“Hyacinth,” her mother said, in that tone of voice that always made Hyacinth feel a little guilty, even though she knew better, “you know I only wish to see you happy.”

“I know,” Hyacinth said. That was the problem. Her mother did only wish her to be happy. If Violet had been pushing her toward marriage for social glory or financial gain, it would have been much easier to ignore her. But no, her mother loved her and truly did want her to be happy, not just married, and so Hyacinth tried her best to maintain her good humor through all of her mother’s sighs.

“I would never wish to see you married to someone whose company you did not enjoy,” Violet continued.

“I know.”

“And if you never met the right person, I would be perfectly happy to see you remain unwed.”

Hyacinth eyed her dubiously.

“Very well,” Violet amended, “not perfectly happy, but you know I would never pressure you to marry someone unsuitable.”

“I know,” Hyacinth said again.

“But darling, you’ll never find anyone if you don’t look.”

“I look!” Hyacinth protested. “I have gone out almost every night this week. I even went to the Smythe-Smith musicale last night. Which,” she said quite pointedly, “I might add you did not attend.”

Violet coughed. “Bit of a cough, I’m afraid.”

Hyacinth said nothing, but no one could have mistaken the look in her eyes.

“I heard you sat next to Gareth St. Clair,” Violet said, after an appropriate silence.

“Do you have spies everywhere?” Hyacinth grumbled.

“Almost,” Violet replied. “It makes life so much easier.”

“For you, perhaps.”

“Did you like him?” Violet persisted.

Like him? It seemed such an odd question. Did she like Gareth St. Clair? Did she like that it always felt as if he was silently laughing at her, even after she’d agreed to translate his grandmother’s diary? Did she like that she could never tell what he was thinking, or that he left her feeling unsettled, and not quite herself?

“Well?” her mother asked.

“Somewhat,” Hyacinth hedged.

Violet didn’t say anything, but her eyes took on a gleam that terrified Hyacinth to her very core.

“Don’t,” Hyacinth warned.

“He would be an excellent match, Hyacinth.”

Hyacinth stared at her mother as if she’d sprouted an extra head. “Have you gone mad? You know his reputation as well as I.”

Violet brushed that aside instantly. “His reputation won’t matter once you’re married.”

“It would if he continued to consort with opera singers and the like.”

“He wouldn’t,” Violet said, waving her hand dismissively.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Violet paused for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s a feeling I have.”

“Mother,” Hyacinth said with a great show of solicitude, “you know I love you dearly-”

“Why is it,” Violet pondered, “that I have come to expect nothing good when I hear a sentence beginning in that manner?”

“But,” Hyacinth cut in, “you must forgive me if I decline to marry someone based upon a feeling you might or might not have.”

Violet sipped her tea with rather impressive nonchalance. “It’s the next best thing to a feeling you might have. And if I may say so myself, my feelings on these things tend to be right on the mark.” At Hyacinth’s dry expression, she added, “I haven’t been wrong yet.”

Well, that was true, Hyacinth had to acknowledge. To herself, of course. If she actually admitted as much out loud, her mother would take that as a carte blanche to pursue Mr. St. Clair until he ran screaming for the trees.

“Mother,” Hyacinth said, pausing for slightly longer than normal to steal a bit of time to organize her thoughts, “I am not going to chase after Mr. St. Clair. He’s not at all the right sort of man for me.”

“I’m not certain you’d know the right sort of man for you if he arrived on our doorstep riding an elephant.”

“I would think the elephant would be a fairly good indication that I ought to look elsewhere.”

“Hyacinth.”

“And besides that,” Hyacinth added, thinking about the way Mr. St. Clair always seemed to look at her in that vaguely condescending manner of his, “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Nonsense,” Violet said, with all the outrage of a mother hen. “Everyone likes you.”

Hyacinth thought about that for a moment. “No,” she said, “I don’t think everyone does.”

“Hyacinth, I am your mother, and I know-”

“Mother, you’re the last person anyone would tell if they didn’t like me.”

“Nevertheless-”

“Mother,” Hyacinth cut in, setting her teacup firmly in its saucer, “it is of no concern. I don’t mind that I am not universally adored. If I wanted everyone to like me, I’d have to be kind and charming and bland and boring all the time, and what would be the fun in that?”

“You sound like Lady Danbury,” Violet said.

“I like Lady Danbury.”

