Chapter Text
1806 — India
Kate said a prayer when she sank back against her pillow that night, her body tired, her stomach empty, and a sadness that had been creeping through her bones pushed aside to make room for hope.
The next day she would turn eighteen; the next day her wrist, which was bare now, would bear the name of her soulmate, just as happened to everyone who came of age all around the world, and the next day she would no longer be alone.
Not that she was entirely alone now. She had Mary… or perhaps Mary had her, considering the current state of her stepmother, who had simply stopped reacting to anything since Kate’s father had died, nearly six months before.
But the household bills did not wait for grief, nor did hunger, nor the debts Milan had accumulated while he was ill, and Kate simply no longer knew what to do, or whom to turn to. It had been a shock to discover that nothing had been set aside for her younger sister, Edwina, nor any provision for Mary, since she had had no dowry when Kate’s father married her; the only thing left was Kate’s small dowry, reserved by her mother.
It was with that money that the Sharma family had been keeping itself afloat these past months, and with the little tricks Kate performed by pretending she did not want to eat at night, or by saving all the fruit for her sister.
But she had hope, because when she woke the next day, the name of her soulmate would be revealed, and Kate would have someone to share her burden.
Or so she hoped.
Of course, not everyone managed to marry their soulmate, or even to find them. Some woke with a blank wrist, either because the person had not yet been born, or because the connection simply did not exist.
Others, even after finding theirs, were prevented from being together. Social considerations were still very relevant, but Kate had hope. She had dreamed of this day when she was a child, had longed for it all through her youth, and now all she had to do was close her eyes and let exhaustion take her, and when she woke, it would finally happen.
And it did.
She woke with the first rays of sunlight — she had left the curtain open precisely for that purpose — and when she lifted her wrist, there it was.
Anthony Bridgerton
It was a full name, a rare combination, because many people had only a first name to cling to, or a surname, but both together belonged to very few.
It was not an Indian name either, as she quickly noticed. It was English, certainly.
Bridgerton. She tried to search her memory for the surname, among the foreigners her father had worked with when he had been royal secretary, but nothing came. Perhaps Mary could help; after all, she had been born in England and had spent her youth there.
Kate jumped out of bed, trying not to be discouraged by the foreign name on her wrist. There were many Englishmen living in India, and although she did not like that at all, perhaps this Englishman, perhaps Anthony, was different from those she saw on the streets of Bombay.
Mary had not yet woken, so Kate went to the kitchen, prepared a tray with bread, honey, oats and milk, just the way her stepmother liked, and carried it up to her room.
“Oh, my dear, how kind.” Mary said when Kate placed the tray before her. “You have been so good to me.”
“It is only what you deserve.”
Kate sat on the bed, watching Mary barely touch the food, and still she waited and waited, anxiety taking over, waiting for Mary to ask about her soulmark, or say something about Kate’s birthday.
When it became clear that her stepmother did not know what day it was, Kate forced herself to speak.
“My soulmark appeared.” She said it almost in a whisper.
“Oh, my God, Kate.” Mary set the tray aside. “My dear, today is your birthday. I am so sorry, how could I have forgotten…”
Kate hated the look of guilt on her stepmother’s face. She did not want Mary to feel guilty, or burdened; she was still grieving, still fighting every day to get out of bed. Kate did not want to become one more weight upon her.
“It is all right, Mary.” She tried to soothe her. “It is only that my mark… it is an English name.”
She extended her wrist so that her stepmother could see.
“Do you know anyone with this name?”
“Bridgerton.” Mary said it slowly. “I knew a Viscount Bridgerton. I remember they were quite a prominent family, and that the viscount married a few years before my debut in society. I do not remember his Christian name.”
“But if he married then, he cannot be my Anthony Bridgerton.”
“Perhaps he is one of his sons.” Mary said.
“Is there any possibility he might be in India?”
“I do not know, my dear, and we certainly cannot go all the way to England after him.” Mary said, and Kate knew she dreaded the idea of facing her old country, and the parents who had rejected her after her marriage to Kate’s father.
“Certainly not. But perhaps I could write to him.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mary ran a hand over her hair. “I know how disheartening it is to wake with a foreign name written on one’s arm.” And Mary truly did know, for it was Kate’s father’s name that had appeared on her wrist. “But you need not do anything. I promise your paths will cross eventually, just as your father’s crossed with mine.”
