“Girls, do sit down,” their mother prompted as they entered the dining room, which was dimly lit. All their windows were covered tightly to block out any light that might shine through at night, as the blackout dictated, but it also served to make the daytimes equally dreary.
“Yes, Mother,” they answered in time, each taking their place at the obscenely long table.
Her father walked in, dressed in an immaculately pressed suit, and smiled at each of his daughters, then his wife, before taking his seat at the head. It was quiet, as always, the discussion kept to pleasantries.
“Are you girls enjoying your leave?” their father asked as they finished the main course. The chicken had been an unexpected treat, given the state of rationing.
“Absolutely,” Constance answered with a grin.
“Definitely,” Scarlett chimed in as the girls shared a secretive smile. Her parents didn’t know about Jameson. She’d need to tell them eventually, but not on her mother’s birthday.
“I wish you were home more,” her mother noted, her smile failing to hide the sadness in her tone. “But at least we’ll see you again next month.”
“Actually, we might not be able to visit quite so often,” Scarlett admitted. From now on, she’d spend every bit of leave she was given to see Jameson.
Her mother’s gaze snapped to hers. “Oh, but you must. We have so many arrangements to make before the summer.”
Scarlett’s stomach turned over, but she managed to lift her water and sip. Don’t jump to conclusions. “Arrangements?” she questioned.
Her mother drew back slightly, as though surprised. “Weddings take arranging, Scarlett. They don’t just happen. It took Lady Vincent a year to plan her daughter’s wedding.”
Scarlett’s eyes flickered toward Constance. Had she told them about Jameson’s proposal?
Constance subtly shook her head, already shrinking back in her chair.
Good God. Were her parents still intending to push the match with Henry? “And who is getting married?” Scarlett asked, straightening her spine.
Her parents shared a telling look, and Scarlett’s heart plummeted.
Her father cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve let you have your fun. You’ve fulfilled your duty to king and country, and even though you know my thoughts on this war, I respected your choice.”
“Appeasement was not the solution to the German hostility!” Scarlett snapped.
“Had they just negotiated an acceptable—” Her father shook his head, then took a deep breath, his jaw ticking. “It’s time to do your duty to your family, Scarlett.” His voice left no room for misinterpretation or argument.
Icy rage seeped into her veins. “Just to be clear, Father, you associate my duty to this family with marriage?” Their whole way of thinking was ancient.
“Naturally. What else could I possibly mean?” Her father lifted his silver eyebrows at her.
Constance swallowed and put her hands in her lap.
“It’s for the best, dear,” her mother urged. “You’ll want for nothing once the Wadsworths—”
No.
“I would want for love.” Scarlett took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “I thought I made it clear back in August when I asked you to stop feeding the paper lies.”
“It may have been premature, but it certainly wasn’t a lie.” Her mother drew back as if insulted.
“Allow me to clarify: I will not marry that monster. I refuse.”
“You what?” Her mother’s jaw dropped. “You are getting married this summer!”
“Well, it won’t be to Henry Wadsworth.” Even the name tasted vile in her mouth.
“You have someone else in mind?” her father quipped sarcastically.
“I do.” She lifted her chin. Birthday be damned, this couldn’t wait. They could not continue to plan her life. “I’m in love with a pilot, an American, and if I choose to marry, it will be him. You will have to find your income infusion elsewhere.”
“A Yank?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not!” Dishes clanged as her father slammed his hands on the table, but Scarlett didn’t flinch.
Constance did.
“I will do as I please. I am a full-grown woman”—Scarlett stood—“and an officer in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. I am no longer a child for you to order about.”
“You would do this? Ruin us?” Her mother’s voice broke. “Generations of sacrifices have been made, but you will not?”
She knew exactly where to hit her daughters hardest, but Scarlett pushed the guilt aside. Marrying Henry would only delay the inevitable. The way of life her parents clung to was disintegrating. There was nothing she could do to stop that.
“If there is ruining to be done, I’m quite comfortable saying that I am not the cause.” She took a deep breath, hoping there was something she could salvage here, a way to make them see. “I love Jameson. He is a good man. An honorable man—”
“I’ll be damned if I see this title, this family’s legacy, given to the spawn of a bloody Yank!” her father shouted, coming to his feet.
Scarlett kept her head high and her shoulders square, thankful that she’d spent the last year working in the most stressful environment imaginable, perfecting the art of remaining calm during a tempest. “You make the mistake of assuming I want anything to do with your title. I do not aspire to wealth or politics. You cling to something I have no interest in.” Her voice was soft yet steel.
Her father’s face pinkened, then deepened to a purely red hue as his eyes bulged. “So help me God, Scarlett, if you marry without my permission, I will no longer acknowledge you as my daughter.”
“No,” her mother gasped.
“I mean it. You won’t inherit a thing.” He jabbed his finger toward her. “Not Ashby. Not this house. Nothing.”
Her heart didn’t break—that would have been too simple. It ripped, straining, then tearing at the fibers of her soul. She truly meant that little to him. “Then we agree,” she said softly. “I am free to do as I wish, as long as I willingly accept your consequence, which includes not inheriting the very things I do not want.”
“Scarlett!” her mother called out, but Scarlett didn’t lower her gaze or give an inch as her father attempted to stare her down.
“And if I have a son,” she continued, “he, too, will be free of this anchor of obligation you treasure more than your daughter’s happiness.”