"Sorry I'm late," Sara said as she unwound her black scarf and shimmied out of her overcoat.
"I only just arrived." Rosalind smiled at her reassuringly. "I'm glad you picked this teahouse. It's adorable."
"My mother loved it here." She nodded in thanks at the waitress who took her coat, tugged her skirt straight, and sat across the table. "I haven't been here in a while."
She felt both sadness and envy-envy because she and her mother had never had proper tea together. "It's difficult planning a wedding without your parents at hand, especially your mother."
"Mum would have loved to see me find someone to love." Sara blinked her eyes a few times, sniffling, and then shook her head. "But you've lost your father, too. You must be sad."
Was she?
Yes. The answer was irrefutable. Only her sadness wasn't that she lost him-it was because she'd never had him to begin with. "My relationship with my father was complicated," she said lightly, smiling at the waitress who came to take their order.
After they asked for a pot of tea and scones, Sara said, "I'm sure your father loved you, even if he showed it materially. He must have left you and your sisters nice inheritances."
The only inheritance Reginald Summerhill would leave his daughters was daddy issues.
Now wasn't the time to have those bitter thoughts. She opened her sketchpad. "We should talk about happy things, like your wedding dress. I drew some initial ideas. They're raw sketches without any details. I wanted to see what sort of shape you'd like before going further."
Sara frowned at the designs.
"If you don't like any of them, I can start over," Rosalind offered.
"No, they're lovely." She hesitated and then said, "I just wonder if they're me."
"If you're thinking of what Nick said about your wardrobe, don't."
She looked down at herself. "I wonder if he wasn't right, though. Is the black awful?"
"What do you do?"
"I'm a solicitor."
"Like Nick." She smiled at the waitress, who set their treats on the table. "You're lucky you have such a close friend in him. Did you two go to school together as well?"
"No." Shaking her head, she lined up her utensils neatly in order before reaching for a scone. "Nick's four years older than me."
Rosalind studied the other woman as she poured their tea. Nick was right-black didn't really suit Sara. "I understand you need to dress conservatively, but you could spice up your wardrobe with splashes of color here and there without compromising too much."
"What do you mean?" Sara asked.
She unwound the scarf from her neck and held it out. "Take this."
"I couldn't possibly. That's your scarf."
"And I'm giving it to you. Our skin tones are similar and the colors will be perfect on you." She nodded her head. "I want you to have it."
Sara took it reluctantly. "You're sure?"
"I wouldn't offer it if I weren't." She watched the woman drape it around her neck. "Lovely. These scones look lovely, too."
"Thank you."
She looked up, surprised by Sara's overly serious tone. She smiled and shrugged. "It's no big deal. I felt like I knew you from the moment we met. But if it helps, think of it as an engagement gift."
Sara lowered her head, playing with the handle on her teacup, obviously touched.
Rosalind sipped her tea, missing Bijou but happy she'd made a new friend.
"You can't get rid of this. This has historical significance," Portia exclaimed.
Rosalind glanced at the paper her sister held up gingerly. "What? Like the Magna Carta?"
"No, this is from 1904."
They'd found a box of seemingly useless paperwork in the study's closet. Rosalind had expected going through it to be a quick and painless. She'd forgotten nothing was easy when Portia was involved. In the two hours they'd been sitting on the floor, shifting through the box, her sister had found no less than sixteen historically significant documents.
Sighing, Rosalind looked at what Portia held out. "It looks like an old map."
"It is. It's the route Jasper Summerhill took on his grand tour. Look"-Portia leaned in and pointed to a scribble-"those are his initials."
Enough. She wiped her hands on her jeans and stood up.
Her sister gaped at her. "You're leaving? Now?"
Yes, before she threw the bronze pineapple at her. "I have some work I need to do."
She waited for Portia to ask about it, like a normal person would, but her sister shrugged and continued looking through the box.
Rosalind should have known better than to think her sister was normal. Shaking her head, she went to her room to take a long, hot shower. She dressed in an underlayer of silk topped by cashmere lounging pants and a hoodie with a scarf tied around her neck.
Taking her sketchpad, she started to go down to the kitchen-brainstorming Sara's dress with a cup of tea and Fran's ginger shortbread seemed like the thing.
But she walked by the countess's quarters and changed her mind. The better place to think about Sara's dress was in her mother's closet.
She went to her mother's room and knocked on the aged wood. "Mum?"
Ear pressed to the door, she waited for an answer. When there was no reply, she opened the door. "Mum? It's Rosalind."
Still no answer, so she peeked in and froze.
The room was an utter mess. The bed looked like there'd been a struggle, the bedclothes draping on the floor. The clothes she'd worn to the memorial lay discarded on the floor in the corner.
Rosalind picked up the silk blouse. She looked at the label-designer, handmade. She frowned. Her mother never treated her clothes callously like that. Clothes and books were the two things her mother valued most in the world.
Taking the blouse, she walked to the closet to hang it up. She flipped the light on, almost afraid of what she'd find.
But the closet was as orderly as it had ever been. Rows of shoes arranged like soldiers in neat rows, blouses, skirts, and dresses all arranged by color. The drawers were all uniformly closed, but she knew they housed frilly underthings and soft sweaters. At the far end, all the ball gowns hung, looking untouched and lonely.
This closet used to be her magical place. Her mother would emerge from it looking like a princess. When Rosalind was a child, she figured it was a fairy portal, and she'd walk in, wanting to be a princess too.