But Kate could not simply rely on luck, after all, it had not worked for her mother.
Kate knew, from the stories she had been told over the years, that it had not been Kate’s father’s name on her mother’s wrist, and when her mother had finally found her soulmate, it had already been too late; he had already been married to another woman by mistake, because of a similar name that, in the end, had not been right, and she had ended up marrying a man who carried another woman’s name on his wrist, and had died far too young.
It was a tragic story. Her father had still had the chance to marry his soulmate the second time, but Kate’s mother had died before that could happen, and Kate could not help thinking that, had her mother married the man she loved and to whom she had been destined, perhaps she might have survived the cold that killed her.
Kate did not want that to happen to her. She did not want to settle for a marriage, to belong to a man with another woman’s name tattooed on his wrist.
So she insisted.
“But if I wrote to him, I could make certain he does not marry someone else before meeting me.”
“It is not proper for a lady to write to a gentleman, Kate.”
“Yes, I know.” Her fingers scratched at the nape of her neck, the way they always did when she was nervous. She did not tell her stepmother how dire their family’s financial situation had become, did not tell her that it was almost imperative that she marry soon, or they would have to sell what little her father had left, and nothing would remain of Kate’s dowry. “But perhaps you could write to his family.”
“Kate, I do not know the Bridgertons. I was never close to them, and it may very well not be the family I am thinking of. I do not remember whether the viscount had brothers, but it could be anyone.”
“But I have his full name, Mary.” She insisted. “It is not just any Bridgerton. It is Anthony Bridgerton, and he must have my name on his wrist too.”
“What I can do is write to an old friend, Lady Danbury. She had a great deal of influence in society when I debuted and, if my memory is not at fault, she was close to the Bridgerton family. But you must not feed your hopes too much. Remember that English society is different. They are not open about soulmates. This is not a subject to be discussed lightly.”
“I know, Mama.” She replied, already on her feet. “I will fetch paper and a fountain pen for you.”
It took months for the letter to reach Lady Danbury, and longer still for an answer to come. An entire year. A year of fear, of terror, and of hunger. Hunger most of all.
No one wanted to marry Kate in India, not after her father died, and even less after it became known that her mark was foreign. It was not something she had gone about telling people, but there had been a suitor from the days when her father was still alive, a young man who had Sharma on his wrist and absolute certainty that Kate was his soulmate. When she told him it was impossible, he continued to insist, convinced that perhaps she had not understood the name properly, that it would not be the first mistake of that kind. So Kate had been forced to make it clear that the name was not Indian, and that, somehow, drove all her suitors away at once.
It was good, she told herself. She did not want to end up like her mother.
But the shorter the money became, and the more often the post arrived with nothing from England, the more tempted she became to throw herself into the marriage market for those who did not want a soulmate. There were many such people. Whether because the person whose name was on their wrist had died before they could meet, or because class would not allow them to be together.
Kate could do that. She could marry a man who was not Anthony Bridgerton.
Only that was not what she wanted.
In the middle of the night, she wondered whether he thought of her too, whether he spent any part of his day imagining what she might be like. She watched the Englishmen at the market and wondered whether he resembled any of them, what color his hair might be, his eyes, whether he had a good temper, whether he liked horses as she did, whether he was the son of the viscount Mary had mentioned, or a nephew, or some distant relation living in the English countryside.
She dreamed of a house, a large garden, children, a place for Mary and for Edwina. A husband who would help her carry the burdens of adult life, who would sit with her at the end of an exhausting day and massage her aching feet.
A gentle man, who liked poetry, who did not shrink from work, who liked all animals, but especially horses and dogs. Who would not mind that she talked too much, and who would not object to all the many opinions Kate had.
That was how she imagined Anthony Bridgerton.
When Lady Danbury’s letter finally arrived, a year after Kate’s eighteenth birthday, she could not contain herself. She ran to Mary so that her stepmother might open the letter and read it to her, so that she might tell her whether there truly was an Anthony Bridgerton, and whether he was willing to meet her.
My dear Lady Mary,
I will not deny that your letter came as a surprise to me, though not an unpleasant one. It has been many years since I last had news of you, and it would be false to say that your departure from London society did not, at the time, give rise to considerable speculation. Even so, I always preferred to believe that you had found, far from here, a happiness London might never have allowed you.
