Now, however, Diana sat studying her sister-in-law, who wore a lazy smile on her face thanks to the champagne coupe in her hand and the wedding breakfast they’d just enjoyed.
“Do you know, I’d forgotten what this tasted like,” said Cynthia, raising her glass.
“You mentioned,” said Diana.
“It tastes like happiness,” Cynthia said.
It, Diana realized, was quite possible that Cynthia was drunk before the four o’clock hour.
“That’s Bollinger for you.” She’d opened up the wine cellars again today, a move that had made Mrs. Dibble look positively queasy. But what was a wedding without something to toast with? Miss Adderton had done her best with the food, but there was no changing the fact that rationing was still on. It felt good to air out the well-stocked wine cellar for a celebration.
“The bride looks pretty,” said Cynthia, squinting in the direction of the new Mrs. Hastings.
“Brides are always pretty on their wedding day. It’s a rule,” said Diana.
“You were lovely.”
Only Diana’s long-trained control kept her from recoiling at the compliment. “Thank you.”
“I remember thinking you were beautiful and my brother was handsome. What a funny thing it was that you two married.”
“Funny?”
“Oh yes, don’t you think? I doubted you would be married at all when I first met you,” said Cynthia.
“I was already engaged to Murray when we first met.”
Before Cynthia could reply, Robin pounded across the veranda to Diana.
“Mummy! Mummy! Do you want to see how fast I can run?” he shouted between excited breaths, Miss Adderton’s nephew close on his heels.
“Robin, now isn’t a good time,” she said, her eyes sliding to her sister-in-law.
“But, Mummy! Bobby and I have been practicing,” he whined.
“Go play in the garden,” she said while Cynthia tried to sip from her already-empty glass.
Her son skipped over to Bobby and whispered something in his ear. The pair of them giggled and ran off together.
“Yes, I didn’t see how a marriage between you and Murray would work at all,” Cynthia continued, unprompted.
“Why?” Diana fought to keep the edge out of her voice. She shouldn’t have asked—nothing good would come of digging up old feelings—but she couldn’t help herself.
Cynthia laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“My family is just as good as yours.”
Cynthia gave an uncharacteristic snort. “Oh, better if you asked your mother.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging her mother’s snobbery. Truthfully, the Eddings family had made its money in the Napoleonic Wars, and the Symondses had only acquired their wealth when Murray and Cynthia’s mother had married into the family, bringing the Melcourt soap fortune and Highbury House.
“Then what was it?” she asked.
Cynthia leveled a look at her. “I thought my brother was going to swallow you alive. You were such a quiet, serious thing, and my brother was a bully.”
“Murray was not a bully,” she said automatically.
“Oh, Diana, he was, though. Even you must see it. He wasn’t cruel, but he had to have his way, and he wielded kindness to get it,” said Cynthia.
“I won’t stay here and listen to this,” she said, pushing herself out of her seat. “I cannot believe you’d speak about your late brother that way.”
“And I cannot believe that you can’t see that he did it to you, too.” Stunned, Diana slowly dropped back into her chair, and Cynthia leaned in closer. “When was the last time you went to a concert?”
Diana swallowed around a lump of emotion. “We moved to Highbury. It’s not like London.”
“You could have found something in Leamington Spa or Birmingham, or you could have taken the train down with Murray. He was always in London. Without you.”
“Are you’re implying—”
“No, nothing like that. For all his faults, he had a moral compass, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave you up here to rot.”
“I became a mother. I had to put music aside,” she said.
Cynthia snorted. “No, you didn’t, and you have a nanny.”
“There was so much to do…”
“Besides, you stopped doing things you enjoyed long before you became a mother, didn’t you?” asked Cynthia.
“Concerts can be so tedious—” She stopped abruptly.
“My brother hated anything where he had to sit quietly and let something or someone else be the center of attention. Concerts, opera, theater—none of it was for him, so he convinced you that you didn’t want to go, either.
“I’ll bet fifty guineas that he was the one who pushed to move to Highbury—a place where you didn’t know a soul—so that he could play at country gentleman. I’m sure he told you that you two would be happier without the distraction of parties and friends.”
“I didn’t like parties all that much,” she whispered. And she hadn’t, but she’d tried her hardest because, when they were first married, it had mattered to Murray that they were liked. Popular. She’d begun to gather a small group of women around her. She’d started to look forward to seeing them regardless of whether Murray was by her side. She began to have a life, and then Murray had inherited Highbury House and uprooted them. There had been no discussion, no question. London wasn’t a suitable place to raise children, he’d argued. Highbury was a home. She’d let him convince her. It seemed so obvious that it’s what she should want. But had she?
It felt as though all of these years she’d been watching her memories from behind glass, and Cynthia had just swung a hammer.
“In fairness to Murray, he probably thought that what you wanted and what he wanted were conveniently in step. He had Highbury House and an important London practice, a big house and a wife to make it beautiful. You built a life to his exact specifications,” said Cynthia.
But that wasn’t true. Highbury House was her creation because Murray had become bored of it. She’d dealt with the builders, decorators, and gardeners, answering their questions about what brass knobs to buy and how high to hang the pictures. She’d argued with the vendor who’d delivered the wrong bathtub for the master bathroom. Twice. She’d been the one exhausted at the end of each night, constantly covered in a fine layer of construction dust.
“And whatever happened to your harp?” Cynthia asked.
Her stomach fell. In her heart of hearts that she’d given up playing for Murray, and she’d resented him for it. Why else did her daily hour in the music room bring her so much joy and guilt all at once? Why else would she feel so furious when she thought about the time he’d come home from London and found her crying on Nanny’s day off because Robin had croup and she hadn’t even had time to bathe, let alone practice. He’d suggested she put away her harp, so she’d packed up her greatest joy because that was what a wife did when her husband was thinking of her best interests. She loved her husband, but when she thought of that day, she hated him, too.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Diana asked.