by May Burnett
Especially her, Emily thought, with whatever outmoded, hand-me-down ball gown she could find in time. “Will mother also be going?”
Mrs Bellairs had fallen into a deep melancholy; the severe black of her mourning attire did not help. Now that two years and three months had passed since their father’s death, his widow could have gone into half mourning with colours like grey or lavender, but they had no money for new clothes. What little they could afford went to Margaret, whose beauty offered the greatest chance of a good match and reversal of their fortunes. Mrs Bellairs and Emily were still wearing almost constant black.
“You can have my cerulean dress, if you can shorten it in time,” Margaret offered. “Now that I have the cerise one, I can do without it. We are to attend with Uncle Armando.”
Emily grimaced. Armando had made no secret out of his resentment that these English half-nieces, of whom he had never previously heard, were living in the house he would inherit and already considered his own.
“Grandmother has told him that it is in his own best interest to help us find matches soon, while we are still young and pretty,” Margaret continued. “He agreed, but reluctantly. If that is the plan, we may be going to other entertainments, and finally have some kind of social life again. Even if it is not in England.”
There was an undertone of hopeless longing in the last sentence, reminding Emily that her sister had taken their exile much harder. Her mood swings had become more marked since they came to Verona. For her part, Emily loved the beauties of architecture, art and nature all around them; it had taken her only a few months to acquire fluent Italian and understand the local dialect. If their reception had been more cordial, she could have been happy enough.
“Grandmother wants to see you,” Margaret recalled.
“Why didn’t you say so at once?” Emily regarded her older sister with affectionate exasperation. “You know how she hates to be kept waiting.”
“Then she should not have allowed you to be sent to the market. It will not harm her to wait another fifteen minutes. Try to get her to give you a new dress for the next ball or assembly. The fashions are changing so quickly these days that castoffs are completely obvious, even to the gentlemen. If she really wants to marry us off she had better give us more help, or I see little prospect of success.”
“Without dowries even the prettiest clothes will have little effect,” Emily pointed out. “But I’d better go to her. I’ll see you at lunch.”
Margaret nodded, focused on her drawing again. Emily sighed and went to seek out the Contessa. She rarely thought of the stiff old woman as her grandmother, for had she not abandoned their father when he was barely two, and never set eyes on Margaret or her until they came to seek her out, already fully grown? In more affluent times the Contessa had written perhaps once a year, at Christmas or their father’s birthday, though forgetting half the time. A blood tie did not guarantee affection after living in different countries all your life. It could become merely an onerous and unwanted duty.
The Contessa was enthroned in her high-ceilinged parlour, a dark room furnished in the style of the previous century, which the old lady preferred. There was a full-length portrait on the north wall that showed her at the age of twenty-six, soon after she had married her Italian husband. The powdered hair of those times had in the meantime reached a similar colour through the natural process of aging. The old lady’s brown eyes, however, so similar to Margaret’s, were sharper now than the artist had depicted them nearly five decades ago.
“With so many soldiers and other riff-raff about,” the Contessa told Emily, “it will be best if you no longer went to the market unaccompanied.”
“Indeed I would not have minded having a maid with me today, to help carry all those apples.”
The Contessa frowned. “We have plenty of staff. I shall tell the cook you will no longer do such chores.”
“Most of time, I don’t mind,” Emily said. “It is more interesting than just sitting about doing embroidery, or reading.” She was starved of activity and movement. In her childhood she had ridden her own mare every day – here she could only walk, and not even that in bad weather.
“It hardly matters whether you like doing it or not. There is something else – we have an offer of marriage for you. Apparently this man saw you at the market recently, and after making enquiries, sent a letter asking for your hand.”
Emily stared at her Grandmother, flabbergasted. “Really? I cannot imagine who it might be.”
“That’s just it; he’s a nobody, a widower with a farm – a big one, but still a farm – a few miles from the city. Clearly the fellow thought that his suit might be acceptable because you were allowed to go out alone. I should never have permitted it.”
“I do not want to marry this farmer I don’t even know.”
“No, of course not. You are a young lady, and far beyond his touch, even without a dowry. But in a way it is encouraging – a girl who attracts one offer, even if ineligible, is more likely to attract others. It may be that you merely need to be seen apart from your more beautiful sister. Men’s tastes vary, after all. You will attend any balls and entertainments to which you are invited in the coming months. I shall give orders to have three evening dresses fashioned for you. You can repay me once you are married – if all goes well, soon enough.”
When the last sentence sank in, the automatic ‘thank you’ on Emily’s lips remained unspoken. “I see, Grandmother. It will be interesting to see if your expectations can be met.”