Before any other consideration, please accept my sincere condolences on the death of your husband. I remember him as a man of gentle manners and distinguished intelligence, and I deeply regret that your family should now find itself deprived of his protection.
As to the more delicate subject of your letter, I must answer with the prudence it requires.
There is, in fact, among the families of my acquaintance, a gentleman who bears the name mentioned by the young lady under your care. He is Lord Anthony Bridgerton, the present Viscount Bridgerton, eldest son of the Viscountess Bridgerton. He is young, unmarried, and belongs to a family whose reputation, fortune, and position remain among the soundest in the kingdom.
I have not taken the liberty of revealing the full extent of the information entrusted to me in your letter. As you well know, matters of this nature must not be treated lightly, still less committed to paper in a manner that might compromise a young lady. However, after a discreet conversation with the Viscountess, I can say that there are sufficient reasons to believe that an introduction between your stepdaughter and Lord Bridgerton would not be improper, nor without foundation.
The Viscountess, naturally, requested absolute discretion. Not only for her son’s name, but also for the reputation of the young lady in question. A mark, however sacred many may consider it, does not replace the demands of decency, prudence, and good social order.
If, at any point, you and your family decide to come to England, I shall be able to arrange an introduction on proper terms. I will make no promises beyond that.
Write to me before making any final decision.
Your servant and friend,
Lady Agatha Danbury
Kate read it and reread it countless times, while Mary remained silent.
Kate, too, stayed silent. Perhaps she could not speak. Perhaps, if she opened her mouth, all the hope she had held inside for an entire year would escape at once and leave her ridiculous, tearful, small.
So she took the letter from Mary’s hands and read it again.
And again.
And once more.
Lord Anthony Bridgerton.
Young.
Unmarried.
Of sound reputation, fortune, and position.
Sufficient reasons.
Not without foundation.
Kate ran her fingers over her own wrist, over his name, and smiled.
Although she tried to remain practical and objective about Lady Danbury’s letter, she simply could not. She knew, deep in her heart, that Lord Bridgerton was her Anthony Bridgerton.
So, despite Mary’s distress over it, Kate sold the last of her mother’s jewels, books, and belongings, the little that remained, and bought passage to England. They would stay in a modest little house in a neighborhood far from the center of London, until Lady Danbury could arrange the meeting between Kate and Lord Bridgerton.
And after that… well, after that, fate would do the rest.
Kate knew she was not exactly the ideal bride for a viscount, but the mark could be justification enough for the marriage — Mary had said that the previous viscount had also made a soulmate match. And Lady Bridgerton herself knew of Kate’s situation when she agreed to the idea of her coming. So Kate allowed herself to hope.
The voyage was horrible. Long, cramped, with tasteless food that had to be rationed. Mary wasted away even further in that cabin, and Edwina spent weeks with her stomach turned by the motion of the sea. At least the captain protected them; he was an old acquaintance of Kate’s father and knew they had connections in England, that Mary was the daughter of an earl, and that they were expected by Lady Danbury.
They were exhausting months. But what other hope did Kate have? In India, the money would not last another year, and she would not make a good marriage there with a foreigner’s name on her wrist.
So when they finally arrived in England, it was a great relief.
The house Kate had secured belonged to an Indian family of close friends. They had written to say the Sharmas would be arriving, and Kate had the letter in hand. They could stay there for six months before the family also came from India.
It would have to be enough time.
They were invited to Lady Danbury’s house in the very first week, only Kate and Mary, since Edwina was too young for the conversation they would have there. The widow was every bit as impressive as people said. The conversation turned almost entirely around Kate’s qualifications as a possible bride.
“I speak French, Italian, Greek, Hindustani, and Marathi,” she began, trying not to speak too quickly. “I play the pianoforte, the flute, and the sitar. I have learned to dance the cotillion, the quadrille, and the waltz. Lady Mary made certain I had an English governess for several years, so I know the customs of an English household, I can embroider, serve and prepare this delicious tea you serve here…”
The countess raised an eyebrow.
Kate did not say that she hated English tea just as much as she was bored by embroidery.
“And I also have some skill with watercolors, household management, reading, riding, and I like dogs.”
There was a small pause.
Kate wondered whether she should have mentioned the dogs. Perhaps not. Dogs had no use whatsoever in a matrimonial assessment. Or perhaps they did, if Lord Bridgerton liked them.
