider to let her in.
“Very well,” Mistress Rodelle said. “Come in and say your piece.”
Sage stepped past her into the surprisingly bright kitchen. The walls were a soft yellow color, and the wooden floor and table shone with polish. A cheerful fire crackled in the iron stove in the corner, on which a pot of tea steeped, pouring its minty steam into the air. Two teacups sat nearby, making Sage think the woman was expecting company, so she ought to hurry this conversation along. The matchmaker directed her to a wooden chair against the table in the center of the room and took the seat opposite. Sage studied the grain of the smooth oak planks for several seconds before clearing her throat.
“I’ve come to apologize, mistress. My words and actions were rude and disrespectful, and I wholeheartedly regret them and any pain they have caused you.”
The matchmaker folded her fat arms over her chest. “Do you expect that heartfelt apology to change anything?”
“No.” Sage worked her jaw a few times. “I don’t expect it will.”
“Then why bother making it?”
The embers in Sage’s soul flared. “You see, the way this works is, I say I’m sorry for the horrible things I said, and then you say you’re sorry for the horrible things you said. Then we smile and pretend we believe each other.”
Mistress Rodelle’s eyes sparkled with amusement, though her expression remained grim. “You presume to come into my house and lecture me on manners, girl?”
“I presume nothing. But I’ve made my effort, and I wait patiently for yours.”
“You are on the wrong path.” Again the woman’s eyes didn’t match her harsh tone.
Sage shrugged. “I have every right to ruin my own life.” She twisted her mouth in a crooked smile. “Some might even say I have the inclination. But my actions are my own, not a reflection of the Broadmoor family. I’d like to trust my cousins will not suffer for my mistakes.”