Page 93 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

There was a lot to hate that afternoon.

Across from her, Grace began to stir. Amelia watched the process. It was actually rather fascinating to watch someone wake up; she didn’t think she’d ever done so before. Finally Grace opened her eyes, and Amelia said quietly, “You fell asleep.” She put a finger to her lips, motioning with her head toward the dowager.

Grace covered a yawn, then asked, “How much longer do you think we have until we get there?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps an hour? Two?” Amelia sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes. She was tired. They were all tired, but she was feeling selfish just then and preferred to dwell upon her own exhaustion. Maybe she could nod off. Why was it that some people fell asleep so easily in carriages, and others—most notably herself—couldn’t seem to do it anywhere but a bed? It didn’t seem fair, and—

“What will you do?”

It was Grace’s voice. And much as Amelia wanted to feign ignorance, she found that she could not do it. It didn’t much matter, anyway, since the answer would be wholly unsatisfying. She opened her eyes. Grace looked as if she wished she had not asked.

“I don’t know,” Amelia said. She leaned back against the seat cushion and closed her eyes again. She liked traveling with her eyes closed. She felt the rhythm of the wheels better. It was soothing. Well, most of the time. Not today. Not on her way to some heretofore unknown village in Ireland, where her future would be decided by the contents of a church register.

Not today, after her father had lectured her for the entire luncheon meal, leaving her feeling rather like a recalcitrant child.

Not today, when—

“Do you know what the funniest part of it is?” Amelia asked, the words coming forth before she realized what she was saying.

“No.”

“I keep thinking to myself, ‘This isn’t fair. I should have a choice. I should not have to be traded and bartered like some sort of commodity.’ But then I think, ‘How is this any different? I was given to Wyndham years ago. I never made a complaint.’”

She said this all to the darkness of her own eyelids. It was strangely more satisfying that way.

“You were just a baby,” Grace said.

“I have had many years to lodge a complaint.”

“Amelia—”

“I have no one to blame but myself.”

“That’s not true.”

She finally opened her eyes. One of them, at least. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not. I would,” Grace said, “but as it happens, I am telling the truth. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, really. I wish it were. It would be so much easier that way.”

“To have someone to blame?”

“Yes.”

And then Amelia whispered, “I don’t want to marry him.”

“Thomas?”

Thomas? Whatever was she thinking? “No,” Amelia said. “Mr. Audley.”

Grace’s lips parted with surprise. “Really?”

“You sound so shocked.”

“No, of course not,” Grace quickly replied. “It’s just that he’s so handsome.”

Amelia gave a little shrug. “I suppose. Don’t you find him a little too charming?”

“No.”

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