by Amy Corwin
Chapter Four
Marry!? Dorothy pressed a hand against her chest, trying to control her panic as she raced upstairs to the room she shared with her sister. She should have tried to look into the drawing room instead of just listening at the door.
He sounded so cold—inhuman. How could she marry him? Just because he was an earl? Such lofty titles meant nothing to her. She didn’t even know him. If she passed him on the street, she wouldn’t even recognize him!
But better her than Grace—that much she’d already resolved.
And five thousand pounds? They were heiresses and didn’t even know it! Why hadn’t Uncle Cyril told them?
Martha would certainly be pleased, though. Soon to be married and now gifted with a fortune…
And Grace… Why, with five thousand, she could return to Kendle and marry Mr. Blyth, after all. That would mean two of the three sisters would marry their heart’s desire, just leaving Dorothy…
Her stomach sank as her thoughts whirled back around to her first resolution. If she refused to marry the earl, her aunt might force Grace to do so. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Grace would be miserable.
Thoughts churning, Dorothy pushed open the door to her bedroom and walked inside. Her forehead and nose slammed into the open wardrobe door with a sudden burst of pain.
“Ow! Grace! You left the wardrobe open, again!” She stopped and rubbed her forehead with one hand and pushed the offending door closed with the other. A bruise was already forming—she could just feel it.
After several weeks living here, she ought to be used to the location of the wardrobe and the fact that Grace almost always left the door open. Unfortunately, Dorothy had been too distracted and, for a moment, thought she was in her old room at their home in Kendle.
When she glared across the room, preparing to scold her younger sister, she realized that the room was empty. Then she remembered that Grace had agreed to walk to Hyde Park with the younger Polkinghorne girls, Jane and Katherine. Their young cousins had improved somewhat since their last visit, and Grace seemed happy enough to flit about London with them, shopping on Bond Street and walking in various parks to eye the town beaus and remark on the exquisite gowns of the other ladies.
If Dorothy knew her sister, the three of them would be gone for at least an hour.
Which was all for the best as it gave Dorothy time to consider what she had overheard. Her hands twisted together as she walked to the bedroom window and glanced down at the bustling street below. She wasn’t sure how she felt about anything, anymore. The teeming streets, noise, and strange aromas of London both repelled and attracted her—she hadn’t even grown accustomed to the city, and here she was, trying to decide how she should respond to her aunt’s arrangements for her to marry an earl.
An earl!
She’d never dared to imagine marrying a peer of the realm, even after Martha had surprised them all by receiving an offer from a baron. Dorothy always thought she would find a nice, ordinary man, someone not too rich and not too poor, and settle down to a quiet life in the country. Of late, she envied her sister, Martha, more and more. Somehow, Martha had managed to find love with a childhood friend and stay in familiar, comfortable surroundings, while Dorothy and Grace had to move to the bustling city.
London was exciting and different, but it did not feel like home, even when Mrs. Polkinghorne was obviously making the effort to welcome them. Not to mention finding them eligible men to marry. She’d even found Dorothy an earl, of all things. Any normal girl would be positively swooning in ecstasy over the notion.
In contrast, here was Dorothy, fretting and irritated that her future should be settled so expeditiously after only a few weeks. The London Season was winding down, and no doubt the earl—what was his name? Lord Arundell? He was probably the catch of the Season. Most people would say she was simply being selfish and ungrateful.
Of course, he might also be stout, balding, and as toothless as an old toad, for all she knew. Although she hadn’t heard the entire conversation, she’d gotten the impression that he needed to marry, so perhaps he was quite old as well and in a hurry to beget heirs.
That unpleasant thought made her stomach clench and rumble again. She twisted her hands together, watching an old carriage rattle past in the street below without really seeing it.
Perhaps she could return to Kendle—no, Ashford, now—and throw herself on her sister’s mercy. Martha would certainly welcome her. They had always been close, and Martha was due to marry Lord Ashbourne soon. By the time Dorothy arrived, Martha might already be married and settled comfortably.
