by Jane Ashford
“You never think so.” The flame in Cecelia’s eyes died. She turned her head away. “You should go now, James. We have no more to say to each other.”
“I’ll show you,” he said.
She sighed. “You know you’re persisting just because you’ve been refused. We’ve spoken of this before. You don’t need to fight every time you’re thwarted. Some matters are best forgotten. I wager you’ll be very glad, in an hour or so, that I rejected your offer. It will be an immense relief.” Her voice trembled slightly on the last word.
James brushed this irrelevance aside. He would convince her. He knew how to frame pretty compliments and send bouquets and play the suitor, even if he’d never bothered before. He would show her that she was mistaken and have her for his duchess. And then she would see… He would see that fire in her eyes again. For him. James found he wanted that very much indeed. And he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
There was no more to be done here today, however. This step of the campaign had not gone well. It was time to withdraw and prepare for the next. He stood, offered a polite bow, and walked out.
Cecelia sat on when he’d gone, stunned and shaken. She never would have imagined… But that wasn’t true. A year or so ago, she had imagined him on one knee, his heart in his eyes, asking for her hand. She’d simply never thought that dream would come true.
As it had not, commented a ruthless part of her brain. He hadn’t shown the slightest sign of kneeling. And hearts had not been mentioned. Still less love. With a sinking sensation, she heard his description of her again: “You argue for curtailed expenditures and considered decisions. You are an excellent manager and a master of accounts.” What a cold and distant picture. He might have been describing a competent estate agent he wished to engage. He didn’t think of her with love. She’d known that.
And she’d known that she must be the same—indifferent.
She’d tried, in the last few years. Whenever he was heedless or infuriating, she’d consigned her feelings to perdition. But before they could wither away, James would do something that belied his careless surface. He’d once spent two days searching the streets for her lost dog, and found him, too, after others had given up. He’d taught her to play cutthroat whist when she asked—partly as an amusement, she knew, but he’d seemed to take real pleasure in it. How they’d laughed when she demonstrated her new skills at a card party.
He’d stayed by her side at her court presentation, a polished, devastatingly handsome young man of twenty-four. His attentiveness had eased her nerves and increased her consequence among the ton. Last year, when her father had taken ill, James had actually called every day to ask about his health and showered Papa with fruit and the confections he particularly liked.
Whenever they attended the same gatherings, which was often, James talked with her and danced with her. No occasion passed without some interplay. He’d even defended her after she’d gone to that ball alone, despite his private criticism. She’d heard as much.
“But none of those are love,” Cecelia said to the empty drawing room. She’d concluded that James viewed her as a sort of possession, a connection who was not to be condemned, except by himself. But not as a woman he might truly care for. She’d accepted the disappointment, hidden her affections so thoroughly that she was certain no one suspected, and resigned herself to distance. She was no languishing miss to sigh over an unrequited passion. She got on with life.
And then he’d come here and asked her to marry him as a convenience, to…hire her in effect to take his work off his shoulders. It was like one of those fairy tales where granted wishes come in a form that makes them horrid. The fates had fulfilled her dream in a way that she could not want it. Cecelia laughed. When the laugh threatened to turn into something else, she ruthlessly cut it off.
She was certain James would come to his senses and be glad she’d refused. In fact, she would be surprised if he hadn’t already, now that he was well away. How sorry he would be if they’d become engaged! That would have added the final unbearable straw to this fiasco—to see him regretting his impulsive proposal even as he stood by his word. No, James would get over his pique and move on. He never lacked female company when he wanted it. Cecelia had become aware of that when she passed out of her first youth. There would be some awkwardness between them perhaps, and then this episode would be forgotten. Or, not forgotten. That was too much to ask. Unmentioned, rather. Receding with time until it began to seem fictional.
Her aunt Valeria strode into the room, bringing with her the sweet scent of honey. “Are you sitting here doing nothing?” she asked.
Nothing but shoring up the shattered fragments of my heart, Cecelia thought, and scoffed at her inner dramatics. “I suppose I am,” she answered.
“You might have come and helped me put the caps on the hives then.”
“We agreed that the bees and I do not get on, Aunt.”
“They don’t sting if you’re not afraid of them.”
“That is why you wear long gloves and a coat and a veil whenever you go near?”
Her aunt snorted a laugh. “Insolent girl. I do have extras of all those things.”
“Thank you, Aunt Valeria, but I shall leave the bees to you.”
Taking her customary chair at the table by the front window, her aunt said, “Very well, but you ought to develop some interests of your own.” She opened her notebook and reached for a quill.
Did she mean that Cecelia was on the road to spinsterhood? With a future resembling her aunt’s? The idea was unnerving. She did not have her aunt’s intellectual rigor or her lack of interest in people. But if she could not accept James’s chilly offer—of course not!—and she could not care so much for any other man, what was to become of her?
One of the footmen entered. “Several young ladies have called to see you, miss,” he said to Cecelia.
“Oh good,” said Cecelia, glad to have her thoughts interrupted.
“Oh blast,” said Aunt Valeria at the same moment.
