“Lizzy!” Grace said, not unkindly. “You’ll wrinkle your dress!”
“Oh, who cares about that?” Lizzy said blithely.
Grace well knew that her sister, younger by one year, cared little about her appearance. Not that she needed to. With her long black hair, worn down tonight as it was most nights, and her blue eyes, Lizzy could have worn sackcloth and ashes and she’d still manage somehow to look pretty.
Becky had dressed Lizzy and done her hair first, brushing it one hundred times before coming to Grace. The head housemaid, Agnes Hunt, would get Kate ready, putting the final touch in place just immediately prior to Kate’s descending from the gallery to the waiting guests below so she might look as perfect as perfect could be.
“No one will be paying any attention to us,” Lizzy said, stating the obvious as Grace returned to her reflection in the mirror. “Not that I mind. I would hate to be poor Kate.”
“Hate” was not a word that Grace ever used lightly herself, although it was a word that tripped lightly off Lizzy’s tongue. But then, most words did. Lizzy was given to chatter, not that Grace minded, for even when Lizzy uttered seemingly distasteful words like “hate,” Grace could not be bothered by it, for Lizzy said it all so cheerfully. If only Grace could be so eternally cheerful or, at least, bolder in her speech. She had to admit, though, in this instance, she agreed with Lizzy. She, too, would hate to be Kate. All the responsibility of being the eldest!
Grace knew that if her parents had had three sons instead of three daughters, those sons’ paths in life would have been dictated by British tradition: the eldest would be the heir; the second would go into the British Navy; the third would enter the clergy. It was what people did. Grace could easily picture the same befalling her and her sisters had they been born male, but with a slight variation. Kate would be the heir, of course, but the other two would need to be flipped no matter what the birth order, with Lizzy—brave Lizzy—destined for the military, while Grace, who didn’t have a brave bone in her body, would be consigned to the church.
They weren’t boys, of course, but to Grace’s mind, their destinies had still been prescribed early on and by their birth order: Kate, entitled and endowed with the mission to marry well and provide a male heir; Lizzy, as the youngest, allowed to traipse through life with no one much caring if she ever acquired any knowledge beyond basic manners, so long as she went on being adorable; and Grace, somehow lost in the middle.
Becky began to work on Grace’s hair again, and it appeared as though the style she’d settled upon was the same one she’d had in the first place, before all the variations.
Which was fine with Grace.
“Did you know,” Lizzy said, “that there are going to be two this evening?”
“Two what, Lizzy?”
“Why, two men, of course!”
“Two men? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“For Kate! What were we just talking about?”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t follow.”
“Well.” Lizzy lowered her voice conspiratorially, even though only the three of them were in the room, and the solid door was firmly shut. “I heard Father tell Kate that there were two possible suitors coming to dinner this evening, one named Raymond Allen and the other Meriwether Young, and that Kate was supposed to be particularly polite to both of them.” Lizzy considered what she’d said and then made a face. “I don’t know about you, but I should hate to be married to a man named Meriwether. What would I call him? Meriwether? Merry?” She shook her head. “Not that I ever want to be married to anybody.”
“How do you know all this?” Grace asked.
“Because I happened to be passing by the drawing room while they were speaking. Their hushed voices made it sound like whatever they were saying might be interesting, so I stopped to listen. Why? Should I not have done that?”
In the reflection of the mirror, Grace could see her sister behind her on the bed and the look of innocence upon her face. If it were anyone else, Grace might suspect it to be a faux innocence, but Grace knew in her sister it was genuine.
“When you heard them speaking privately,” Grace suggested gently, “you might have kept walking. Did that never occur to you?”
“But why would I do that?” Lizzy countered. “And if they really wanted to talk privately, then why did they not do so in a less public place?”
Grace could not think of anything to defeat that logic.
“Do you know anything about either Raymond Allen or Meriwether Young?” Lizzy asked when her sister said nothing.
“I believe Raymond Allen is some sort of duke,” Grace said. “But Meriwether Young?” She shook her head. “That one is a mystery to me as well.”
“Poor Kate,” Lizzy said again. “It was bad enough when suitors were paraded in here one at a time. But now they are coming in twos? What next—threes?” She shuddered. “Oh, I would hate to be poor Kate.”
“Father is just concerned about the entail,” Grace said. “Mother, too. They only want to ensure that Kate, as the eldest, will be provided for.”
“The entail!” Lizzy spoke the word with a scorn that was rare for her. “That’s all anyone ever talks about around here anymore. And if and when they do get Kate settled, what happens next?” She pointed a finger at Grace and then back at herself. “Will you, and then I, be subjected to the same bombardment of strange men, just to avoid the entail? Here is what I would like to know: If this was going to happen, then why did Father get an entail in the first place?”
“But Lizzy, that’s not really how an entail—”
“And here is the other thing I would like to know,” Lizzy said, cutting her off.
Grace waited for it. In her experience, whenever Lizzy got that particular look in her eye, whatever followed could only be what was termed a doozy.
