Page 20 of Goodbye, Earl (Ladies’ Revenge Club #4)

“ Y ou’ve mud on your hem,” said Ember Donnelly the very instant Claire had made it back to the dancing pavilion, tilting her head over the rim of her glass of punch and flashing a sharp little smile.

“We are outside,” Claire pointed out with a sniff. “It is bound to happen.”

“I suppose it is,” Ember answered. “In all candor, I thought you’d be a lot filthier by now.”

“I beg your pardon?” Claire had returned with a gasp, only to find the other woman had already turned away, in search of her next victim.

Truth be told, Claire wouldn’t mind being a fair sight muddier than she was just now, but Freddy, predictably, had failed to cooperate. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was feeling just now, between the annoyance and the unfulfilled desire.

It felt quite a lot like the sensation of incomplete movement that one feels after a day of ice skating, where afterwards, your mind is convinced that you are still gliding about, weightless, on a vanishing platform of magic and speed.

She still had a great deal of momentum within her and nowhere to put it.

She had always loved ice skating. She had always felt thrilled and seduced by the fragile marriage of ballet-like elegance to the utter folly of throwing one’s body onto a frozen lake and trusting that the glinting, temporary beauty that had settled on top would not give way to your doom.

Even as a child, she had thought it a kind of exchange. She had thought you paid for the beauty with the risk. You paid for the pleasure of speed and spin by strapping blades to your soles and weakening the agent of its delivery.

She wished it were winter just now, in fact.

She wished it were cold and frigid and brittle all around her, instead of this heady heat and the warmth of a breeze that continually tried to pull her back to the riverbank.

It tugged on her skirt. It pulled her hair. It pinched and tickled at her waist.

It failed, she thought with satisfaction. It failed to move her.

She danced twice more. She smiled. She curtseyed. All the while, the phantom cuts to the surface of her inner ice rink dug deeper, flashing and swirling her body in movements she could not replicate despite the pull of equilibrium.

Eventually, she gave up.

There was no harm in giving up.

It was late, anyhow, and she should sleep. They should all sleep, except perhaps the bride and groom, who had better things to do after exchanging their vows.

She clicked her teeth. What a coarse thought to have! She ought to be swooning over their romance, not envying its outcome, letting her thoughts crackle with wantonness.

She threw herself into the first carriage in the line, likely dragging plenty of that hem-sticking mud in with her. She had intended to fall onto her back and try to doze for the rambling ride back to Crooked Nook, but the instant her head hit the cushion, her sister climbed in after her.

“Oh,” said Claire, frowning. “I didn’t see you behind me.”

“Abe’s not following; you can keep flailing about if you wish,” Millie said briskly, pulling the door shut behind her and settling into the opposite bench.

“I am not flailing,” Claire answered with a hint of venom. “I am in repose.”

“Of course you are.” Millie brought one of her own legs up, draping her ankle over her knee and sighing as she leaned back into the embrace of the seat. “You know, I have spent half a decade wondering about something, agonizing over it at times, and tonight, I think I finally got an answer.”

“What were you wondering?” Claire asked warily, knowing that this was a trap and falling into it anyway because of Millie’s damned talent for setting up irresistible questions.

“I could not figure out why everyone loves Freddy Hightower so much,” Millie answered with a little curve of her lips. “Dot. You. Abe! Even Joe and Ember. I thought something must be very wrong with me, or that perhaps I lacked an aptitude for basic perception.”

“Oh, God,” Claire snapped, petty on purpose, “are you in love with him now too? I suppose you’re entitled to a turn.”

It was supposed to silence her sister. To insult her. Instead, it made her laugh.

“Heavens, no.” Millie made a little humming sound, shaking her head. “No.”

The rest of her thought went unsaid between them, perhaps because it was obvious, or perhaps because Millie was too tired after a long day to properly complete her assault. She didn’t need to say it. Claire could hear it anyway.

I’m not, but you obviously are.

She crossed her arms over her reclining body and turned her face up to stare at the ceiling as they bumped and jostled down the road.

Millie was not deterred. “It isn’t that I haven’t grown somewhat fond of him in my own way, because despite thinking such a thing was well beyond possibility, I actually have.

I’ve watched him try. Watched him grow. And, of course, I’ve watched him with my husband.

It is hard to not care for someone who loves the same people you do. ”

“Does he not waltz as elegantly with Abe?” Claire intoned, attempting to feign boredom. “That is a pity.”

“Claire, we all saw you go after him,” Millie said with something that sounded infuriatingly like fondness. “Not a single person missed the fact.”

Claire pressed her lips together. She did not want to beg her sister to say it wasn’t true. She knew it likely was.

But what else was she meant to do?! He’d stalked off into the wilderness like a madman, like dancing with her was so distressing to him that he was prone to keep walking and never return.

She had thought he’d be at her elbow still, that when she turned, they could banter again, flirt, even, keep the fire stoked in a way that was pleasantly warm without risking a burn.

She’d tried to follow at a distance. It was just to see what the devil he was up to, or at least that’s what she had told herself.