“Impressive,” Lady Danbury said at last, but she did not seem impressed; in truth, she seemed almost exasperated, perhaps because, deep down, she knew Kate was a fraud and could read beyond her words merely by observing her worn dress. Even so, the widow said, “It seems you are prepared to meet Lord Bridgerton.”
Kate tried to contain her smile, but excitement took over and she could not manage it. At last she would meet her soulmate; at last all that feeling of insecurity would be swept out of her life.
“It is all I desire.” She answered with a shyness that made her turn her face downward, trying to hide it.
“I cannot tell you how anxious Kate is for this introduction to take place.” Mary said, exchanging a look with Lady Danbury.
“Mama!” Kate protested, embarrassed. She did not want to seem desperate.
“And you are certain about…” The widow looked at her wrist, covered by her glove. “The connection.”
“Yes. I am certain.” She answered with confidence.
“In that case, I shall give the first ball of the season, as is my custom.” The widow informed them. “You will receive an invitation, as will the Bridgertons, and then I shall make the proper introduction.”
“Oh, thank you very much, Lady Danbury.”
“Do not thank me yet.” The widow tightened her hand over her cane. “Lord Bridgerton is not known for being an easy man. He is very particular. And he is young, if you understand me.”
Kate was not entirely certain she understood exactly what the widow was attempting to imply, but she nodded in agreement all the same.
Although Kate was very confident, she could see Mary paling beside her, uncomfortable.
“Does he expect a bride from the aristocracy?” her stepmother asked then.
“Well, he has a position in society; he is expected to marry well, that is undeniable. But you are the daughter of an earl, Lady Mary, and from what I can see, Miss Sharma has been very well educated.” Lady Danbury paused. “There is no reason for concern. After all, it will be I who introduces her into society.”
Kate was a little reassured by the widow’s words, though she still felt a chill in her stomach at the thought that Lord Bridgerton might not like her, might disapprove of her education or her manners. In general, other people’s opinions did not usually trouble her.
But in this case, her future depended on his approval.
The invitation arrived three days later.
English fashion was very different from what was worn in India, but Kate had come prepared with fabrics, and she found a modiste on a far less luxurious street in London, a recommendation from the wife of a captain who lived in Bombay. She brought with her a pamphlet showing what was in vogue in the city, because she had studied the matter beforehand: she knew that what the English called fashion was, in truth, French style.
The modiste was impressed by the quality of the fabric, and perhaps that was why the gown looked so beautiful when Kate saw herself in the mirror. It was an old rose, with a satin ribbon beneath the bust.
She had no jewels to wear, so she placed an ornament in her hair and a necklace that held no precious stone, but at least did not leave her neck bare. Mary lent her one of her earrings, the maid in the house helped with the English hairstyle, and Kate felt prepared for anything.
Kate was dazzled by the luxurious decoration of Danbury House. More than that, this was officially her presentation to society, since she had not had one in India, and it was almost as if it were the first day of her adult life.
The day she might finally leave all misery behind.
The exuberant canopy of flowers seemed to invite them deeper into the room, and Kate’s eyes did not stop for a moment. She looked at the gentlemen and wondered which of them was her soulmate, looked at the matrons and wondered which of them was Lady Bridgerton, looked at the other young ladies and wondered which might become her future friends.
“We must greet the hostess,” Mary whispered in her ear.
Only then did Kate realize that several eyes had turned toward her stepmother, some ironic smiles, some turned heads, and she felt Mary tremble beside her.
“Come.” Kate said, taking Mary’s arm. “Let us find Lady Danbury.”
The widow received them with the expected courtesy, and Kate made an effort to follow the pleasantries exchanged between the two women, but she could not. Her eyes kept returning to the ballroom of their own accord, passing from one gentleman to another, trying to decide which of them might be Lord Bridgerton.
“I see you are anxious to meet the viscount,” Lady Danbury said, making Kate realize too late that she was being observed.
Kate turned quickly back to the widow.
“I am merely admiring your excellent work.” She smiled, trying to recover some composure.
“In that case, it will be of no interest to you to know that he is the gentleman near the refreshment table, surrounded by debutantes and anxious mamas.”
She pointed, and Kate did not have the presence of mind to continue pretending she did not care. She turned toward the other side of the ballroom almost with her entire body.
Her wrist throbbed as soon as she laid eyes on him.