A snort of exasperation with herself escaped her. She rubbed the sore spot on her forehead again. She was being ridiculous. She could not intrude on Martha so soon. Why, she hadn’t even married, yet. And what about Grace?
Hadn’t Aunt Mary said something about an inheritance due to them? Another solution occurred to Dorothy. She and Grace might be able to return to Kendle and rent a little cottage. In time, Grace and Mr. Blyth might even marry.
Leaving me quite alone. Thoughts cascaded through her mind, faster and faster, whirling like the fall leaves in a gust of frigid autumn wind. Mr. Polkinghorne would no doubt wish to control their inheritance until they were settled to his satisfaction, at which point he could hand the reins of management over to their husbands. It was the way of the world, and made the pleasure of widows who managed to gain control of their fortunes and destiny after the death of their husbands all the more understandable.
Dorothy wouldn’t mind being a merry widow, although the obedient wife period before the merry part seemed a little unfortunate.
Maybe if Lord Arundell truly were the elderly bachelor she feared, he would clutch his chest and drop dead to the church floor upon conclusion of the wedding ceremony. She smiled and rested her forehead against a cool pane of window glass.
That was rather a bloodthirsty thought, but a lady could dream, couldn’t she?
She was still fretting over increasingly outlandish notions when her sister returned, only a half hour before supper and in a hurry to dress. On impulse, Dorothy kept her news to herself.
After all, it might not even come to fruition, she decided. Marriage contracts were tricky things, and her uncle was inclined to wring every advantage possible out of any situation. He might irritate the earl enough to make him cry off from the whole thing.
This prospect seemed even more probable when first one week and then another passed without any visit from the earl or announcement from either Uncle Cyril or Aunt Mary. Some of the tension that had settled as a dull ache between Dorothy’s shoulder blades eased.
She’d been worried over nothing, it seemed.
Life settled into a pleasant routine. Dorothy joined her sister, along with Jane and Katherine, on several of their outings, and they often persuaded Stephen to escort them in the family’s landau to the new London Bridge to see the progress on its construction. The new bridge was due to open in just a few weeks, early in August, and it already looked quite done to Dorothy.
Stephen was not loath to join them as he seemed to have developed a partiality for Grace. He was forever following her around, offering to fetch this or that item or to escort her to any destination in London and giving her extravagant compliments. Much to Dorothy’s surprise, Grace tolerated it very well, although once or twice she’d rolled her eyes during one of Stephen’s more prolonged discourses extolling her incomparable beauty in the loftiest terms.
As for her, Dorothy had to force herself to display even a pretense of happiness in his company. There was something so unctuous, so patently false about him, that she often wondered what he truly felt. Once or twice when she’d caught his gaze upon her, she could have sworn he disliked her heartily from his narrowed eyes and compressed mouth. Nonetheless, he kept up a pretense of agreeableness as he dogged Grace’s footsteps.
And while Dorothy was the first to admit that Grace was the beauty of the family, she was hardly Helen of
Troy and Venus rolled into one as Stephen claimed. Nor was she the precise image of Praxiteles’s statue of Aphrodite of Knidos, modeled on the courtesan Phryne and later lost to history, as he exclaimed extravagantly—and somewhat suggestively, Dorothy thought, since the original sculpture was reputed to be of a nude female figure.
He may have thought the reference showed him to be a well-educated intellectual, but in reality, he just sounded more sycophantic and ludicrous than ever when he said it.
At least Jane and Katherine had improved with time and appeared pleased to have Grace to introduce to the sights of London and escape from the endless piles of sewing that normally occupied their time.
Life seemed to be settling into a more-or-less pleasant routine when Aunt Mary cleared her throat and looked around the supper table one evening.
“Before we ladies leave the men to their port—” She flushed when she caught sight of her husband’s lowered brows and frowning face. “Um, important discussions of the day’s business, of course.” She beamed at him.
Uncle Cyril huffed and turned his attention back to the last bit of apple dumpling in his bowl.