But one day as she'd watched her mum get ready, she'd understood the real magic was in the dresses, and that she had that magic herself. Her mother had told her she could make women look like princesses, too.
Jacqueline used to say her clothes were her dearest friends. A dress that fit perfectly never let you down, and it always cheered you up.
She went to the back of the closet and fished in one of the drawers until she found the photo of her mum in her wedding dress. Rosalind traced the dreamy smile on Jacqueline's face. She'd never witnessed that smile in real life.
Taking the photo with her for inspiration, she sat on the floor in front of the ball gowns and wondered how she could make Sara feel that way.
The door to the closet swung open, and her mother blinked down at her in surprise. "Darling."
"Sorry." She started to stand up.
Her mother waved her back down. "Stay. You just startled me. You've always loved sitting there and thinking."
"You remember?"
"Of course I remember." Her mother took her earrings off and placed them on a tray, looking at her like she was delusional. "You were forever underfoot here. Of all your sisters, you were the only one who inherited my love for fashion. I shudder at the way Titania dresses."
She smiled wistfully. "How does she dress?"
Jacqueline paused, blinking at her. "You don't know Titania at all, do you?"
"She was barely a teenager when I left for Los Angeles. Imogen, too, though she's easier to follow since her acting career's taken off."
A flash of remorse passed over her mother's face. Then she kicked off her shoes and sat next to her.
Rosalind blinked in shock. The Countess of Amberlin never sat on the floor.
"The media makes Imogen out to be a fun-loving diva, but she's always taken her career seriously," her mother said, shifting until she was settled. "Do you remember how she used to put on plays in the evenings as a child?"
She shook her head. "I had no idea."
"She always knew she wanted to be an actress, and she worked hard to achieve it. All you girls are hard workers. Even Portia," her mother said, as though she could hear Rosalind's mental snort.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to." Mother pursed her lips. "Titania was always diligent, too, but she never did anything conventional. Her photos are brilliant, quite honestly."
She didn't know, and that made her sorry.
"It's quite a different view from down here, isn't it?" Her mum craned her neck, looking around. Then her gaze fell on the wedding picture and she froze.
Guilt speared Rosalind. She picked up the framed photo. "I'm sorry. I was just-"
"Don't be sorry. May I?" She held her hand out.
Rosalind handed it over, watching carefully.
Her mother's expression softened with sadness. "I haven't looked at this in a long time. I looked hopeful."
"Yes."
"A young woman on the verge of happily ever after." The words held a tinge of bitterness. "I thought the sun rose and set on Reginald Summerhill. Little did I know one day he'd have a fatal accident with his mistress."
She gaped wide-eyed at her mother, not sure what to say.
"Honour and Family, indeed." Her mother set the picture aside and focused on her. "Your father was a selfish git."
"Okay," she drawled, not sure how to reply.
"As selfish as he was, he cared for all of us in his own way. I believe that with what's left of my heart." Her lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "He had a unique way of being disappointed in us all and yet caring at the same time, didn't he?"
"You felt that way, too?"
"We all felt that way." She sighed, the anger visibly draining from her. "I owe you girls an apology."
Confused, Rosalind shook her head. "What for?"
"For not giving you what you needed." Her mum glanced at the ball gowns, her eyes sad. "I was such a hopeless romantic, and it didn't serve me well in my early life. You know I named all you girls after heroines in Shakespearean comedies because I wanted you to have the same happy endings they had?"
"Of course." Rosalind smiled. "Although I used to wish I had a plain name like Anne."
Her mother smiled, too. "I almost named Imogen 'Mary,' because I felt so disillusioned when I was pregnant with her."
"But somehow you still believed."
"A fool, aren't I? I believed so much that I still tried to please Reginald, even though I knew nothing would have, and in doing what he expected I lost something more precious than I realized. Like I said, I was a fool."
"I don't know what you mean." She shook her head. "What did you lose?"
"You girls." Her mother tapped the sketchpad. "Are you working on a new design?"
She wanted to ask what her mother meant by "you girls," but she was thrown off by the interest in her work. "Yes. For a woman I met here, actually."
"May I see?" Before she could reply, her mother took the sketchpad and began flipping through it.
Normally, Rosalind didn't care about other people's opinions-she knew she was a fantastic designer. But nerves niggled at her belly as her mother looked over the book with her critical eye.
"Beautiful," her mother declared. Then she tapped one page. "Particularly this one."
She looked at the sketch. It was the dress she'd designed for herself, for one day. "You think so?"
"It looks like you, a combination of vintage and modern. Straightforward but layered." Her mother turned the page. "This is beautiful, as well."
"That was the dress I designed for Bijou's sister. You remember my friend Bijou Taylor."
"Of course. Her family is hard to forget." Her mother handed back the sketches. "You're very talented, Rosalind."
Pleasure flushed her cheeks. "I learned fashion from you."
The sad look crept into her mother's eyes again, but she just smiled, patted her hand, and worked herself to her feet. "I believe I'll have tea now. Stay in here as long as you need."
She watched her mother walk away, her posture so very correct.
But at the closet door, she turned around and looked Rosalind in the eye. "I'm very proud of all of you. Perhaps I haven't been as warm a mother as some, but I've always been ever so proud of my daughters."
She stepped out and quietly closed the door behind her.
Rosalind sat on the floor, gaping, a lump of emotion in her throat. Then she lowered her head and began to draw hope in the lines of Sara's dress.