“Why didn’t Father and Mother have fourteen more children?” Lizzy said at last.
“Pardon? I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, Kate is seventeen, you are sixteen, I am fifteen.” Lizzy ticked the sisters off on her fingers. “But why did they stop there? They obviously could have one child per year—that is the rate they had clearly established. So why did they not continue doing so for the past fourteen years if need be? Surely if they had done that, then they would have wound up with a boy child in there at least somewhere, and then none of us would have to worry anymore about the silly entail.”
At this announcement, Grace’s eyes met Becky’s in the mirror, and she could see that the housemaid was doing her best to fend off a laugh, as she herself was.
Grace wished she had the courage to explain to Lizzy exactly how procreation really worked, but all she could settle on was, still fighting the giggles, “I don’t think it works quite like that.”
Chapter
Five
Kate looked around the long dining room table at those assembled. There were her mother and father, of course, at either end. To the right of each were two people she’d never met before this evening and still only knew by name, Benedict and Rowena. Benedict was not much older than Kate, and she supposed some might find him handsome in a washed-out blond sort of way. There were enough commonalities between him and Rowena that Kate assumed her to be his mother. Kate found it strange that her father hadn’t given them a last name when introducing them to her, but then, she’d arrived downstairs so late, entirely missing the cocktail hour, for Agnes would keep fussing around her until Agnes was satisfied everything was perfect, that there’d only been time for the briefest of introductions before going in to supper.
In addition to her parents and the two mysterious strangers, there were also on the opposite side to Kate: Dowager Countess Hortense Clarke, Kate’s grandmother; Grace and Lizzy, of course; and Dr. Zebulon Webb. There was also her mother’s father, but since, after introducing himself to everyone, whether they’d met before or not—“George King; George, like the king, and King because of course”—he had a tendency to fall as
leep wherever he was, even at the dinner table, it wasn’t like he mattered all that much. When awake, he could sometimes be counted upon to keep Kate’s grandmother on her father’s side in line, but only if he remembered who she was and that his final mission in life was to dislike her.
Although there was ample elbow room on her side, Kate couldn’t help but feel herself uncomfortably sandwiched between Raymond Allen to her right and Meriwether Young to her left. Regarding the latter, he was anything but what his name would imply, meaning that he was not young at all. Indeed, he looked even a smidgen older than Father, although it could just be that he was so portly. Kate fancied herself a person who knew how the world worked, and so she knew that sometimes, due to circumstance and for money and position—sometimes perhaps even for love—a young woman her age might find that life had landed her a husband far older than herself. Despite this knowledge, Kate was determined that that life should not become her life.
It was with relief, then, that when the soup course was completed and the Dover sole brought in on trays by footmen serving them with white-gloved hands, she turned her attention away from Mr. Young and all his nattering on about his various businesses in London. Now she could turn to Raymond Allen.
In his favor?
He was at least young and not merely by name.
Working against him?
He had an unfortunate pair of jug ears.
And carroty red hair.
One of those physical features might have been just barely tolerable, but both?
Oh well, she thought, at least I won’t be forced to practically shout my answers to him like I felt compelled to with half-deaf Mr. Young.
Not that he really seemed hard of hearing, but he was so much older, it was simply easier for her to imagine him so.
Despite this asset of youth, Raymond Allen just didn’t seem attractive to her in any way. For while it might be small-minded to dismiss a man for the regrettable size of his ears, it certainly was not a feature to recommend him.
Only good breeding and manners prevented her from sighing her dismay out loud. Honestly. If her parents were now going to parade suitors before her two at a time, one would think that would double the chances of her finding one to her taste. But these two?
Surreptitiously, she glanced around the room for at least some visual relief, and she did eventually find that. Sadly, the relief she found was in the form of the two footmen—whom she knew of only as the two footmen—standing at attention; unlike with the stable boy, she’d never felt any compulsion to learn their names. Not only were these two young, but each was handsome in a pleasing way, not like that stranger, Benedict. It was really too bad that neither could get her out of her financial pickle, but even though the way they held themselves in livery presented a good omen for how they might look in more proper formal dress, the idea of romance with someone from the serving class was laughable.
Before Kate could ponder this any further, Raymond Allen surprised her by actually saying something interesting.
“I took the train down from London today,” he said.
“How marvelous for you!” she replied. “I do love London. I should make it a point to get up there soon.”
“When I debarked, I heard the most interesting thing.”
“Do tell. I enjoy hearing about interesting things as opposed to those things that are not.”
“People were talking about a mysterious event that occurred in your village earlier today. Something about a dead man briefly coming back to life?”
“Oh!” Kate exclaimed, truly delighted now. “You have heard about our dead man walking!”
“I hate to contradict you, Lady Kate,” Dr. Webb interjected, “but that is not what really happened.”
Then he proceeded with a tiresome account of how what people had thought had happened in the first place had not really happened at all; that it had all been the result of hysterical grief on the part of the dead man’s widow and that no one dead had come back to life.
