Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(20)
“And anyway, why am I defending myself to a ten-year-old?”
“Because I’m adorable and persistent.”
“That is certainly true—and too smart for your own good,” I said on a laugh. “I’m going to go rest for a little before this dinner tonight. Hopefully, it’s not too weird.”
Meg’s eyes lit up. “Aunt Susan said earlier—she didn’t know I was sitting behind the couch—that Fanny’s name is appropriate because she’s a complete a-s-s.” She snickered.
“Well then, dinner should be interesting.”
I ruffled her hair and made my way to my room with about an hour to spare before the Ferrars arrived. I didn’t have much to do in the way of freshening my exterior, but my interior reveled in the solitude for a little while. First, I dug through the piano bench in my room and the wealth of sheet music stored there. I was too happy for Rachmaninoff or Brahms but found a book of Haydn pieces and smiled, flipping to Sonata No. 59.
It was romantic and beautiful and happy, and my fingers played the cool keys with gladness, high off the day, holding my face just above the surface of the water, ignoring what lay beneath. For now, the sun warmed my cheeks, and I would enjoy it until I was pulled under again.
A quarter to seven, the dogs took up their barking, thundering toward the door. I closed the piano lid and left my room, moving toward the sound of voices, my sisters and Mama joining me in the hallway.
The dogs wouldn’t allow passage for everyone from the entryway beyond the door, though Susan was shooing and nudging and asking John for help. Behind her was a man who looked unyielding though not unpleasant, more apathetic than stern. He stretched over the dogs and Susan to shake hands with my uncle, who was smiling, seemingly unaware of the obstruction his wife’s dogs had created.
Behind Mr. Ferrars was a proud and pinched woman, her face hard angles and her eyes shrewd. She wore a smile that looked more like a scar than an expression, strict and humorless, her back as straight as a razor and her sharp chin lifted so that it seemed she had to look down her nose at you.
The dogs finally unjammed the doorway. Mrs. Ferrars eyed them with a level of disgust, masked ineptly by that cruel smile of hers. And as she moved out of the way, I caught sight of a third member of their party and wondered where in the world he had come from.
He was tall and dark, his face kind and smile quiet with eyes that sparked intelligently under his brow. I determined his age to be far too old for me, but when I looked over at Elle, a smile of my own graced my lips as I noted he wouldn’t at all be too old for her. And by the way she was looking at him, I thought she might have figured the same.
Introductions went around. Mr. Ferrars had a handshake like a cowboy, strong and curt, while Mrs. Ferrars’s handshake reminded me of a dead fish, cold and floppy and inanimate.
“And this,” Susan said proudly, “is Ward Ferrars, their son.”
My jaw would have popped open and hit the ground if I hadn’t had it affixed into a smile. He shook hands with everyone in greeting, all while I dissected his appearance, trying to figure out how they had produced him. But I could see it, if I looked closely. His eyes were the color and shape of his mother’s though with a merriment I doubted hers had ever possessed. He was a similar height and build as his father, and on closer inspection, I could see in the lines of his nose and jaw where the two men were virtually genetic copies, separated only by age.
I also noted that he greeted Elle last and lingered for a second too long.
This was maybe the highlight of the whole ordeal. My sister had had exactly one boyfriend, years ago. And the thought of her with someone so dashing—it really was the only word I could think to describe him—was enough to set my imagination skipping into the future to name their children for them (Marianne Margaret Ferrars for the girl and Fredrick Fitzwilliam Ferrars for the boy, respectively. Fitz for short.)
We were led into the living room for a drink before dinner, Uncle John and Mr. Ferrars—Frank—sojourning to the cocktail tray to pour scotch with Ward trailing behind them, leaving the women to sit in the living room.
“Emily and the girls have been New Yorkers for only a week—” Susan started jovially, but Fanny cut her off.
“Yes, we were supposed to have dinner ages ago to celebrate,” she said coolly, eyeing Mama. “I trust you’ve been able to…adjust.”
Color smudged Mama’s cheeks, her head held high. “Yes, thank you,” was all she said, not bothering to explain herself.
“Good. I can’t understand why you all didn’t fly. Three days in a car seems…excessive.”
I opened my mouth to give her something to consider, but she kept talking. “You were the one in the car accident, yes?”
My eyes narrowed at her intrusive lack of manners. “No, the wheelchair is just a prop,” I popped, not even realizing I’d said it until it left my mouth.
I put on a smile, as if it had been a joke.
Fanny laughed, the sound tight and awkward. “Yes, well, I’m sorry for the loss of your husband. It must have been a shock to lose him so suddenly and at such a young age.”
Mama looked like a storm in a bottle. “Yes, it was.”
“And then to have to take charity from family?” She shook her head and said with an unbelievable air of condescension, “You’re very fortunate to have such a generous brother.”