Inured to the older lady’s manner, the footman did not even blink.
Cecelia had been expecting her new friends. It was fortunate that their visit hadn’t coincided with James’s. “Send them up,” she said to the footman. “And fetch tea and cakes.”
“Honey cakes?” asked her aunt.
“Of course.”
“Well, I will stay a little while. But I shan’t speak.”
“You never do, Aunt.” The words came out sharp after their previous exchange, but her aunt didn’t seem to notice.
Sarah Moran, Charlotte Deeping, Harriet Finch, and Ada Grandison entered in a chattering mass. It appeared that they had taken advantage of numbers to dispense with duennas. Cecelia welcomed them as a happy diversion until their first words to her. “We passed the handsome duke in the street as we were coming here,” said Ada.
“He looked out of sorts,” said Sarah.
“He was glowering,” said Charlotte. “I was so pleased to see it.”
“Why would you say that?” asked Harriet.
“I like knowing that very handsome people have troubles. Men in particular.”
“Oh, Charlotte, everyone has trials and tribulations,” said Sarah.
“Tribulations? What a word. He was scowling. There was no plague of frogs raining from the sky. He’d probably mussed his neckcloth or scuffed his boot.”
Cecelia didn’t wish to discuss the causes of James’s frown. She turned to Harriet. “Your note said you had something particular to talk about.”
“We’ve received some invitations,” Harriet replied.
“Harriet had the most, of course,” put in Charlotte. “As she is so grand now.” She and Harriet made faces at each other. “Ada is next because of her ducal fiancé.”
“My charming personality,” argued Ada.
“Or your frighte
ning eyebrows,” Charlotte teased. “Sarah and I are neck and neck in last place with only a few.”
“There seem to be so many different kinds of parties,” said Sarah. “We wanted to ask you how to choose.”
“And how to go on at each sort,” said Ada.
“I have begun a chart.” Charlotte took a sheet of paper from her reticule, unfolded it, and held it up. A grid had been drawn on it.
This attracted the attention of Cecelia’s aunt, who peered over at the page.
“I’ve put the types of events across the top,” Charlotte continued. “Then there is a space for each of us down the side with our strengths and weaknesses. Well, not Ada. She is finished with all this nonsense.”
“What nonsense?” asked Cecelia.
“Husband hunting,” replied Charlotte with distaste. “Or at least seeing if we wish to acquire a husband.”
“What other choice do we have?” asked Sarah.
“That is the trouble.” Charlotte’s scowl deepened.
“You will meet someone and fall in love,” said Ada. “All of you.”
“Because you did? Not convincing evidence,” replied Charlotte.
“The bees have a much better system,” said Aunt Valeria.
The girls all turned to look at her.
“The queen manages reproduction, and the rest of the hive has important work to do. Very fulfilling, I would think. They are all female, you know.”
“I thought you could not…” began Charlotte.
“Except for the drones. But they are thrown out after they do their job. They are useless otherwise. They don’t even have stingers.” She noticed the stares. “There is no need to gape at me like a school of goldfish.”
“We thought you said… That is, indicated that you could not hear us,” said Sarah.
Aunt Valeria made a dismissive gesture. “If I am deaf, I don’t have to take part in empty chatter.”
The four visitors looked at Cecelia, then back at her aunt.
“But you hear perfectly well?” asked Harriet.
“I would hardly call it a perfection,” scoffed the older lady.
“Aren’t you afraid people will find out?” wondered Sarah.
“I think a good many people suspect,” said Cecelia. She had mentioned this to Aunt Valeria in the past.
Her aunt’s response was the same this time, an indifferent shrug. “What if they do? I don’t care what the vast majority of people think. But you seem like sensible girls. I don’t mind speaking to you. A chart is an efficient tool.” She held out an imperious hand.
Charlotte hesitated, then passed her grid over.
“Balls are obvious, of course,” said Aunt Valeria, reading. “Dancing. I like this.” She set a finger on one corner of the page. “Opportunities for a scant bit of private conversation to judge a man’s character. Well put.” Her finger moved to the right. “Ah, rout parties.”
“Isn’t a rout a great defeat?” asked Sarah.
“The name makes one think of hordes of people running away in panic,” said Ada.
“If only they would,” said Aunt Valeria dryly. “That might be somewhat entertaining. Unlike the reality.”
“Routs are large gatherings,” Cecelia said in a bid to regain control of this visit. “The hostess hopes so, at any rate. And they do include a good deal of…milling about. People attend to pay their respects to the lady of the house and perhaps talk to friends. One stands, or walks from room to room.”
“Showing off one’s fine clothes,” said Ada.
“Yes, and observing others. There is no particular centerpiece, as at a concert. Many only stay a little while and then go on to another party.”
“That sounds quite tedious,” said Harriet.
“Exactly,” replied Aunt Valeria. “Which one are you?”
“Harriet Finch, ma’am.”
“Ah yes, the daughter of the old school friend.”
“Such an occasion might be pleasant if one sees friends,” said Sarah, returning to the ostensible subject.