“In any event, you will all be pleased to learn that we will be hosting a supper party on Wednesday next, and we are to be honored by the presence of Lord Arundell!” Aunt Mary flashed a smile at Dorothy before patting the corners of her mouth with her serviette.
Covering her mouth with her linen serviette, Cecilia snickered and leaned her shoulder against Dorothy. “The evil earl! If he’s coming to eat with us mere mortals, I can only suppose we are his last resort for any sort of a social life after everything he’s done.”
“What he’s done?” Dorothy stiffened and gave her cousin a small shove to get her to stop pressing her weight against her before Dorothy fell entirely out of her chair. “What do you mean? What has he done?”
Cecilia only giggled and straightened as her mother rose to her feet.
“Girls,” Aunt Mary said. “Let us retire to the drawing room. Your father wishes to entertain our supper guest with music, so we must review the music we have available to find a few appropriate pieces.”
Groaning in harmony, Jane and Katherine exchanged glances as they threw their serviettes down on the table and got to their feet. Grace just smiled sweetly. She—like Dorothy—was hopeless as a musician and obviously expected to be excluded from the horrors of a public performance.
“Do you girls play the pianoforte?” Aunt Mary asked as she shepherded them to the drawing room on the first floor.
“No. Not at all,” Dorothy replied firmly.
Aunt Mary frowned at her as they trooped obediently into the dainty yellow and green drawing room and took seats around the marble fireplace. “Have you no accomplishments at all?”
“Dorothy embroiders quite well,” Grace replied, a saucy twinkle in her blue eyes. “And she does wonderfully dramatic readings from Byron—why I believe she even memorized Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage last summer, did you not, Dorothy?”
Jane and Katherine giggled behind their hands.
Sighing, Dorothy shook her head. “It has been so long that I fear I can no longer remember it. And since Uncle Timothy now has father’s library, including his volume of Byron’s poetry, it is impossible for me to contribute, much as I would like to do so.”
Squirming on the sofa, Jane reached over and squeezed Grace’s arm. Wide-eyed and with patently false innocence, she declared, “Oh, but I have Byron’s complete works, Cousin Dorothy! So you need not be excluded, after all.”
Dorothy stared at her with undisguised loathing as Jane covered her mouth with one hand and giggled. In an appalling act of betrayal, Grace snorted with laughter.
“How perfect!” Aunt Mary looked at Dorothy, smiling with approval. “Then we shall have Cecilia play the pianoforte while you, dear Dorothy, recite something from Byron.”
When Dorothy opened her mouth to protest, Aunt Mary leaned forward to clasp her wrist and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Lord Arundell shall be very pleased, I am sure, to hear whatever poetry you wish to recite—it need not be Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage if you cannot recall it.” She sat back with an air of satisfied decisiveness, clasping her hands in her lap. “And your uncle cannot object to that! It is not frivolous—which he always finds objectionable. Why, it is quite intellectual, is it not?”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” Jane agreed exuberantly before breaking down into giggles.
In her excess of amusement, she leaned toward Grace who had also broken out into laughter she tried to hide behind her hand. Dorothy scowled at her sister to no avail, feeling well and truly snared. She could just imagine how ridiculous she would look, reciting Byron’s poetry while Cecilia plodded along on the pianoforte in accompaniment. It would be almost—but not quite—as bad as those ridiculous parlor tableaux which so many ladies adored as it allowed them to dress up and pose as a favored painting or scene from Shakespeare. Draping yards of linen over her gown and assuming an awkward pose as a character such as Helen of Troy, shrinking in horror at her part in the fall of Troy, would only make the evening utterly unendurable as far as Dorothy was concerned.
At least they were not expected to do that.
Aunt Mary chewed on her index finger and eyed Dorothy. “That is all very well, of course, but we must have other entertainments, as well. Perhaps you girls could perform a morally uplifting tableaux? I have always found the story of Helen of Troy so romantic.”
A groan escaped from Dorothy. She caught her sister’s gaze and raised her brows. Revenge, at last. Dorothy wouldn’t be the only one embarrassed by this notion. Grace shook her head and leaned toward Jane, holding her hand up to hide her lips as she whispered into her cousin’s ear.
