Page 33 of The Damsel
“How wonderful,” she managed.
“Would you like to see the design? I’ve got the plate right—”
“As if such a thing would ever interest your sister,” the duchess cut in with a huff. “Honestly, Ophelia, you know how little Cassandra cares for fashion.”
This, she said while giving Cassandra’s carriage dress a critical gaze.
“Or anything having to do with her appearance,” Pandora murmured under her breath without glancing up from her letter.
Amaryllis giggled, head still lowered over her embroidery.
Cassandra stared back at the dowager, who seemed quite proud of her little barb, while Ophelia sat staring at both mother and sister with wide-eyed fascination. Her youngest sister did not possess as much venom as Pandora and Amaryllis, but was not without her own capacity for cattiness. It would only grow worse once she’d been introduced to theton, taking on all those undesirable traits that left Cassandra at a loss for female friends. She hadn’t had very many to begin with, but after her public humiliation, even her fellow wallflowers had abandoned her to stand on the outskirts of every soiree she dared to attend alone.
“I’m sure you will look quite lovely, Ophelia,” she said without looking away from her mother’s piercing stare. “Of course you will have to forgive me for missing your presentation and coming out. But I am certain you’ll have a wonderful time.”
The dowager raised an eyebrow. “It is good of you to admit that your presence would be an unnecessary distraction at such an important event. By the time we reach Ophelia’s presentation, the talk ought to have died down completely. We wouldn’t want to do anything to resurrect it and overshadow your sister’s first Season.”
Cassandra gritted her teeth. She’d thought enough time had passed that it would stop hurting for her mother to care only about the impact of all this on her sisters. No one had ever cared about her anguish or her fears. No one had fought for her, so she’d been forced to fight for herself.
“While I can hardly control what thetonchooses to concern themselves with or gossip about, I can choose not to appear where I am not wanted.”
“You were hardly wanted to begin with,” Pandora muttered, this time daring a glance in her direction.
Cassandra met her sister’s stare, her jaw aching now from the strength it took to keep from blurting out every foul epithet on the tip of her tongue. That would only paint her as the villain, and her mother would have yet another reason to deride her.
Lifting her chin, she gave Pandora a sly smirk. “I can confess to not knowing how it feels to be as wanted asyouare, sister. Your husband, your friends … the string of paramours you collect like flowers from a meadow. How … popular you’ve become over the years.”
Pandora gasped, while Ophelia choked on air and Amaryllis snickered into her embroidery. The dowager scowled, looking as if she wished to deliver a scathing set down. But, to do so would give credence to the fact that Pandora had wasted no time taking on a string of lovers after providing her husband with his heir. The girl wasn’t as discreet as she thought, and there were whispers aplenty about her. The hypocrisy of it all annoyed Cassandra to no end. Pandora was universally adored despite her escapades due to her status as an earl’s wife, daughter of a duke, and the beauty that would allow her to get away with murder.
Turning to Amaryllis, who smirked in amusement while staring back and forth between her and Pandora, Cassandra snorted.
“How fares the viscount, Amaryllis?” she asked, not bothering the temper the sharpness of her tone. “I hear he’s been seen about town quite often with that woman—an opera singer, is she not? Oh, but you should not worry. She isn’tthatbeautiful, and despite what the rumors say her bosom isn’t really so exceptional.”
Amaryllis gaped like a fish plucked from a stream, her eyes widening as Cassandra’s jab struck true. Across the room, the dowager made a low sound of disapproval, while Pandora shook her head and murmured something about Cassandra being ‘an insufferable ingrate’. Ophelia flushed and pinched her lips together, and Cassandra couldn’t determine whether her sister wanted to giggle or utter something in Amaryllis’ defense.
The chiming of the long-case clock echoed through the cracked door of the drawing room, proclaiming the hour to be near three in the afternoon. Rising from her chair, Cassandra smoothed her hands over her skirts.
“Well, that was a lovely visit, wasn’t it? I regret to take my leave now, but I have a friend I must call upon today. Shall I see you all at dinner?”
Without waiting for a response, she spun and made for the door, unable to help a little smile as she breezed into the corridor. As she approached the staircase, she heard Amaryllis’ voice floating out behind her.
“As if the little witch has any friends.”
“Now, now, Amaryllis,” the dowager chided. “Let us not stoop to such levels of ill-mannered behavior. If she wants to …”
Her mother’s voice faded completely as Cassandra threw open the front door and rushed down the front steps. She was so grateful to be free of the house that she didn’t bother going back inside for her pelisse. It had likely been stored in her room along with the other items she’d brought from Suffolk. Lila would be busy hanging things up, airing things out, and doing her best to make Cassandra feel at home in what used to be her bedchamber. Despite the maid’s efforts, Cassandra would never feel at home within the walls of Penrose House ever again. Truly, she hadn’t felt she belonged since the death of her father, who hadn’t favored one daughter over the other.
Had he stilled lived five years ago, he would have been her ally instead of a tormentor twisting the knife in an already festering wound. If she’d come to him in tears with virgin’s blood staining her gown and her full account of what a young lord had done to her in the back of a carriage, he wouldn’t have asked Cassandra what she’d done to bring the attack upon herself. She wouldn’t have been chided for allowing herself to be alone with a male suitor, or berated for crying over something that had been, according to the dowager, entirely her fault. When the duke went to confront Bertram’s father about the incident, he would never have accepted a bank draft in exchange for his silence, nor would he have told Cassandra it was the best a girl of her plain looks ought to expect.
He would have pressed for charges to be brought against Bertram himself—if he could have kept himself from beating the young lord half to death, that is. He would never have allowed thetonto treat her poorly, would have given the cut direct to anyone who dared.
The current Duke of Penrose had been kind, doing everything he could to help ease her way ever since knowledge of Bertram’s misdeeds had become common knowledge. But, despite the title and all its power and influence, he wielded it with none of her father’s command or ruthlessness. He concerned himself too much with appearances, just like her mother, and there was only so much he would do to help her.
Papa, how I miss you.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she picked up the pace—partly to reach her destination faster, and partly to outrun the unpleasant thoughts of what life without her father had meant for her. It had hurt, losing him two years before her own coming out. Being without the man who had served as her confidant and champion when she’d needed him most had only exacerbated that pain.
She liked to think he would understand what she’d been forced to become, the mantle she had taken up as a defender of people who had no one to fight for them. If the duke would have used his influence to help those who needed it, then she could engage the tools in her own arsenal to do the same. Perhaps he would disagree with her methods, but in the end he would understand that there was simply no other way.
