“Lemon,” Eliza answered, accepting the cup. “Thank you.”
April gave a dramatic sigh. “No, no, no, May. You should say ‘Eliza’ now. It is a sisterly summit, not a summit of strangers.” She turned to Eliza and stage-whispered, “She always forgets the script.”
“It’s just, you have such a dignified air, it’s difficult to adjust,” May explained, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Even though you have been family for months now.”
“You can call me whatever you like,” Eliza said.
“Dangerous offer,” June observed. She was the only one not smiling, but her deadpan was the dryest of the three. “Did you know our brother is terrified of the word ‘darling’?”
“I did not,” Eliza said.
“It’s true,” said April. “Mother called him darling once in front of the Prince Regent, and he nearly died on the spot. Went purple with horror.”
“That’s a medical condition,” said June, “not a social one.”
“Darling,” repeated Eliza, just to test the weight of it.
All three of them laughed, and the last of the formality in the room seemed to vanish in the sound.
Eliza set down her cup, already half-emptied. “I was not certain if this was a summons or a rescue mission.”
“It’s both,” May said, kneeling to poke the fire. “We hear that you are not fond of society teas, so we thought to bribe you with scones. Mrs. Sprague made the lemon ones especially for you. We threatened to weep if she did not.”
Eliza accepted a scone from April, and it was—without exaggeration—the best she had ever tasted.
“Is it true,” asked June, “that you once read every book in the Wilhampton lending library?”
“I doubt it. There were far too many pamphlets about animal husbandry.”
“Those are my favorite,” said April, grabbing two scones. “You would be amazed how many things are solved by simply not marrying first cousins.”
“Are you gossiping about my library habits?” Eliza asked.
“Always,” said May. “We are compiling a dossier. It will be published posthumously.”
June rolled her eyes. “Enough,” she said. “Eliza will think we are feral.”
“Too late,” said Eliza. “I have known worse.”
April seized the conversational scepter. “Tell us everything. About August. And about your marriage. Was it truly an arrangement, or was there a secret romance? Was there a dramatic confession? Did anyone faint?”
Eliza nearly choked on her tea. “You were all at the wedding.”
“Yes, but you were so stoic. You did not look at him once. I counted.”
“I looked at him,” Eliza said, “but only because he stepped on my train during the vows.”
May’s face broke into a grin. “That is such an August thing to do.”
“He never could dance,” June added. “Not until after Oxford and then only because the Duke threatened to write him out of the will.”
“I will tell you a secret,” April said, glancing left and right for eavesdroppers that did not exist. “He taught me to waltz the summer before my first ball. In the stables. He was so afraid I would trip and disgrace the family that he spent every afternoon practicing with me, even though he hated it. He never told anyone.”
“He is sentimental,” observed May, “but he will deny it until his dying breath.”
“It was the same when my kitten ran off,” June said, her voice softening. “He was twelve. Stayed up all night with a lamp, searching the hedges for it. When he found it, he was covered in brambles and had lost his favorite waistcoat. But he didn’t care. Not once.”
Eliza tried to imagine a twelve-year-old August, bramble-strewn and victorious. She could not.