Nash winced. This was true, of course, for he had very much enjoyed attending every assembly, dinner and soiree he was invited to, finding it easy and enjoyable to make friends and be around jolly, pleasing people, regardless of their social standing. He had been making the most of his freedom, while it was afforded him, of course, but he could not say as much now, not while Abigail was within hearing.
“They offer a chance to see friends, Aunt, nothing more.”
“A great deal more!” his aunt remonstrated. “Why, that is the danger! Many young ladies attend such evenings with the sole intent of securing for themselves a husband, and young men are none too aware of the danger they place themselves in. Oh, it is all well and good to dance and be merry, but who knows what strings are laid ready to entangle your nimble feet.”
“I dance well enough to avoid them,” Nash countered, dropping his voice to obscure his last word from hearing. “Usually.”
“Do you know, Mr Weston, we have never before danced together!” Abigail exclaimed as if this were a scandalous predicament and one that must be remedied as soon as possible. “I hope you will not begrudge me the opportunity at this assembly, for I shall know no-one else, and be bound to be a wallflower if not.”
“As if you could ever be a wallflower, my dear!” Aunt Reed remonstrated. “You are too pretty, too agreeable. No, your problem will not be a lack of interest, I dare say, but too much. You must not abandon poor Nash for his friends, for he is sure to feel a little possessive of his soon-to-be bride.”
Nash stiffened at these words, although they were not unexpected. Although he had not formally offered his proposal to Abigail, it was clear that he could do little to delay the dreadful day. His aunt’s hints had grown increasingly specific, and increasingly pointed, and he was quite certain that if he did not make a move towards marriage then she would announce the engagement herself, regardless, before too many more days passed. The die was cast, and Nash must act, one way or another.
He turned Edmund’s note over in his hands, his eyes resting idly on his friend’s rushed cursive. No more hiding away from your old friends, for you are missed! How he missed them. It had been a fine time, the months he had spent in the countryside. How many hours had he wasted in running over to call on the Turners, and how warm had been his welcome! He glanced over at Abigail, wondering how different this empty, icy parlour might feel if it was gregarious, charming Louisa sitting in her seat. She would win his aunt over, surely, by virtue of her beauty and grace. If only she had a little money! His aunt might make allowances for many things, but she would not see his inheritance fall into the hands of a fortune-hunter, and no matter how agreeable Louisa was, that was what his aunt would see her as.
Perhaps I could love her enough to give up the fortune I have been promised. This idea was a new one, one that he had not dared to entertain before now. Was it possible to be happy without a cushion of wealth upon which to sit? He might marry Louisa, but they would never be afforded the comforts he now enjoyed. Even she would be forced to abandon what little comfort she had, as the daughter of a country gentleman. She was too fond of beauty, of elegance, to ever entertain such a sacrifice. It would be a disaster, he counselled himself, his hand tightening around the note and crushing it into a ball. We would end up resenting one another. No, better she despise him now than grow to hate him over time. Better he learn to accept his fate and maintain his status.
“I am looking forward to meeting all your friends, Mr Weston, so you must take great care to introduce me!” Abigail cooed, looking over at him with a cloying expression of devotion that made Nash shudder. “After all, once we are married, they shall be my friends too!”
He thought of clever, quick-witted Edmund, of Juliet’s sharp tongue, and realised with a sinking feeling that this was simply not true. They would tolerate Abigail on his behalf, but they would never be friends. Slowly, his old companions would slide from his grasp and he would be left with an elegant estate, but a wife he did not like.
Can such a trade possibly be worth making?
Chapter Eight
Juliet was used to being one of the first in her family to wake of a morning, but in London it seemed even more pronounced. She tiptoed downstairs, not wanting to disturb anyone. She and Louisa shared a room in their aunt’s house, and as Louisa was even more prickly when denied her desired amount of beauty sleep, she was determined not to wake her. Clutching her writing case to her chest, she crept into the parlour and was surprised to find her mother already there, sitting bundled up in a chair close to the embers of the fire.
