Page 17 of The Last Casterglass
“What!” Seph stared at her sister, panic beginning to pool in her stomach as the reality of it all hit her smack in the face. She really was trying too hard, and absolutely everyone would know, because she never did. She never tried at all. “Olivia, no. I don’t want to go to all this effort.” She kicked off the heels, fighting a proper panic now. “I’ll just wear my jeans and boots. No one will notice me, anyway—”
“Seph.” Olivia placed her hands on her shoulders to still her, her voice gentle. “What exactly are you afraid of?”
“I’m notafraid—” Seph almost snarled.
“Come on. I know you. You’re freaking out over wearing a dress and getting your hair cut. It doesn’t have to be a big deal, you know.”
Seph shrugged her sister’s hands away. “But I never do this stuff,” she half-mumbled. “And everyone will notice and comment on it. ‘Oh, Seph, really putting the boat out tonight! Who are you trying to impress, then?’” She could practically hear Althea trumpeting such a statement while everyone listened in, smirking. The thought alone was nearly enough to have her breaking out in hives.
“Okay, so then you just tell them you felt like a change. Shrug it off, or bite their head off if you’d rather, like you normally do. Who cares? This is for you, Seph, not them.” Olivia’s expression softened along with her voice. “Don’t hide yourself away. You don’t need to.”
Seph blinked, appalled to realise she actually had tears in her eyes, from her sister’s gentle words. She twisted away so Olivia wouldn’t see. She’d hidden away all her life, she thought, in one way or another. Stuck here at Casterglass, forgotten by just about everyone…she’d made hiding her choice, whether it was by being invisible or seeming too tough to care. At least it had given her the illusion of feeling in control.
“You can do this,” Olivia said quietly. “But only if you want to. I won’t force you—”
“Really?” Seph couldn’t keep from retorting. “Because that’s what you’ve been doing all afternoon.”
“Well, I’ll stop right now. This has to be your decision. Your desire.” Olivia stepped back, flinging her hands wide. “It’s up to you, Seph.”
Just then a voice floated up the stairs. “Hello, Olivia? It’s Helen, the mobile hairdresser…”
Seph met Olivia’s laughing gaze as her sister bit her lip, clearly unrepentant. “Whoops. Well, Icouldsend her away…”
Seph glanced back at the mirror. Shedidlook good in this dress, she thought with a sudden, fierce surge of determination. And screw anyone who thought differently! She’d bite their head off, just like Olivia said. Why not? If she could do it in dungarees and boots, she could do it in a dress. She threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin.
“Fine,” she told Olivia. “Let’s do this.”
*
Oliver was skulking.Walter Penryn had cornered him in the kitchen while he’d been loading up a tray with canapés and had insisted, with a sense of great beneficence and ceremony, that Oliver wear his great-grandfather’s velvet smoking jacket for the party that evening. Oliver would have been perfectly content in his usual uniform of button-down shirt and cords; for the occasion he’d ironed his shirt and added a very small spritz of aftershave.
Unfortunately, Walter wasn’t taking no for an answer, and so Oliver found himself crammed into a very worn jacket in emerald-green velvet with black silk lapels that smelled like mothballs and strained uncomfortably across his shoulders, while hefting a tray of smoked salmon on mini toasts. To say he felt ridiculous was, sadly, a gross understatement.
Althea had actually snorted when she’d seen him. “My father must really like you,” she’d remarked, which had caused Oliver to smile weakly. Heaven help him if her father started todislike him, he thought, although perhaps that would be a relief. He wouldn’t have to wear this jacket, anyway.
He’d been so busy with the orchard that he hadn’t seen Seph since their coffee, and he was eager to see her again, to make sure they were still friendly. He had a horrible suspicion that she might revert back to her sullen self, and he really didn’t want that. They’d actually beengettingsomewhere, out at the bakery, and Oliver did not want to lose ground. He’d meant to come back to the castle for lunch, just to check in, but he’d been waist-deep in brambles, hacking things with a scythe and working up a sweat, and that had felt good.
He liked feeling like he was accomplishing something, like he was, in a very small way, king of his own castle, or at least his own orchard. And he hoped, when his uncle saw what he’d done, he’d be impressed enough to hand him the keys to Pembury Farm.
Who are you kidding?
Now, standing by the front door while guests began to trickle in, Oliver did his best to silence that voice—and look for Seph.
The hall was filling up, various locals snatching up glasses of champagne or rum punch, helping themselves to the canapés Oliver offered, while mingling in front of the roaring fire, chatting and laughing. Althea had roped her thirteen-year-old son Tobias in as well as Oliver to pass around trays of nibbles, so at least he wasn’t the only one on waiter duty. Olivia had arranged vases of winter jasmine and Christmas roses around that gave off a lovely, festive scent, even though it was only November, and really, it all looked very cosy and welcoming.
It was a beautiful home, Oliver thought, far grander than Pembury, yet with a lovable, lived-in shabbiness to it that made him feel comfortable. He wondered if Pembury’s reception rooms were big enough to cater events, and then decided that they probably weren’t. But maybe, he mused, he could turn the old stone barn into some sort of reception hall. Swept out, with a chandelier above perhaps, space for a country band, it could be ideal for rustic weddings…
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed her. She had inched into the hall, looking more wary than sullen, and it took him several blinks to recognise her. Was thatSeph?
She’d got rid of her dreadlocks, he noticed first off, and her hair fell about her face in short, messy blonde ringlets. His gaze moved down and then widened at the sight of her in a dress—an actual dress. And what a dress it was, bringing out the green in her eyes, clinging to her willowy figure before flaring out about her long, slender legs… He choked on a laugh as he saw then what she was wearing on her feet—her old, clumpy work boots, and yet somehow, with her, the whole ensemble worked. He was glad she was wearing those boots, he realised, almost fiercely. He was glad she was who she was, boots and all.
He took a step towards her, a sloppy grin already spreading across his face, ready to make a joke about his own dubious outfit, when he stopped, because Sam had paused to speak to her.
“Wow, look at you, Seph,” Sam said, whistling softly. “Who are you trying to impress?”
Her shy smile immediately morphed into a scowl. “No one.”
“Are you sure about that?” Sam teased, and Seph’s scowl deepened so there were deep grooves on either side of her frowning mouth. “Althea told me you seemed into that guy who has come here to intern. Oscar? Oliver?”