by Julia Quinn
“I’m not certain you’d know the right sort of man for you if he arrived on our doorstep riding an elephant.”
“I would think the elephant would be a fairly good indication that I ought to look elsewhere.”
“Hyacinth.”
“And besides that,” Hyacinth added, thinking about the way Mr. St. Clair always seemed to look at her in that vaguely condescending manner of his, “I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“Nonsense,” Violet said, with all the outrage of a mother hen. “Everyone likes you.”
Hyacinth thought about that for a moment. “No,” she said, “I don’t think everyone does.”
“Hyacinth, I am your mother, and I know—”
“Mother, you’re the last person anyone would tell if they didn’t like me.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Mother,” Hyacinth cut in, setting her teacup firmly in its saucer, “it is of no concern. I don’t mind that I am not universally adored. If I wanted everyone to like me, I’d have to be kind and charming and bland and boring all the time, and what would be the fun in that?”
“You sound like Lady Danbury,” Violet said.
“I like Lady Danbury.”
“I like her, too, but that doesn’t mean I want her as my daughter.”
“Mother—”
“You won’t set your cap for Mr. St. Clair because he scares you,” Violet said.
Hyacinth actually gasped. “That is not true.”
“Of course it is,” Violet returned, looking vastly pleased with herself. “I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me sooner. And he isn’t the only one.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why have you not married yet?” Violet asked.
Hyacinth blinked at the abruptness of the question. “I beg your pardon.”
“Why have you not married?” Violet repeated. “Do you even want to?”
“Of course I do.” And she did. She wanted it more than she would ever admit, probably more than she’d ever realized until that very moment. She looked at her mother and she saw a matriarch, a woman who loved her family with a fierceness that brought tears to her eyes. And in that moment Hyacinth realized that she wanted to love with that fierceness. She wanted children. She wanted a family.
But that did not mean that she was willing to marry the first man who came along. Hyacinth was nothing if not pragmatic; she’d be happy to marry someone she didn’t love, provided he suited her in almost every other respect. But good heavens, was it so much to ask for a gentleman with some modicum of intelligence?
“Mother,” she said, softening her tone, since she knew that Violet meant well, “I do wish to marry. I swear to you that I do. And clearly I have been looking.”
Violet lifted her brows. “Clearly?”
“I have had six proposals,” Hyacinth said, perhaps a touch defensively. “It’s not my fault that none was suitable.”
“Indeed.”
Hyacinth felt her lips part with surprise at her mother’s tone. “What do you mean by that?”
“Of course none of those men was suitable. Half were after your fortune, and as for the other half—well, you would have reduced them to tears within a month.”
“Such tenderness for your youngest child,” Hyacinth muttered. “It quite undoes me.”
Violet let out a ladylike snort. “Oh, please, Hyacinth, you know exactly what I mean, and you know that I am correct. None of those men was your match. You need someone who is your equal.”
“That is exactly what I have been trying to tell you.”
“But my question to you is—why are the wrong men asking for your hand?”
Hyacinth opened her mouth, but she had no answer.
“You say you wish to find a man who is your match,” Violet said, “and I think you think you do, but the truth is, Hyacinth—every time you meet someone who can hold his own with you, you push him away.”
“I don’t,” Hyacinth said, but not very convincingly.
“Well, you certainly don’t encourage them,” Violet said. She leaned forward, her eyes filled with equal parts concern and remonstration. “You know I love you dearly, Hyacinth, but you do like to have the upper hand in the conversation.”
“Who doesn’t?” Hyacinth muttered.
“Any man who is your equal is not going to allow you to manage him as you see fit.”
“But that’s not what I want,” Hyacinth protested.
Violet sighed. But it was a nostalgic sound, full of warmth and love. “I wish I could explain to you how I felt the day you were born,” she said.
“Mother?” Hyacinth asked softly. The change of subject was sudden, and somehow Hyacinth knew that whatever her mother said to her, it was going to matter more than anything she’d ever heard in her life.
“It was so soon after your father died. And I was so sad. I can’t even begin to tell you how sad. There’s a kind of grief that just eats one up. It weighs one down. And one can’t—” Violet stopped, and her lips moved, the corners tightening in that way they did when a person was swallowing…and trying not to cry. “Well, one can’t do anything. There’s no way to explain it unless you’ve felt it yourself.”
Hyacinth nodded, even though she knew she could never truly understand.
“That entire last month I just didn’t know how to feel,” Violet continued, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t know how to feel about you. I’d had seven babies already; one would think I would be an expert. But suddenly everything was new. You wouldn’t have a father, and I was so scared. I was going to have to be everything to you. I suppose I was going to have to be everything to your brothers and sisters as well, but somehow that was different. With you…”
Hyacinth just watched her, unable to take her eyes from her mother’s face.
“I was scared,” Violet said again, “terrified that I might fail you in some way.”
“You didn’t,” Hyacinth whispered.
Violet smiled wistfully. “I know. Just look how well you turned out.”
Hyacinth felt her mouth wobble, and she wasn’t sure whether she was going to laugh or cry.