“Much of the interest comes afterward,” said Cecelia. “In the gossip about who fainted from the heat or was snubbed in the crowd and so on.”
“So on,” mocked her aunt. “That would include the intrigues carried on in the crush. As if they would not be noticed. People in general are so very stupid.” She returned to the chart. “What next? Ah, conversaziones.”
“I’ve heard there are salons where serious topics are discussed,” said Sarah hopefully.
“Those are smaller,” said Cecelia. “With a much more limited guest list. Some are confined to established literary circles, along with people of rank and fortune who wish to patronize literature.”
“I don’t suppose they would invite us then,” said Charlotte.
Sarah sighed.
Cecelia started to mention a friend of her father who held select evenings devoted to spritely talk. Lady Tate’s soirees were known for interesting guests and competitive wit, as well as exquisite suppers. Then she hesitated. Perhaps it would be best to wait and see if the noble widow was willing to invite her young friends. Lady Tate might require some convincing. She wouldn’t want to disappoint them.
“Venetian breakfasts,” said Aunt Valeria in a contemptuous tone. “Such a ridiculous label.”
“An afternoon party that may last well into evening,” explained Cecelia.
“What is Venetian about that?” asked Harriet.
“Well, I don’t…” began Cecelia.
“Nothing whatsoever,” declared her aunt.
“I thought they might be on the water, with gondolas,” said Ada.
“That would entail logic,” said Aunt Valeria. “A trait that society lacks.”
“Perhaps Venetians prefer afternoon gatherings,” said Sarah. “I will…”
“Look for a book that explains the matter,” finished Charlotte.
“Well, I will.”
“Good for you,” said Cecelia’s aunt. “Research is never wasted.” She ran her finger along the chart. “Musicales. That is rather obvious.”
“Hostesses vie for well-known singers or musicians to entertain their guests,” said Cecelia.
“I’d like that,” said Harriet.
“Not I,” said Charlotte.
“Card parties,” read Aunt Valeria from the chart.
“Papa enjoys those,” offered Ada.
“Young ladies aren’t often invited,” said Cecelia.
“Because they require some skill?” asked Charlotte sarcastically. “And we are meant to stand about looking vapidly pretty. Well, as pretty as possible, which is easier for some than others.”
“You have a sharp tongue,” said Aunt Valeria. “I like you. What is your name again?”
“Charlotte Deeping. Ma’am.”
“I believe it’s more the gambling,” said Cecelia. “Some card parties set high stakes.”
“Young men gamble, young ladies amble,” said Charlotte.
Aunt Valeria gave a crack of laughter.
“Young men drink, young ladies shrink,” said Harriet.
Ada snorted. “Young men roister, young ladies cloister.”
Sarah thought for a moment. “Young men are educated, young ladies are rusticated.”
“Ha,” said Aunt Valeria. “I was right. Sensible young ladies indeed.”
The four visitors looked at Cecelia. “Your turn, Cecelia,” said Charlotte.
She surveyed their lively faces. “Young men roam, young ladies stay home.” Though she felt her contribution weak, she received a chorus of approving laughter.
“Or so they would have us believe,” said Charlotte when it died away. “I don’t care much for shrinking myself.”
Neither did she, Cecelia acknowledged. And she was happy to have found f
riends who felt the same way.
Four
James’s campaign to win a bride was delayed by an invitation to view a race between two of his friends in their new high-perch phaetons. The event ended at a country inn with a good many rounds of rack punch to congratulate the winner and some sore heads the following day. But he took up the issue when he returned to town.
James was quite confident of success. He had, after all, been acquainted with Cecelia for many years. He’d had ample opportunity to observe her, and he felt he must know her better than he realized. It was simply a matter of concentration and exertion. Clearly he outshone the fellows who had previously offered for her—those he knew about at any rate. And, without undue vanity, he couldn’t think of any other gentleman of the haut ton who was a better match. Didn’t the hordes of matchmaking mamas show as much?
He’d merely been too hasty. Women liked a bit of wooing. Cecelia was intelligent and impressively competent, but she was still a woman. He’d startled her with a stark question. He was sure she would see the sense of his plan, and fall in with it, once her pride was soothed. For that, he must be seen to have made an effort. He’d learned over the years that there were ways to get around her, if one bothered. And so he set about doing so.
Cecelia’s father seldom went out, even during the height of the season. But he did attend gatherings given by his friend Lady Tate, a widow with literary aspirations, and Cecelia always accompanied him. These evening parties were not particularly fashionable. Indeed, James suspected they were a dead bore, but his appearance at one of them would impress Cecelia. She would see that he was serious. And so he’d gone to some lengths to procure an invitation. It had been more difficult than he’d expected. Lady Tate appeared unmoved by his new title despite her own noble lineage. She’d practically interrogated him about why he wished to come. He’d had to hint at his interest in Cecelia before she begrudgingly allowed that he might attend if he promised to behave himself. Without having any idea what that was supposed to mean, he had vowed to do so. He had rather resented her tone.