“Mama!” Juliet’s cry was louder and seemed louder still in the quiet of the house. She cringed, dropping her voice to a whisper, and hurried to her mother’s side. “Is something the matter? You are not still unwell, are you?”
“Oh, no!” Mrs Turner smiled, patting the empty chair next to her and silently inviting her daughter to join her. “I was just awake, probably because I spent so long sleeping yesterday. I could not abide lying still any longer and have been trying to read, but I confess my thoughts are so eager to run amok that I struggle to keep pace with a novel.” She closed the book that had lain open, unread, on her lap and turned to Juliet. “But why are you awake so early?”
“I thought to write,” Juliet began, clutching her writing case as proof of her intent. “But I much prefer to speak to you.” She dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek, feeling a strange stab of sadness at the distance that would unavoidably come between them, once she and Edmund were married. It had happened with Maddy, and it would with Bess. An overwhelming sense of the loss her mother had weathered in a few short months swept over Juliet, and as she settled into her chair she turned to look at her mother carefully, seeing for the first lines around her eyes that suggested her age.
“Mama...” She could not quite think how to put into words the concern she felt, but somehow Mrs Turner seemed to sense it, all the same, reaching over and taking Juliet’s hand in hers.
“I am not sure I have had a chance to properly tell you how happy I am that you and Edmund are to be married.” She squeezed Juliet’s hand and smiled. “I confess, it is what I wished for since I first saw how close a friendship existed between you.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I should never have spoken of it, of course, for to do so would be to turn you in entirely the opposite direction.”
Juliet smiled, despite herself.
“You have always known your mind and not cared to be advised or directed in any way.” She let out a low sigh. “You and Louisa are both alike in that.”
“Louisa?” Juliet sniffed. “We are not alike at all, Mother, how can you say so?” She tugged on one of her tangled curls, pulling a droll face. “Can you imagine Miss Fashion-Plate ever emerging from her room without her hair perfectly in place, clad for style instead of for warmth?” She pulled a worn but comfortable shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, shivering for effect. “No, Mama, you are mistaken there. Louisa and I are not alike at all!”
Mrs Turner said nothing, but her eyebrows lifted as if she did not quite agree with Juliet’s assessment. Changing the subject, she released her hold on Juliet’s hand and tapped her writing case.
“Tell me about your book. What has become of poor Isabella and her Count?”
“Oh, they will marry, of course,” Juliet said, airily. She launched into a vivid description of the duel the anguished Count Valentino had been forced to undertake to secure his bride, and the villainy of her father in seeking to prevent the match, instead betrothing her to another.
“I had thought to have them run away together, throwing off the shackles of obligation and expectation and be happy -”
Mrs Turner sucked in a breath, and Juliet hurried to reassure her.
“But I did not!” She smiled. “There shall be no such scandal in my pages, Mama, do not fret. No matter how romantic I think it might be.” She let out a sigh, before shaking off the notion. “No, my hero will win over Isabella’s f
ather in some great feat of daring heroism, and he will be so enamoured with him he will consent to the marriage on the spot.”
“I suppose, the fact that he is a Count has been of some assistance in this?” Mrs Turner’s lips quirked, for she always took great amusement in the adventures that befell her daughter’s characters.
“A penniless count,” Juliet interposed. “If he had wealth as well as a title, what obstacle could there be?” She laughed. “I dare say it is foolish, and no publisher will ever care to see it, but it has given me so much enjoyment to scribble away that I do not even mind. I have written of ordinary folk, and I have written of adventure and I confess at present I prefer the latter, however unlikely it will ever be to be printed.”
“You should submit it, all the same,” Mrs Turner said, her voice growing determined. “If it is rejected, it is rejected. You must not merely place it in a drawer and forget about it.” She turned to her daughter with an earnest expression on her face. “Promise me, Juliet, that no matter how happy you are when you and Edmund are married - and I do hope and pray you are happy - you will not abandon your dreams, simply because other people might think them foolish.”