“But that’s not what I’m trying to tell you,” Violet said, her eyes taking on a slightly determined expression. “What I’m trying to say is that when you were born, and they put you into my arms—it’s strange, because for some reason I was so convinced you would look just like your father. I thought for certain I would look down and see his face, and it would be some sort of sign from heaven.”
Hyacinth’s breath caught as she watched her, and she wondered why her mother had never told her this story. And why she’d never asked.
“But you didn’t,” Violet continued. “You looked rather like me. And then—oh my, I remember this as if it were yesterday—you looked into my eyes, and you blinked. Twice.”
“Twice?” Hyacinth echoed, wondering why this was important.
“Twice.” Violet looked at her, her lips curving into a funny little smile. “I only remember it because you looked so deliberate. It was the strangest thing. You gave me a look as if to say, ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’ ”
A little burst of air rushed past Hyacinth’s lips, and she realized it was a laugh. A small one, the kind that takes a body by surprise.
“And then you let out a wail,” Violet said, shaking her head. “My heavens, I thought you were going to shake the paint right off the walls. And I smiled. It was the first time since your father died that I smiled.”
Violet took a breath, then reached for her tea. Hyacinth watched as her mother composed herself, wanting desperately to ask her to continue, but somehow knowing the moment called for silence.
For a full minute Hyacinth waited, and then finally her mother said, softly, “And from that moment on, you were so dear to me. I love all my children, but you…” She looked up, her eyes catching Hyacinth’s. “You saved me.”
Something squeezed in Hyacinth’s c
hest. She couldn’t quite move, couldn’t quite breathe. She could only watch her mother’s face, listen to her words, and be so very, very grateful that she’d been lucky enough to be her child.
“In some ways I was a little too protective of you,” Violet said, her lips forming the tiniest of smiles, “and at the same time too lenient. You were so exuberant, so completely sure of who you were and how you fit into the world around you. You were a force of nature, and I didn’t want to clip your wings.”
“Thank you,” Hyacinth whispered, but the words were so soft, she wasn’t even sure she’d said them aloud.
“But sometimes I wonder if this left you too unaware of the people around you.”
Hyacinth suddenly felt awful.
“No, no,” Violet said quickly, seeing the stricken expression on Hyacinth’s face. “You are kind, and you’re caring, and you are far more thoughtful than I think anyone realizes. But—oh dear, I don’t know how to explain this.” She took a breath, her nose wrinkling as she searched for the right words. “You are so used to being completely comfortable with yourself and what you say.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Hyacinth asked. Not defensively, just quietly.
“Nothing. I wish more people had that talent.” Violet clasped her hands together, her left thumb rubbing against her right palm. It was a gesture Hyacinth had seen on her mother countless times, always when she was lost in thought.
“But what I think happens,” Violet continued, “is that when you don’t feel that way—when something happens to give you unease—well, you don’t seem to know how to manage it. And you run. Or you decide it isn’t worth it.” She looked at her daughter, her eyes direct and perhaps just a little bit resigned. “And that,” she finally said, “is why I’m afraid you will never find the right man. Or rather, you’ll find him, but you won’t know it. You won’t let yourself know it.”
Hyacinth stared at her mother, feeling very still, and very small, and very unsure of herself. How had this happened? How had she come in here, expecting the usual talk of husbands and weddings and the lack thereof, only to find herself laid bare and open until she wasn’t quite certain who she was anymore.
“I’ll think about that,” she said to her mother.
“That’s all I can ask.”
And it was all she could promise.
Chapter 5
The next evening, in the drawing room of the estimable Lady Pleinsworth. For some strange reason, there are twigs attached to the piano. And a small girl has a horn on her head.
“People will think you’re courting me,” Hyacinth said, when Mr. St. Clair walked directly to her side without any pretense of glancing about the room first.
“Nonsense,” he said, sitting down in the empty chair next to her. “Everyone knows I don’t court respectable women, and besides, I should think it would only enhance your reputation.”
“And here I thought modesty an overrated virtue.”
He flashed her a bland smile. “Not that I wish to give you any ammunition, but the sad fact of it is—most men are sheep. Where one goes, the rest will follow. And didn’t you say you wished to be married?”
“Not to someone who follows you as the lead sheep,” she replied.
He grinned at that, a devilish smile that Hyacinth had a feeling he had used to seduce legions of women. Then he looked about, as if intending to engage in something surreptitious, and leaned in.
Hyacinth couldn’t help it. She leaned in, too. “Yes?” she murmured.
“I am about this close to bleating.”
Hyacinth tried to swallow her laugh, which was a mistake, since it came out as an exceedingly inelegant splutter.
“How fortunate that you weren’t drinking a glass of milk,” Gareth said, sitting back in his chair. He was still the picture of perfect composure, drat the man.
Hyacinth tried to glare at him, but she was fairly certain she wasn’t able to wipe the humor out of her eyes.
“It would have come out your nose,” he said with a shrug.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that’s not the sort of thing you say to impress a woman?” she asked, once she’d regained her voice.
