Page 14 of On a Midsummer Night
“The directors will be pleased,” Uncle Charles intoned, tapping the lip of his glass so the butler could pour him more wine. “But as long as he makes Lucy happy, I’m happy.”
“He does,” Aunt Meredith interjected. “Doesn’t he, darling?”
Lucy nodded, which seemed an adequate enough response for her mother, who launched into a monologue about wedding plans and details. But she looked at Beth askance and reached out to grip her hand under the table.
The rest of the dinner hour passed quietly, aside from Aunt Meredith’s idle chatter and Uncle Charles’s occasional monosyllabic responses. Beth did her best to pay attention to her meal, but she was aware that Lucy pushed her food around her plate, her appetite obviously disappearing in the wake of the conversation. Beth’s own food tasted like sawdust, and it would require every ounce of her resolve to cheer up Lucy when her own spirits were so low.
The night passed in a slow, painful fashion. Lucy had begged her mother for a reprieve from their busy social schedule, declaring she wanted to spend the evening at home. Aunt Meredith had reluctantly agreed, although she and Uncle Charles departed around eight for a musicale. Beth was thankful to be free of her aunt’s overbearing attention, and she knew Lucy was as well, for when she knocked on her bedroom door later that night, her cousin appeared more carefree and relaxed than Beth had ever seen her.
The mattress dipped as Lucy slipped onto the bed next to her.
“I don’t want to get married.”
Beth shut her book with a snap. She made a show of setting it on her nightstand only so she would have extra time to collect her thoughts. Turning fully to face Lucy, she frowned. “You don’t want to marry at all?”
Lucy shook her head, her blonde curls brushing against her cheeks. “I mean, I do. Eventually. But not yet.”
“That’s fair,” Beth said slowly. “But can I ask why you feel that way?”
“Because I don’t even know who I am.” She knotted her fingers in the coverlet, a flush sweeping over her face. “For my whole life, Mother and Father have told me who I am. First, I was Charles Dalton’s only daughter. Then I was Robert and Stewart’s younger sister. And if my parents have their way, I will soon be Henry Ramsgate’s bride. But I want to decide who I’m going to be. I want to be someone separate from the men in my life.”
“As you should be.” Beth grasped her hand. “There’s so much more to the Lucy I’ve come to know and admire than her male relatives.”
Lucy’s shoulder sank on a sigh. “I can barely offer a word of rebuttal to my mother and all her silly mandates, terrified I’ll anger her, yet I’m mature enough to marry? Mature enough to be a mother? That seems asinine. I’m barely shy of being a child myself.”
“Women are expected to grow up so fast, whether we’re ready or not,” Beth whispered, tenderness for Lucy and this newfound determination warming her chest.
Lucy dropped her gaze to study their linked hands. “I admire you, Beth. You’re witty and clever and know how to make the people around you comfortable without making yourself smaller.” The corner of her mouth ticked up. “I always feel I need to be as small as possible so the others around me can shine.”
“Oh dearest, no wonder you’re unhappy,” Beth murmured, tucking one of Lucy’s curls behind her ear.
“I don’t want to be something I’m not, but the thing is, I don’t even know how to find out who I am.” Her blue eyes beseeched Beth.
Beth looped her arm over Lucy’s shoulders, bringing the girl flush with her side. “I think you need to take some time to explore interests and pursuits to see if they suit you. While I was in Wales, I experimented with all manner of hobbies. I fished with my father, and I assisted my mother and the other ladies in the village with planning a big May Day festival. I attempted to learn archery and tried my hand at throwing pottery. In the end, I rediscovered the hobby that had entertained me for countless hours when I was a girl.”
“Playing the piano?” Lucy asked.
“I enjoy playing the piano, but no.” Beth shook her head. “I began drawing again.”
Lucy pulled her head back. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
“I am,” she said, then paused. Did she want to show Lucy? Taking in her cousin’s curious expression, Beth figured the risk was worth it. With a jerk of her thumb to the escritoire behind her, she asked, “Would you like to see my work?”
“Of course.” Lucy rose to her knees and watched as Beth slipped a key into the lock of her desk drawer and extracted her portfolio from within.
With her heart pounding like a drum in her ears, Beth climbed onto the bed and settled next to her cousin. Inhaling a chest full of air, she released it in a quiet rush and flipped open the cover.
“Faith, Beth, you drew these?” Lucy asked on a hitched breath.
“I did.”
Glancing at her with wide eyes, Lucy gestured to the case with a tilt of her head. “May I spread them out?”
“Let me help you.” Running her fingertips along the top of the sketches, Beth fanned them across the counterpane, satisfaction with her work bringing a smile to her lips.
Lucy picked up a lively sketch she’d done of a horse-drawn sled making its way through a frozen landscape, the rosy-cheeked occupants laughing, and festive bits of holly adorning hats, carriage harnesses, and horse halters. Lucy soon studied her most recent work, a sketch of a pair of doves perched in a tree, their little heads snuggled close together and cherry blossoms exploding in a riotous splash of color behind them.
“Beth, these are similar to the cards Mother likes to send to her friends. She heard that Lady Jersey adored the artist, so of course, she had to acquire them as well.”