“I like her, too, but that doesn’t mean I want her as my daughter.”

“Mother-”

“You won’t set your cap for Mr. St. Clair because he scares you,” Violet said.

Hyacinth actually gasped. “That is not true.”

“Of course it is,” Violet returned, looking vastly pleased with herself. “I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me sooner. And he isn’t the only one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why have you not married yet?” Violet asked.

Hyacinth blinked at the abruptness of the question. “I beg your pardon.”

“Why have you not married?” Violet repeated. “Do you even want to?”

“Of course I do.” And she did. She wanted it more than she would ever admit, probably more than she’d ever realized until that very moment. She looked at her mother and she saw a matriarch, a woman who loved her family with a fierceness that brought tears to her eyes. And in that moment Hyacinth realized that she wanted to love with that fierceness. She wanted children. She wanted a family.

But that did not mean that she was willing to marry the first man who came along. Hyacinth was nothing if not pragmatic; she’d be happy to marry someone she didn’t love, provided he suited her in almost every other respect. But good heavens, was it so much to ask for a gentleman with some modicum of intelligence?

“Mother,” she said, softening her tone, since she knew that Violet meant well, “I do wish to marry. I swear to you that I do. And clearly I have been looking.”

Violet lifted her brows. “Clearly?”

“I have had six proposals,” Hyacinth said, perhaps a touch defensively. “It’s not my fault that none was suitable.”

“Indeed.”

Hyacinth felt her lips part with surprise at her mother’s tone. “What do you mean by that?”

“Of course none of those men was suitable. Half were after your fortune, and as for the other half-well, you would have reduced them to tears within a month.”

“Such tenderness for your youngest child,” Hyacinth muttered. “It quite undoes me.”

Violet let out a ladylike snort. “Oh, please, Hyacinth, you know exactly what I mean, and you know that I am correct. None of those men was your match. You need someone who is your equal.”

“That is exactly what I have been trying to tell you.”

“But my question to you is-why are the wrong men asking for your hand?”

Hyacinth opened her mouth, but she had no answer.

“You say you wish to find a man who is your match,” Violet said, “and I think you think you do, but the truth is, Hyacinth-every time you meet someone who can hold his own with you, you push him away.”

“I don’t,” Hyacinth said, but not very convincingly.

“Well, you certainly don’t encourage them,” Violet said. She leaned forward, her eyes filled with equal parts concern and remonstration. “You know I love you dearly, Hyacinth, but you do like to have the upper hand in the conversation.”

“Who doesn’t?” Hyacinth muttered.

“Any man who is your equal is not going to allow you to manage him as you see fit.”

“But that’s not what I want,” Hyacinth protested.

Violet sighed. But it was a nostalgic sound, full of warmth and love. “I wish I could explain to you how I felt the day you were born,” she said.

“Mother?” Hyacinth asked softly. The change of subject was sudden, and somehow Hyacinth knew that whatever her mother said to her, it was going to matter more than anything she’d ever heard in her life.

“It was so soon after your father died. And I was so sad. I can’t even begin to tell you how sad. There’s a kind of grief that just eats one up. It weighs one down. And one can’t-” Violet stopped, and her lips moved, the corners tightening in that way they did when a person was swallowing…and trying not to cry. “Well, one can’t do anything. There’s no way to explain it unless you’ve felt it yourself.”

Hyacinth nodded, even though she knew she could never truly understand.

“That entire last month I just didn’t know how to feel,” Violet continued, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t know how to feel about you. I’d had seven babies already; one would think I would be an expert. But suddenly everything was new. You wouldn’t have a father, and I was so scared. I was going to have to be everything to you. I suppose I was going to have to be everything to your brothers and sisters as well, but somehow that was different. With you…”

Hyacinth just watched her, unable to take her eyes from her mother’s face.

“I was scared,” Violet said again, “terrified that I might fail you in some way.”

“You didn’t,” Hyacinth whispered.

Violet smiled wistfully. “I know. Just look how well you turned out.”

Hyacinth felt her mouth wobble, and she wasn’t sure whether she was going to laugh or cry.

“But that’s not what I’m trying to tell you,” Violet said, her eyes taking on a slightly determined expression. “What I’m trying to say is that when you were born, and they put you into my arms-it’s strange, because for some reason I was so convinced you would look just like your father. I thought for certain I would look down and see his face, and it would be some sort of sign from heaven.”