“I won’t, Mama,” Juliet managed, at last, surprised to see such feeling in her usually sanguine mother’s expression.
A floorboard creaked overhead, and both ladies glanced reflexively upwards, a slight sigh escaping Mrs Turner’s lips. “I suppose our hostess will be upon us before very much longer. I am sure your aunt will rejoice in the drama and scandal in your pages, Juliet. Perhaps do not tell her that you have placed just as much focus on morality as you have on excitement, for she will not favour that half so much.”
Her expression seemed strangely sad to Juliet, and she reached out a hand to her mother’s arm, but Mrs Turner shook it off.
“Do not worry about me, my dear. I have known my brother’s sister longer than you have been alive. Known her before she was Mrs Brierley, even! But we have never quite been friendly. There is very little alike in our characters, and I wager she did not much rate me as a sister.” Her eyes sparkled. “Yet sisters we are, after a fashion, and we have learned to tolerate one another.” Her expression softened. “You will find, my dear, that family opposition can and does relent over time.” She dropped a comforting kiss on Juliet’s forehead and stood.
“Well, I will leave you to your writing. I imagine you have a great deal to do before preparations begin for the assembly. I shall see you at breakfast, dear.”
“Goodbye, Mama,” Juliet replied, turning to watch her mother glide gracefully from the room. She could not help but think of Mrs Gale and take some comfort from her mother’s words. She must persevere with Edmund’s mother, and in time, they would find some way to bear being around one another. She bit her lip, thinking she might manage the task all the better if Mrs Gale were a little more like Aunt Brierley!
Smiling at the thought, she flipped open her writing case and shuffled through her papers, trying to recall where last she left off, and plunging herself back into a great, dramatic duel with abandon. How much easier such conflicts become on the page! The thought of challenging Edmund’s staid, simpering Mama to a duel tickled her, and she smiled as she wrote, scarcely noticing the passage of time.
MRS GALE HAD SOFTENED a little towards Edmund ever since their call at the Grenvilles. He did not think it likely that her opinion of Juliet had changed at all, but he dared to hope that she was at least softening to the fact of his marriage, and had come to accept that his choice had been made.
“How well you look, Mama!” he exclaimed, coming into the parlour the evening of the assembly and finding, to his surprise, that she was sitting there waiting for him. “And look, we are both ready early this evening!”
Mrs Gale stood, walking over to him and adjusting his cravat as if he were far younger than his years.
“This evening shall be far more widely attended than the assemblies we are used to at home; it is only sensible to aim to arrive early if we wish to have any chance of seeing our friends.”
Edmund smiled, cheered to see his mother more like her old self than she had been for many weeks.
“I suppose you shall want to wait for Juliet and the rest of the Turners, even if we arrive before them?”
Edmund’s smile stretched, but he nodded, determined not to allow his mother to bait him before the evening was even begun.
“You suppose right, but I shall not force you to do the same.” He leaned free of her hold, tugging the cravat himself and undoing all her good work, and following that up with a rumple of his dark curls for good measure. “You shall know plenty enough people there that I am sure you’ll be pleased to be rid of me.”
Mrs Gale looked at him, her expression almost wistful, and Edmund wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He smiled, to show that he was teasing, but her expression did not change.
“I think if either of us will be pleased to be rid of one another it shall be you.” She smiled, and when she did the expression was so tragic that Edmund felt himself drawn back to her side, fearing that some great calamity had befallen her that he was as-yet unaware of. He said nothing, though, and after a moment she blinked what looked like tears out of her eyes and drew in a stilted breath. “I am sure you will be so happy with your new bride that you shall scarcely even notice my absence! No, come along, if you are ready, and we shall be on our way.”
“Mama?” Edmund asked, holding out a hand to stop her as she made her way towards the door.
