Ever since she was injured in a terrible accident, Cordelia Williams has felt adrift. The accident claimed more than her limb; it ruined her reputation and destroyed her dream of becoming a famous painter.
Worried that her disability makes her a dis...
Cordelia was dying a slow and painful death. If the stifling heat wasn't enough to smother her, then the tepid conversation between her mother and sister ought to do the trick. It felt like a flock of starlings was assaulting her ears.
She sighed, casting a mournful look out the drawing-room window. A grove of oak trees stretched toward the afternoon sun, cool shadows pooling beneath their leafy canopies. A wooden swing hung from one of their branches, inviting her to escape outdoors and forget her troubles.
Unfortunately, Cordelia was stuck listening to her mother drone on about eligible bachelors and the decline in courtship standards. If she had to hear about the esteemed Mr. Ingram one more time—
Her sister Ophelia let out a chirping laugh.
Cordelia flinched, sending her sewing needle into her thumb. Blood welled at her fingertip, glittering like a ruby in the afternoon light. It was just a pinprick, but it brought back memories of the terrible day everything changed.
Cordelia shook her head. She wiped her finger on a spare handkerchief and returned to her sampler. The purple thread had tangled itself into a knot, and the design resembled a spiderweb of stitches more than an actual flower. It wasn't her best work, but she'd sewed worse.
Her mother paused her lecture and glanced across the room, frowning.
"Cordelia, darling," she said, "remember what I told you about sticking to your strengths? Perhaps you ought to set the sampler aside and start another painting."
Cordelia stilled. That was rude-her sampler wasn't that bad. With a little squinting, the pattern almost looked like a lilac.
Ophelia peered over her shoulder and made a face. Never mind. Apparently, the flower was that bad.
"Is mine acceptable?" Ophelia asked, waving her sampler.
The white fabric sported a blue jay with a lopsided head and a broken wing. The bird clung to a twig with misshapen feet, seconds away from plunging to its death. It seemed a little macabre for a sampler. Then again, the injuries could be a consequence of poor stitching-one could never tell with Ophelia's work.
Their mother leaned forward, running her fingers over the jagged stitches. "Your needlework is beautiful, Ophelia. It will look lovely on the mantle."
Ophelia beamed. She hopped to her feet, crossing the room to inspect the mantle. A row of samplers depicting birds with various ailments lined the wooden ledge. Ophelia reached up, removing the last of Cordelia's paintings to make room for the blue jay.
Cordelia looked away. There was no point in speaking up; it only resulted in scoldings and more projects. She stared at the faded wallpaper, threadbare rug, and cold fireplace-anywhere to avoid seeing her mother's doting gaze on her younger sister.
"You'll have to mention your embroidery accomplishments when Mr. Ingram arrives for afternoon tea," Mother continued. "He is worth 10,000 pounds a year, and he's the nephew of a baron at that! This would be an advantageous match for you, Ophelia."
Ophelia clapped her hands, her excitement diffusing through the room like flowery perfume.
"I shall wear my pink dress and matching hair ribbons," she exclaimed. "Oh, there are so many hairstyles to choose from! Do you think Mr. Ingram prefers pinned curls or a braided coiffure?"
Mother tilted her head, considering. "I think a braided coiffure would be best. It will draw attention to your emerald necklace."
"Oh, yes! I simply must wear Grandmother's emeralds," Ophelia chirped. "Men love to comment on how the jewels make my eyes shine." She picked up a handheld mirror, admiring her reflection in the polished silver.
"And me?" Cordelia prompted. Her voice sounded deafening in the small study.
Mother turned, her smile slowly fading. "And you?"
Cordelia picked at her ruined sampler, winding a loose thread around her finger. "How would you like me to greet Mr. Ingram for afternoon tea?"
Mother's gaze darkened, taking on a flinty edge. "I don't see why you should," she said. "Your presence would dampen your sister's prospects. You don't want Ophelia to become a spinster, do you? Perhaps you could use that time to make another painting for her. The last one she presented was very popular. It's the least you can do."
Cordelia nodded. She felt like a weed overshadowed by flowers, yearning for the sun's light despite knowing it would never shine as brightly on her. She'd learned her place after the accident, and it wasn't among the tulips, roses, and daffodils.
Mother's gaze drifted to Ophelia again. "Good. I'll see you at supper. Your father and I have an important announcement."
Cordelia rubbed her eyes, fighting a headache. The important announcement ought to be entertaining. The last one resulted in a bitter argument that spanned four days. Her mother threw a spoon at her father's head. Ophelia cried. Benny hid under the table and tied everyone's shoelaces together. The argument finally ended when Cook suggested a compromise. The topic of the vehement debate? Whether pickled herring should be added to the summer menu.
"I'll prepare for supper accordingly," Cordelia promised. "If you'll excuse me, I need to start working on my next painting."
She rose, setting the sampler aside. Her yellow dress billowed around her legs as she walked toward the drawing-room doors. The paneled wood swung open, releasing her into the hall. Mother muttered something about Cordelia's embroidery skills being a lost cause, and Ophelia tittered behind her back. Their voices faded to an indistinct buzz as the door clicked shut.
Cordelia sighed, running her hand across her brown braid. Wisps of hair escaped, framing her flushed cheeks.
Once, she would have been thrilled to set aside her embroidery and paint. There was something about the sight of creamy blues, fresh greens, and buttery yellows splashed across a canvas. A painter could create anything.
And Cordelia had. The scenes she'd painted varied as much as her colors. She'd captured the sun's rays dancing across a pond in autumn, a team of horses prancing through winter snow, and a little girl surveying the sea under a blanket of stars.
But that was before the accident. It'd been two years since she'd painted anything other than flowers. Dull, boring flowers that Ophelia could present to suitors and pass as her own.
At least it spared her from having tea with the esteemed Mr. Ingram. She looked out the window, checking for a telltale plume of brown dust. The path to their manor remained clear of any horses, although a thick wall of clouds gathered on the horizon. Servants bustled across the grounds, fastening the manor's windows and securing the doors.
Cordelia smiled. A summer storm was brewing. She knew what that meant.
Freedom, at last.
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