“Is that not a trifle old-fashioned, Aunt Mary?” Dorothy asked, scowling at her sister. “There are so few uplifting tales, and I hardly think that anyone portraying Helen of Troy after her elopement with Paris would give Lord Arundell the right notion of us.”
Aunt Mary blushed. Her gaze bounced around the room before she finally said, “Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“If Cecilia will agree to play for us, perhaps we may have a few dances, and a game or two of chess. Uncle Cyril likes chess, does he not?”
“Yes,” Aunt Mary admitted slowly. She blinked several times, clearly trying to think of some other less intellectual pastimes.
“Then after the dancing, we shall engage in a few harmless games such as chess. Would that not be best, Aunt Mary?” Dorothy asked.
“I suppose so,” Aunt Mary admitted with a frown, clearly wishing she could think of some other innocent pastime to which her strict husband could not object. “Don’t forget that you must also recite a poem, Dorothy. I am sure it will impress our guest, Lord Arundell.”
Dorothy nodded, not trusting herself to make a polite response.
The matter was left there as Uncle Cyril soon joined them, and it was not long before they all went to their rooms for the night.
As always when one wished for time to slow down, it sped up. The night of the supper arrived before Dorothy was ready for it. At least she’d had time to memorize The Adieu by Lord Byron, in hopes that Lord Arundell would get the hint and bid adieu to his notion of marrying Dorothy, sight unseen. As for Cecilia, after several fits and starts, she decided that one of Bach’s lesser known works would suit The Adieu and had practiced vigorously all week.
When Wednesday came, Dorothy found herself being dressed in a cerulean silk dress with gauze over-sleeves and yards of lace and silk flowers strewn all over the wide skirt. She felt ridiculously overdressed, but Aunt Mary had been so pleased to present her with the extravagant dress that she could hardly refuse to wear it, although she suspected the gown was one of her aunt’s cast-offs. She did make one attempt, however, to remind her aunt that she was still in mourning.
Her aunt grandly ignored her protest. “Blue is not at all objectionable, my dear child, even so soon after such a grievous loss. And it shall be a ver
y small supper. The only guest is Lord Arundell, and no one could make any censorious comments about that. After all, he is…well, never mind. It is not as if we were hosting a ball, or even a dance, after all.”
“We did say we would dance, though, did we not?” Dorothy glanced at her sister, but Grace was busy gossiping with Jane and didn’t notice. “It is all rather frivolous, so soon after our father’s death.”
Aunt Mary frowned at her and fidgeted in her chair. “It is a simple supper. We must eat after all, must we not? And you know perfectly well that your uncle would never approve of any activities which were not entirely appropriate, so I suggest you leave matters in my hands and be governed by my decisions. It may be difficult, but you must accept that I know what is best for both you and your sister.”
“I am sure you do,” Dorothy agreed slowly. Or think you do.
With that, Aunt Mary began preparations in earnest, though she did have the kindness to ask both Grace and Dorothy what foods they might like best as a way to include them in the activities. Unfortunately, she followed up with the remark that she didn’t really think such plain dishes were suitable when one had an earl as a dinner guest.
Then, an hour before the earl was due to arrive, Aunt Mary’s personal maid dashed into the room and swept Dorothy’s hair up, making an intricate confection with the assistance of a great deal of hair that was not Dorothy’s and appeared to have once belonged to a horse. Just like Aunt Mary, the maid ignored Dorothy’s protests and sculpted long dangling ringlets on either side of Dorothy’s face.
Feeling like a fool, Dorothy’s only recourse was to avoid all mirrors as she delicately made her way down the stairs to the drawing room. Her head felt top-heavy and exceedingly uncomfortable.
Mrs. Jolly, acting as butler, threw open the drawing room doors and announced Dorothy.
Dorothy cast a quick glance at the stairs behind her. Was it too late to run back to her room and bolt the doors? With unexpected perceptiveness, Mrs. Jolly stepped behind her, blocking the only avenue of retreat.