“Of course gentlemen like girls to be sweet and obedient, so curb your tongue when you are in company. Liveliness is acceptable up to a point, can even be attractive, but never contradict a gentleman, or your elders. You can confide your criticism or views to a diary, if you have to, but keep them to yourself. Nobody wants your opinions.”
Emily obeyed by remaining silent and swallowing her indignation.
“I suppose your mother will have to go with you now and then, it is time she stopped sulking and crying the whole day long. Once you or Margaret marries she can live with you, so do your best, Emily.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” she said in a colourless voice. At that moment she would have accepted almost anyone, if it meant having a place where she was always welcome, and safe from the cold charity of her Italian relations.
“Margaret is still more likely to marry first,” the Contessa said thoughtfully. “At least neither of you is plain. If you play your cards right, you can catch a modest gentleman. The alternative, remaining a spinster all your life, is hardly attractive. You are nineteen – in two or three years your looks will start to fade, such as they are. Remember that.”
“I am sure I shall be reminded often enough,” Emily murmured under her breath. “Good-bye, Grandmother.”
She took a deep breath when she escaped from the dark parlour, glad she had been able to suppress the hot retorts that were crowding in her angry mind. She could not afford to offend the old lady, no matter how insulting she became, for her mother’s and Margaret’s sake as much as her own. Their tiny income would be just sufficient to starve in shabby gentility within a few weeks. There was no respectable employment for girls like Margaret or her; not even that of governess, as their own education had been patchy in their teens, from the onset of their money troubles. After years without practice she could not even play the piano any more. Not that Emily missed the boring lessons, but it was an accomplishment expected of all young ladies of her class.
Who was the farmer who wanted to marry her? The way he went about it, sending a written offer without even talking to her, did not predispose her in his favour. She wanted to have at least a minimal influence on her own future. But that might be overly optimistic. If some more eligible gentleman asked for her hand, she would find herself married before she could count to ten, even if he was fat or old and ugly. The wrong husband might well prove worse than spinsterhood.
Was there anything she could do, to avoid either fate?
Chapter 3
Love at first sight tends to be mere attraction.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)
“The Contessa requires your presence in the Salon, there are callers,” the servant reported with insolent indifference, before continuing, unhurriedly, on his next errand. Margaret and Emily, who had been darning in the small sitting room, exchanged glances of mutual surprise.
“She does not usually call on us to entertain visitors,” Emily said. “I wonder who it can be.”
“That mysterious suitor of yours?”
“I doubt it. From what Grandmother said, she was determined to refuse him.” Emily quickly checked her hair in the small mirror. So far the pins were keeping her unruly honey coloured locks up.
“Let’s not keep her waiting any longer. If I know Donato, he already dawdled on the way here, before telling us.”
It was all too likely. The servants were taking their cue from the master and his sons, and their attitude towards the three English ladies had markedly deteriorated in the last weeks. Donato, a lazy and conceited fellow, was the worst of the lot.
“I don’t suppose there is time to change.” Margaret cast a discontented glance at her dark grey gown.
They crossed two corridors and descended a staircase to join the Contessa in her receiving room. Emily was agreeably surprised that the callers were two young, handsome gentlemen. As she curtsied, like her sister she wished she were wearing something more presentable than her old mourning dress.
“This is your cousin, girls, Sir Conrad Bolland,” the Contessa told them. “Where is your mother?”
Was she also supposed to come? No doubt Donato had forgotten or misunderstood his orders. “In her rooms, I suppose,” Emily ventured. “Donato brought us your message in the green sitting room.”
“Let me introduce my friend to my cousins as well,” Sir Conrad interrupted this discussion. “Mr. Anthony Wetherby.”
The other gentleman bowed. He was just above average height and slim, with brown hair and a lightly tanned complexion. His features were unremarkable except for brilliant green eyes. Might he be Irish? But his diction, when he declared himself charmed at being presented to them, proved to be that of an educated Englishman.
“How do you do, Mr Wetherby,” Emily murmured. Margaret only inclined her head; she was clearly more interested in Sir Conrad, whose blond locks and blue eyes, as well as the highly fashionable rig-out, immediately drew the eye.
“This is Miss Bellairs - Margaret, and the younger sister is Emily,” the Contessa told Sir Conrad. “Your aunt is indisposed; her health has been indifferent of late.”
“I am most sorry to hear it. I hope she can receive me some other day? We are planning to stay in Verona for a week and have taken lodgings in the Golden Eagle Inn.” It was the best and most expensive inn in Verona; another clue that the gentlemen were well off, had their clothing and manner not already proclaimed it.