Even though Katherine had already guessed as much herself, and had said so earlier to her father and Mr. Wright, it would to her mind have made for more lively dinner conversation to have it the other way.
“What a shame,” Kate said, still smiling. “I did so prefer the first version better.”
“How can you make—what is the proper word—light of this?” her youngest sister spoke up, Lizzy’s brow furrowed in rare outrage. “A man has died! A man whose nephew is employed by this household!”
“I do feel dreadful for poor Will Harvey,” Grace added, although she did not meet Kate’s eyes when she said this.
There were times when Kate wished one sister more courageous (not if Grace was going to defy her, of course) and the other more intelligent (had Lizzy really struggled to find a word as simple as “light”?).
Not to mention, so much fuss on behalf of the stable boy—she promised herself she would not think of him in any other way anymore, however handsome. A part of her did wonder, even worry, over the pain he must be feeling at the loss of his uncle. But then she tamped that part of herself down. Her job was to go on being bright and vivacious for the suitors, however ghastly those suitors might be.
“How typical of you, Grace,” she said, “how typical and quaint to actually be bothered to know the name of the stable boy.”
But then Kate noticed that it was not just her sisters who were showing disapproval at her words. Raymond Allen, an appalled look on his face, had turned to strike up a conversation with the person on his other side, and it wasn’t even time to switch sides yet.
Was she really to be spurned by a carroty-haired man with jug ears?
It really was all too much, so it was with considerable relief when the whole sorry meal ended an hour later and it came time for the men to depart for their port—Grandfather had to be awakened first so that he could then go and drink—while the ladies retired to talk about the latest fashions and gossip among themselves.
Not that Kate was particularly looking forward to that.
Before the gender separation could occur, however, her father stopped her.
“Kate,” he called. “Won’t you come here?”
Standing with him were the two relative strangers.
“I’d like to properly introduce you to Benedict Clarke and Rowena Clarke,” he said.
“Clarke?” she echoed, for the first time realizing not only were these two relative strangers strange, but they were also quite possibly relatives.
“Yes,” her father said. “I received word late today of their existence. Benedict’s father was a far-distant cousin and, apparently, Benedict himself is a male heir with a future claim to Porthampton Abbey.”
As Kate shook hands with these new relations with as much grace as she could muster, already she could see her father’s wheels spinning: if Kate will only accept Benedict as her suitor, then all our problems will be solved!
Meanwhile, all Kate herself could think was, How dreary. Just like in Austen: Isn’t there always a male heir?
Chapter
Six
Raymond Allen stood with his hand on the knob of the door to his room in the bachelors’ corridor—the portion of the guest area reserved for unmarried male guests to keep them separate from the ladies—and observed the two figures at the other end of the hall: Benedict Clarke and his mother, Rowena, exchanging some words before retiring for the night.
When Raymond first received the invitation for a weekend at Porthampton Abbey, he’d been excited. He knew that the earl must be looking for a husband for his eldest daughter, which was excellent timing, since he himself was in need of a wife. Then, when he’d arrived and seen that his only immediate competition was Meriwether Young, a much older and rotund man, he’d been positively giddy inside. This was a war he could win!
The aftermath of the actual war, which had ended just two years prior, should have presented him with lots of opportunities. There were nearly two million more women in England
than men now, not to mention that nearly two million of the men who had survived the war had come home wounded: so, a surplus of single women. Not to mention further, he was a duke! Being a duke was the highest ranking, short of being king, and there were not too many of them, certainly not enough to go around to all the well-bred young women in need of a wealthy husband. Why, with another two hundred thousand Britons dying of the Spanish flu right after World War I, there should have been even more opportunities for him—it was as though people were dying for his benefit and convenience!
He felt mildly ashamed of himself for thinking of it in that way, but then, he hadn’t started the war.
And yet for some reason, despite the presumably increased opportunities, it—it being romance with the prospect of marriage to follow—had never worked out for him that way.
But then the invitation to come here had arrived and with it, the idea of Lady Katherine Clarke. At age seventeen, she hadn’t come out yet. Her presentation at court was still a year away—not that there’d been any such presentations since the war had ended, although hopefully they’d start up again soon—but she was such a striking young woman, and he’d figured if he got in early, maybe he’d stand a chance. Since death hadn’t given him enough opportunities, he would need to make or take his own wherever he could find them.
And only Meriwether Young as competition? Laughable, how easy that should be!
But then…
But then…
Benedict Clarke had shown up unexpectedly.
Look at him, Raymond thought. Not only will he fulfill the entail, thereby making him the one Martin Clarke will want to have marry Lady Katherine, but does he have to be so handsome? It’s like looking at Apollo come down to earth. I can practically see the sun kissing his hair!
Speaking of which, now Benedict was bending over to lay a kiss on his mother’s cheek, and as he did so, Rowena touched a gloved hand to her son’s face, tracing a gentle caress there.
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