“We have no time, Edmund -”
“We have plenty of time, Mama.” He frowned, stern but gentle. “We could spare a few moments to speak freely with one another, without an audience.” He gestured towards a long, low-backed chaise and sat down on it, waiting with bated breath until she joined him.
“I do not know what we need to speak to one another about...” she mused, her voice sliding easily back into that airy, don’t-care attitude she had used with him of late.
“I know you do not approve of Juliet and my intent to marry, Mama. You have made your position clear. I know it is not Juliet that you dislike, nor the Turners, for they were our neighbours and friends all my life. Papa considered Mr Turner a friend, and I know that you did not dislike them. You regret, then, that I made my own choice, and did not bend to your will in this? Would you have been happier if I had married Miss Drew or another just like her?”
Mrs Gale fixed him with an unblinking stare, and Edmund did not look away, determined that they should have it out now, and be done with the matter once and for all.
“Would you?”
“No,” his mother said at last. “I confess it was pride on my part to think that I knew you better than you knew yourself, that I might find you a bride more deserving of your brilliance.” She lifted a hand to smooth down the curls that would forever rumple and refuse to lie flat. “I thought you deserved more...” She paused, her hand dropping to her lap, where she folded it with its companion and stared down at them, as if not quite sure she could bring herself to speak the whole.
“And?” Edmund prompted, watching her carefully for any clue she might offer even beyond words.
“Juliet is such a strong-willed young lady. She has never borne advice well, nor sought it out. When you marry - when she is the mistress of Northridge, what place will that leave me? You shan’t need me any more, and she will resent me being there, and -” Her voice shook and she bit her lip, evidently not trusting herself to say any more.
“Mama!” Edmund laughed, then, seeing that she was serious, swallowed his amusement. “Mama, if you think Juliet would wish you gone from your own home then you do not know her at all. And she is strong-willed, yes, but do you see her keeping a home? She will need you to guide her, to show her all that is required of the mistress of Northridge.” He ducked his head, attempting to catch her eye. “I wish you would take more time to get to know her. She is not as confident as you think, and she despairs of me at least as much as you do
.” He grinned. “I dare say you could develop quite a friendship, bonding over your shared exasperations at my many flaws.”
Mrs Gale looked at him tenderly, before letting out a long, low sigh.
“I suppose you are not mistaken there. I must thank her, for instance, for pressing you to come to London and bring me with you.” She looked around their elegant parlour with a sigh of satisfaction. “I do adore this house, and have been here so rarely since your father’s death...”
“I know.” Edmund slipped his hand into his Mama’s and squeezed it. “And you forever pleaded to be brought, if only I had listened. Perhaps we shall go on better together, now, if we listen to one another more.”
Mrs Gale smiled, and together mother and son made their way out into the light, London evening, feeling as if a great many more truths had been shared than were spoken aloud in their short conversation.
Chapter Nine
Strolling into the assembly rooms with Abigail on his arm, and in tow to his aunt, Nash could not help but recall the last such gathering he had attended, and how different the Castleford assembly rooms had been to these.
“Good evening, Weston!”
He turned at this address, greeting an older gentleman with a smile and a wave, and grateful that his aunt had moved on ahead of him, bidding him continue, for he could not for the life of him remember the stranger’s name and did not wish to embarrass himself by asking it.
“There are so many people here!” Abigail exclaimed, her eyes wide. She clutched rather desperately at Nash, enhancing his trapped feeling, and he felt a fleeting desire to wrench himself free and walk away. It would be impolite, though, not to mention unkind. It was hardly Abigail’s fault that their aunt had matched the pair from the time that they were babies. She had been as trapped by this arrangement as he had been. Clearing his throat, he tried to be kind and also did his best to put a little more distance between them, though it meant holding his arm at quite an unnatural and uncomfortable angle for a moment.
A Summer Scandal (Seasons of Romance Book 3) Page 6