“I’m not trying to impress you,” he replied, glancing up at the front of the room. “Gads,” he said, blinking in surprise. “What is that?”
Hyacinth followed his gaze. Several of the Pleinsworth progeny, one of whom appeared to be costumed as a shepherdess, were milling about.
“Now that’s an interesting coincidence,” Gareth murmured.
“It might be time to start bleating,” she agreed.
“I thought this was meant to be a poetry recitation.”
Hyacinth grimaced and shook her head. “An unexpected change to the program, I’m afraid.”
“From iambic pentameter to Little Bo Peep?” he asked doubtfully. “It does seem a stretch.”
Hyacinth gave him a rueful look. “I think there will still be iambic pentameter.”
His mouth fell open. “From Peep?”
She nodded, holding up the program that had been resting in her lap. “It’s an original composition,” she said, as if that would explain everything. “By Harriet Pleinsworth. The Shepherdess, the Unicorn, and Henry VIII.”
“All of them? At once?”
“I’m not jesting,” she said, shaking her head.
“Of course not. Even you couldn’t have made this up.”
Hyacinth decided to take that as a compliment.
“Why didn’t I receive one of these?” he asked, taking the program from her.
“I believe it was decided not to hand them out to the gentlemen,” Hyacinth said, glancing about the room. “One has to admire Lady Pleinsworth’s foresight, actually. You’d surely flee if you knew what was in store for you.”
Gareth twisted in his seat. “Have they locked the doors yet?”
“No, but your grandmother has already arrived.”
Hyacinth wasn’t sure, but it sounded very much like he groaned.
“She doesn’t seem to be coming this way,” Hyacinth added, watching as Lady Danbury took a seat on the aisle, several rows back.
“Of course not,” Gareth muttered, and Hyacinth knew he was thinking the same thing she was.
Matchmaker.
Well, it wasn’t as if Lady Danbury had ever been especially subtle about it.
Hyacinth started to turn back to the front, then halted when she caught sight of her mother, for whom she’d been holding an empty seat to her right. Violet pretended (rather badly, in Hyacinth’s opinion) not to see her, and she sat down right next to Lady Danbury.
“Well,” Hyacinth said under her breath. Her mother had never been known for her subtlety, either, but she would have thought that after their conversation the previous afternoon, Violet wouldn’t have been quite so obvious.
A few days to reflect upon it all might have been nice.
As it was, Hyacinth had spent the entire past two days pondering her conversation with her mother. She tried to think about all the people she had met during her years on the Marriage Mart. For the most part, she had had a fine time. She’d said what she wished and made people laugh and had rather enjoyed being admired for her wit.
But there had been a few people with whom she had not felt completely comfortable. Not many, but a few. There had been a gentleman during her first season with whom she’d been positively tongue-tied. He had been intelligent and handsome, and when he’d looked at her, Hyacinth had thought her legs might give out. And then just a year ago her brother Gregory had introduced her to one of his school friends who, Hyacinth had to admit, had been dry and sarcastic and more than her match. She’d told herself she hadn’t liked him, and then she’d told her mother that she thought he seemed the sort to be unkind to animals. But the truth was—
Well, she didn’t know what the truth was. She didn’t know everything, much as she tried to give the impression otherwise.
But she had avoided those men. She’d said s
he didn’t like them, but maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she just hadn’t liked herself when she was with them.
She looked up. Mr. St. Clair was leaning back in his seat, his face looking a little bit bored, a little bit amused—that sophisticated and urbane sort of expression men across London sought to emulate. Mr. St. Clair, she decided, did it better than most.
“You look rather serious for an evening of bovine pentameter,” he remarked.
Hyacinth looked over at the stage in surprise. “Are we expecting cows as well?”
He handed the small leaflet back to her and sighed. “I’m preparing myself for the worst.”
Hyacinth smiled. He really was funny. And intelligent. And very, very handsome, although that had certainly never been in doubt.
He was, she realized, everything she’d always told herself she was looking for in a husband.
Good God.
“Are you all right?” he asked, sitting up quite suddenly.
“Fine,” she croaked. “Why?”
“You looked…” He cleared his throat. “Well, you looked…ah…I’m sorry. I can’t say it to a woman.”
“Even one you’re not trying to impress?” Hyacinth quipped. But her voice sounded a little bit strained.
He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Very well. You looked rather like you were going to be sick.”
“I’m never sick,” she said, looking resolutely forward. Gareth St. Clair was not everything she’d ever wanted in a husband. He couldn’t be. “And I don’t swoon, either,” she added. “Ever.”
“Now you look angry,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” she said, and she was rather pleased with how positively sunny she sounded.
He had a terrible reputation, she reminded herself. Did she really wish to align herself with a man who’d had relations with so many women? And unlike most unmarried women, Hyacinth actually knew what “relations” entailed. Not firsthand, of course, but she’d managed to wrench the most basic of details from her older married sisters. And while Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca assured her it was all very enjoyable with the right sort of husband, it stood to reason that the right sort of husband was one who remained faithful to one’s wife. Mr. St. Clair, in contrast, had had relations with scores of women.
