Page 15 of His Duchess of Scandal
“Not to mention that Aunt Patricia is horrid and cruel!” Alicia cried. “When she visited, she forced me to rise at dawn for four hours of pianoforte practice and supervised every task like I was a servant.”
“Stop it now, all of you,” their mother ordered. “Our decision has been made. We cannot endure the humiliation any further. For the three of you to have a fighting chance at securing respectable matches, Hermia must leave. Tomorrow, we will plan your departure.”
With one last scathing glare, the Earl and Countess left the parlor, leaving Hermia to finally sink to the floor, shaking from both shame and fury.
Her sisters pulled her towards the settee, fussing over her like they might hold her together.
“They’re being hysterical, honestly. This is a grossly exaggerated reaction,” Isabella said through clenched teeth.
Alicia paced restlessly, her hands clenched into fists. “A woman’s life should never hinge on the idiocy of a man! It’s madness to think otherwise.”
Sibyl stayed close to Hermia, her voice trembling as she whispered, “It’s all so unfair…”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she clung to her tighter, as if refusing to let go might keep the sorrow at bay.
“I will write to you all every day,” Hermia found herself saying, her voice flat. “I am certain it will be fine, and Mother and Father always invite Aunt Patricia for the holidays. I can visit then. What matters to me is that you find good matches.”
Deep down, she ached. She hated that her sisters were put in this position, but she had not had a hand in it. It was not her fault that a man had decided to ruin her life. A man she had never met!
Ice-cold dread slithered through her muscles, making her freeze. She combed through Sibyl’s hair absentmindedly. She wished she had been gentler with Alicia, listened to her more. She wished she had fought with Isabella a little less and complimented her wit.
“Our parents will not allow us to write to you,” Isabella huffed. “You know what they will do. They want you forgotten; we will not be allowed to associate with you at all. After tomorrow, you will be gone, scrubbed from our family like a…”
Like a stain. An unwanted spill that left too great a mark to ever truly go away.
Hermia clutched Sibyl tighter, needing the comfort as much as she had to give it.
She held back her tears, as she had always done, for her sisters’ sake.
Wickleby Hall was silent that evening as Hermia crept down the main staircase in the darkness.
The scent of the wine her mother had accidentally spilled at dinner still lingered in the air, sweet and expensive, and she had cried, saying she was enduring too much.
Hermia had kept silent at the table, her head bowed, a plan forming in her mind that she did not dare reveal.
Now, she held her cloak around her, keeping it safely pinned at her throat.
Sneaking down the main corridor, she passed the open ground-floor library, where her father kept the antiques that didn’t fit into his study. Inside, a candle flickered, and she tried not to hesitate or stop out of curiosity.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked beneath her feet, and she froze.
Isabella emerged from the doorway, her eyes red and tired. A book hung loosely from her fingers. Her eyes fell on Hermia’s cloak, narrowing in suspicion.
“Where are you going?” Her voice was quiet, as if she understood not to be antagonistic or alert anybody.
“I have to fix this mess,” Hermia whispered. “I am riding to London.”
For a moment, her sister’s eyes widened in surprise.
In this light, Isabella looked so young. Hermia often forgot her sister was only eight-and-ten, old enough to debut, but still so much younger than her. But now, she had to resist the urge to slow down and embrace her.
She refused to leave England.
She refused to let her sisters suffer because of this.
“I will return before dawn,” she promised.
To her surprise, Isabella only nodded. “I will distract Mother and Father in the morning, should they wake up before you return.”