Lord Bridgerton was a very handsome gentleman. Brown eyes, hair that looked soft, a sharply defined jaw. Somehow he seemed much older than the twenty-two years Kate knew him to be, and that made her even more nervous. If he were not so handsome, or if at least he did not appear quite so aristocratic and so rich as she knew he was, perhaps it would be easier to convince him that she would make a good wife.
She saw when he touched his own wrist, in the exact place where she was touching hers.
Did he feel the tingling too? There, where surely her name was inscribed?
“He appears to have drawn the attention of many ladies,” Mary said to Lady Danbury, and Kate did not even need to look at her stepmother to know she was worried.
“Viscount Bridgerton is rich, well connected, and comes from one of the most illustrious families in society. He is almost always the most coveted bachelor of the season, so it is only natural there should be some attention around him.” The widow explained. “But do not worry. As soon as I speak with Lady Bridgerton tonight, I shall ensure his name is on your dance card, Miss Sharma.”
The difficulty was that Lady Danbury’s time was different from the time of an anxious Kate, who ended up spending the first hour around the dance floor, watching Lord Bridgerton dance with one debutante after another.
After the third dance, during which he seemed sincerely and absolutely frustrated and ill-humored, and Kate unfortunately found herself increasingly charmed by his lack of ease, the viscount abandoned the dance floor and went down a side corridor toward the garden.
Her heart quickened and her stomach sank.
What if he left before they were introduced?
She could not wait any longer. She had waited for this for more than a year, had dreamed of this day, and now that he was there, so close… she wanted to meet him.
It was on that impulse that she left the ballroom, concealing herself behind the flower arrangements until she reached the door that led to the corridor down which Lord Bridgerton had gone. She walked there trying not to make too much noise, trying to cross his path in a way that would not seem intentional, as though it were fate placing them outside that ballroom.
As though she had not crossed the ocean to be there.
She saw him as soon as she stepped out onto the courtyard. He was looking ahead, toward the cloudy sky, his fists clenched, and he seemed even more impatient and ill-humored than he had inside.
Kate did not know how to approach him.
She was about to step into his field of vision when she heard footsteps and hid behind a pillar. She did not want to be caught alone with a man in a garden at her first ball in London.
“Ah, brother, here you are.” Said the gentleman approaching Lord Bridgerton.
“Do not tell me mother has already sent you as a guard dog, demanding my presence at this ridiculous contrivance.”
His voice was low, deep, and although he spoke with arrogance, Kate had to admit she liked the sound of it.
“I am quite certain the only reason my presence was requested at this ball was to keep an eye on you.” His brother said, with a smile in his voice. “Come now, brother, it cannot be so terrible.”
“I agreed to come because it seemed finally to make Mother happy,” Lord Bridgerton said. “I did not agree to dance with every debutante she placed in my path. Tell her I was obliged to leave.”
“Anthony.” His brother entreated him, almost pleading. “You know she and Lady Danbury wish to introduce you to the young lady whose mark matches yours. If you leave…”
“I have no interest whatsoever in meeting this girl.”
His tone was so cold that Kate’s blood chilled.
He did not even want to meet her?
“Mama and Lady Danbury think she may be your soulmate,” his brother tried again.
“And what of it?” Lord Bridgerton nearly spat the words. “I agreed to this nonsense because Mother was never going to leave me in peace, and because it was the first thing that made her get out of that bed. But I have no interest in meeting my soulmate, still less if she is a woman desperate enough to travel from so far away merely for that purpose.”
Desperate.
It was the right word. It was exactly what she was, and she hated that he had struck upon it without ever having set eyes on her.
“But, Anthony, what if she truly is?”
“Do you think that, if I were not who I am, if I did not have the title I have and the fortune that comes with my name, this young woman would be so determined to meet me? It is perfectly clear she is a fortune hunter. I doubt she has what is required to be a viscountess, still less Viscountess Bridgerton.”
Kate looked down at her own feet, saw her worn shoe, which had been polished with such care for that evening and now seemed a confirmation of every word he had said. Without thinking, she took her fingers away from her own wrist.
“And you would refuse your soulmate merely for that?” His brother, at least, sounded as offended as she felt. “Give yourself the chance to meet her. Why did you agree to come, after all, if you have no intention of marrying her?”
“Not every gentleman marries his soulmate. If I found her pleasing to the eye, I might take her as a mistress, since she seems so eager to meet me, but I will not marry a young woman who is visibly beneath me and certainly interested only in my fortune.”
