Page 6 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"When am I to be exiled? Today? Tomorrow? Or has Edward graciously permitted me time to pack my scandal along with my stockings?"

"You are not being exiled⁠—"

"I am being sent away because I played pirates with the children and a duke observed my ankles. That sounds rather like exile to me."

"The carriage is waiting," Ella said quietly. "Your things have already been packed."

Of course they had. Of course her belongings had been gathered and loaded whilst she was brushing her hair and locating her shoes. Of course the decision had been made without her knowledge, her consent, her presence.

She was furniture. Inconvenient furniture that had been discovered in an unsuitable location and was now being removed to somewhere less visible.

"Where am I being sent?" Her voice emerged remarkably steady, considering.

"Raventhorn. To Margot and Percy." Ella would not meet her eyes. "Edward has written ahead. He thought—that is, we both thought—it might be time for you to consider... your situation. Your future."

"My situation." Florinda tasted the word. "You mean my unfortunate status as an unmarried woman of advancing years."

"You are six and twenty, not sixty⁠—"

"And yet apparently too old to be permitted to romp with children without causing a diplomatic incident." Florinda's hands had begun to shake. She clasped them behind her back, where Ella could not see. "What does the letter say? Be precise, please. I should like to know exactly how I have been described."

Ella's face crumpled. "He asked Margot to help you find a husband. A suitable match. Someone respectable who might⁠—"

"Might take me off everyone's hands." Florinda nodded, the motion jerky. "How efficient. I am to be managed. Disposed of. Paired off with some respectable gentleman who does not mind a wife with a reputation for exposed limbs and an excess of opinions."

"That is not⁠—"

"It is precisely what it is." Florinda's voice had gone very quiet. Very controlled. The voice she used when she was in danger of screaming. "I have spent four years making myself useful. Four years caring for your children, managing household crises, being the convenient sister who requires no attention because she has learned to want nothing. And the moment I become inconvenient—the moment I cause the slightest embarrassment—I am to be bundled into a carriage and shipped off to be married to whoever will have me."

"Florinda." Ella reached for her hand. "I did not want this. I argued⁠—"

"But you did not win." Florinda stepped back, out of reach. If Ella touched her now, she would shatter, and she had no intention of providing anyone with that satisfaction. "And so the carriage waits, and my trunks are packed, and I am to be grateful for the opportunity to find myself a husband whilst the palace recovers from the horror of my calves."

There was a long silence.

"I know," Ella said finally, "that this feels like punishment. But Margot will be glad to see you. And perhaps... perhaps some time away from court might help you find⁠—"

"Find what?" Florinda laughed, the sound brittle. "Contentment? A sense of purpose? A gentleman foolish enough to overlook eight years of spinsterhood and one spectacular incident of public impropriety?"

"Peace, perhaps." Ella's voice was gentle. "I know you haven't found it here."

The words were kind. That was the worst part. Ella meant well. Ella always meant well. And yet somehow Florinda still ended up alone, her future decided by others, her value measured in her usefulness and found wanting.

"I should like," Florinda said, with tremendous dignity, "to say goodbye to the children."

"Of course." Ella blinked rapidly, her composure fraying. "Of course, take whatever time you⁠—"

"Ten minutes should be sufficient. I would not wish to cause any further delays."

She left before Ella could respond. Before the burning behind her eyes could transform into something more humiliating than dignified retreat.

The children, at least, were uncomplicated in their grief.

Charlotte wept and demanded to know why Aunt Flor was leaving. James clung to her skirts with sticky fingers and refused to let go until bribed with the promise of letters. Even little Charles, who was too young to understand, seemed to sense the wrongness of the moment and contributed a wail of sympathetic distress.

"I shall write every week," Florinda promised, kneeling to bring herself to Charlotte's level. "And I shall tell you all about the countryside, and the horses, and whether there are any pirates to be discovered."

"There are no pirates in the countryside," Charlotte informed her, with the devastating logic of childhood. "Only sheep."