When he’d started tearing his clothes off and pacing around and shining in the moonlight, it had become so completely impossible to look away from that she’d just sort of settled into watching, wondering if it was her own power that had done this to him, that had made him pace and simmer and tear his cravat apart.

Oh, God.

She grunted, slapping her hands over her face.

“So,” Millie said softly, “do you want to tell me what happened?”

Claire frowned against the heels of her hands and heaved a sigh. She let them fall away, flopping onto her chest like roosting doves and tracing the exaggerated swell of her struggle to breathe.

“It is only a craving,” she said after a moment. “Like when you cannot fit into your favorite dress and you know you must resist sweets, only to have the most delicious pie, hot and steaming and fragrant, left right in front of you, ready to offer a bite.”

“I see,” said Millie without judgement.

“It isn’t a momentary temptation, you understand,” Claire continued, turning her face toward her sister in the rolling shadows.

“It is one of those things that will scratch at you, wear you away, until you finally succumb. You must have a slice of the pie if you ever want to go back to a world that isn’t dominated with thoughts of it. It is the only way to end the torment.”

“So you … you had a slice of the pie?” Millie asked, unmoving, without inflection.

“Yes.” Claire frowned. “No! I nibbled a bit at the crust, and it’s only made things worse. The pie didn’t cooperate.”

“I hate when they do that,” Millie replied, a dryness creeping into the steadiness that honestly made Claire feel a little better.

Claire pushed herself up, her hair coming out of its clasp in bent ringlets around her face. “You can’t just have a nibble of crust, Millie! You have to eat an entire slice of the pie. There is no cheating! There’s no way around a craving!”

Millie reached up to touch her lips, as though to push them away from forming an expression that might be interpreted as laughter. “Claire, my dearest,” she said with a little snort, “I think I am losing my grip on this metaphor.”

“I think you understand me perfectly well,” she shot back, the lights from the Crooked Nook approach making their faces waver and flash unsettlingly. “In fact, I’m certain you do.”

“Perhaps,” Millie replied easily as they drew to a halt, as the driver’s feet hit the pebbles underfoot. “Though nibbling could mean a great many things, you must agree.”

“Why don’t you just assume I literally bit him and be satisfied with that?” Claire mumbled back, cutting herself off as the door opened and they were offered a hand down to the drive of the house.

“I’d rather not picture it, to be frank with you,” Millie answered pleasantly, as though they were discussing unpleasant decor.

She ignored Claire’s cutting glance at her and smiled beatifically as they entered the house and scaled the stairs.

When they reached the top, she did not turn toward her own rooms.

“What are you doing?” Claire demanded as her sister fell in step with her toward the master suite and followed her inside.

“Preventing you from the follies of midnight cravings,” Millie replied, stepping over to the vanity like it belonged to her and beginning the process of removing her jewelry and unpinning her hair.

“Everyone knows that indulging in the dead of night always results in eating far more pie than you would with a clear mind and a rested temperament.”

“Why do you care if I eat too much pie?” Claire returned, pulling her wardrobe open. “I got the impression before that you’d approve if I did.”

“Ah, well, even good things can harm us in excess or poor planning, Claire,” Millie answered, walking over to assist her with the laces at the back of her dress. “It is best to eat the pie when you know for certain that you want to.”

“I absolutely want to,” Claire grumbled, winning a shocked titter from her sister.

The gown came off over her head, followed by the stays. She kicked her mud-speckled shoes into a corner. She threw her earrings and lace choker into a dish on her nightstand.

“I will sleep in my shift,” Millie said when Claire offered her a nightgown. “You know your things never fit me.”

“Fine.”

Once they were tucked into the bed and the lanterns had been extinguished and dark had settled over them enough to no longer be impermeable, Millie turned her head on the pillow to look at her.

“Knowing that you want to isn’t a bad thing,” she said. “It is more valuable for certain than not knowing what you want at all.”

“Maybe,” Claire allowed. “The problem is the regret you feel after you’ve given in to a craving that you know is bad for you. The problem is never fitting into your favorite dress again because of all the pie.”

In the dark, Millie’s hand slid across the blankets and clasped Claire’s. She sat with what Claire had said for a moment, considering it, and then she answered, “Sometimes, the pie is not nearly as heavy as we remember it having been. Sometimes, a lighter touch makes it less of a risk.”

“Rarely,” Claire answered, sighing.

“And sometimes,” Millie added with a squeeze, “we realize that we’ve outgrown a favorite dress. Sometimes, a day comes where the fabric has worn thin or the fashion has run its course or it doesn’t suit us anymore at all because we, ourselves, have changed.”

Outside, somewhere in the direction of the dower house, a dog barked. Outside, more carriages began to arrive, crinkling into the drive under a chorus of yawns and well-wishes.

“Let’s just go to sleep,” Claire suggested, “before I actually go down to the kitchens and demand a literal pie.”

“All right,” said Millie on a yawn. “Sleep tonight. Pie tomorrow.”

Claire did not know if she meant it literally or figuratively, and could not ask before she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.