Kate did not need to hear the rest.
In truth, she did not know whether she would still be capable of hearing anything at all, because there was a strange sound inside her head, a low buzzing, almost like the sea inside a shell. It was her own blood, perhaps. Or her heart trying to go on beating after it had somehow been torn out of place.
She had no wish whatsoever to meet that contemptible man now.
It did not matter that her wrist throbbed beneath her glove, in the very place where his name was marked. It did not matter that, only minutes before, she had looked at that man and thought, with a hope so ridiculous it now made her nauseous, that perhaps he might like her.
All she needed was to leave that place.
The ridiculous corset she wore beneath her gown, the one the maid had laced quite tightly so that she might look even more slender when she was presented to her soulmate, was now suffocating her almost to death. The air would not enter properly. Her fingers were cold, and at the same time her whole face burned with shame.
She did not know how she found her way back to the ballroom. She only knew that her mind, in a whirl, was giving her clear commands: breathe, inhale, do not let the tears fall, do not let these people see how affected you are.
It was difficult, because everyone seemed to look at her as though she were some exotic animal in that ballroom, the daughter of a man who had worked in India and had dared to return to London after the scandal into which her father had dragged himself all those years before.
Desperate and poor, as Lord Bridgerton had so cruelly reminded her.
“Mama.” She found Mary in the corner of the ballroom, sipping lemonade, and only when she saw her stepmother’s face turn toward her did she realize she must look worse than she had imagined. “We must go.”
“What happened?” Mary looked at her with wide eyes.
“We must simply go, please.”
“We must take leave of our hostess.”
“Please do not make me speak to anyone else.” Kate said, trying to hold back her tears. “I cannot.”
For a moment, Kate thought Mary might insist in the name of good manners, but she took Kate’s hand and said, “Very well. Wait outside while I take leave for both of us.”
Kate could not say how long Mary took. She did not remember the carriage, nor stepping down from it, nor crossing the threshold. She knew that at some point she had been outside Danbury House and that at some point she was climbing the stairs at home, and between one thing and the other there was nothing, only the same phrase repeating itself: that she had to breathe, that words were not capable of destroying who she was, that she did not even know that man.
It was only when the ribbons of the corset gave way that her composure went with them.
Mary was there. Kate knew because it was her stepmother’s fingers undoing the knots the maid had tightened so carefully only hours before, and because it was Mary who caught her by the shoulders when the air rushed in all at once and Kate’s body gave way with it.
In all those years, Kate had never fallen apart in front of anyone. Not even when her father died. Back then she had needed to be strong for her devastated stepmother, for her little sister, and she had held herself firm as stone for months, for years, for as long as was necessary.
And now that man had taken even that from her.
She sank face-down onto the bed, her face in the pillow to muffle the sound, afraid Edwina might wake on the other side of the corridor. Mary did not leave. She sat beside her and began removing the pins from her hair.
“Kate.” Her stepmother’s voice reached her from very far away. “What happened? Did someone do something to you?”
“I met him.” She answered at last, between sobs.
“Lord Bridgerton?”
“Yes.” Kate turned to look at Mary, and there was so much pity in her stepmother’s expression that she almost hid her face again. “He wants nothing to do with me, Mama, he… he thinks I am beneath him, that I am not good enough to be Viscountess Bridgerton.”
“Oh, my love.” Mary drew her close, and Kate let her, crying against her stepmother’s shoulder as she had not cried since she was a child.
“I made a terrible mistake, Mama.” She said between sobs. “I used all the money we had left for this journey, I put our family at risk, I sold everything and now… now it is over.”
“Surely it is not as bad as that.”
“It is.” She finally had the courage to face Mary, though she could barely see her through the tears. “We barely have enough money to keep ourselves in London for the next few months. I can find work as a governess, I have already thought of that, I am qualified, but what about you? What about Edwina?”
Mary took her hand and enclosed it carefully between her own.
“You should have told me it had become so bad.”
“I tried to solve it alone. You did not need to worry about any of this, Papa would not have wanted you to worry about money.”
“Oh, Kate. That was not your duty. I am responsible for you and for Edwina.”
“You were grieving.”
“So were you. We shall find a way out of this situation.” Mary dried her face with her thumb. “I promise.”
Kate nodded, because there was nothing else to do; she did not believe Mary, but what else could she do?