By the time the Anderson carriage arrived at their residence, the afternoon had begun to surrender to evening.
Penelope spent the greater part of the journey staring through the carriage window, watching the familiar streets pass without taking much notice of them. Francesca sat opposite her, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap.
She had spoken little since they left the gathering, offering only brief responses whenever she attempted to draw her into conversation.
Under ordinary circumstances, Penelope would have found the silence welcome. After the afternoon she had endured, she had little appetite for conversation, much less for the sort of polite remarks that served only to disguise the exhaustion beneath them.
Yet her thoughts refused to settle, not when Anthony declared his intentions to marry Francesca.
Marry.