Emily quickly said, “My mother will be glad to see a face from home, and on most days she is well enough to see visitors.” If any reconciliation with her mother’s relatives was in the offing, it must not be botched just because Donato had failed to inform her mother of these visitors.
“Then we could call again – when would it be convenient for Mrs Bellairs?”
“Tomorrow at eleven you will find her at home,” the Contessa decided, as though Emily’s mother were not always here, lost in her melancholy. “But you will enjoy the company of young people more, I imagine, at your age. What has brought you to Verona?”
“After the death of my father I was recalled from Ceylon, where I had gone to oversee the management of our tea plantation,” Sir Conrad explained. “I am out of mourning already, because the news reached me late, and the return took many months. I met Wetherby on the boat, during my return. After the ship landed in Naples we made our way north by way of Rome and Florence; and being so close, naturally I could not fail to pay my respects to my aunt, Mrs Bellairs, and my lovely cousins.” He bowed slightly to the young ladies.
“What became of your tea plantation?” Margaret asked.
“Before my departure I sold it to a local investor for a good price. It is impossible to oversee an enterprise properly from thousands of miles away, and I do not plan to travel to India ever again.”
“Europe is best,” the Contessa commented, very decisively for someone who had never left the continent in her life.
Seeing Mr. Wetherby excluded from the conversation, Emily turned to him. “Were you also involved in tea planting, Mr Wetherby?”
“No, I was not travelling on business, merely to see something of the world. I made it as far as Macau before turning westwards again.”
She would have liked to hear more, but the Contessa turned the general conversation back to Sir Conrad, inquiring about his family, and eliciting the promising information that he was twenty-four years old and unmarried. Just the right age for Margaret, Emily thought, glancing speculatively from her sister’s beautiful countenance to the handsome face of their cousin. Unless she missed her guess, each was cautiously interested in the other. But from attraction to marriage was a long way. It would be foolish to get their hopes up.
And who knew, that handsome face might not reflect Sir Conrad’s true nature. They had only just met him. He might be ineligible for any number of reasons.
Just as the gentlemen were beginning to shift, preparatory to taking their leave, another caller was announced. To Emily’s surprise it was one of the Hussars she had observed in town, a man in his early thirties, with pomaded light brown hair and a magnificent moustache.
“Hauptmann Ehrenblatt, of the Seventh Hussars,” he introduced himself to the Contessa. “I have the honour to have made the acquaintance of your sons during their recent stay in Vienna, and could not fail to pay court to their mother now that I have been posted here.” His eyes passed over the girls and the two Englishmen, lingering on Margaret for a second longer than the rest. His Italian had a strong German accent, but was fluent enough.
The Contessa performed introductions all around, and the Austrian officer politely bent over the young ladies’ hands, sketching an air kiss above the skin. Sir Conrad frowned, while Mr Wetherby looked on with a slightly bored expression. Emily suppressed an urge to giggle.
“Count Armando did not tell me that there were such lovely ladies staying here,” Ehrenblatt said. “What a pleasant surprise. Will you be attending the ball at the City Hall three days hence? I already have tickets and very much look forward to the occasion.”
“My Italian is not good,” Sir Conrad said to Margaret. “What is he saying?”
She quickly explained to him.
“A ball? That sounds like fun,” Sir Conrad said. “Can anybody buy those tickets?”
“Anybody who can afford them, which excludes the common people, but there will be rich merchants and farmers as well as gentry and officers,” Emily explained.
“My granddaughters may go, if you were to escort them,” the Contessa told Sir Conrad. “Attending with a cousin would be unexceptionable.”
“In that case, I greatly look forward to the pleasure of dancing with my cousins,” Sir Conrad immediately responded, with a warm look at Margaret.
“Yes, my granddaughters will be there,” the Contessa told the Hauptmann in Italian. He immediately applied to both of them for the promise of a dance.
When all three gentlemen took their leave shortly afterwards, the sisters looked at each other and their grandmother. “That was unexpected,” Margaret said. “Bolland was mother’s maiden name. This man must be her nephew, her brother’s son.”
“A very rich family, I understand,” the Contessa said in satisfaction. “If you can bring him up to scratch, Margaret, you have my blessing. Emily, you had best try to divert that inconvenient friend. He looked the sort to throw a spanner into a courtship.”
“How so?” Emily had not received such a negative impression
of Mr Wetherby. “He seemed perfectly well-bred and amiable to me.”
“That has nothing to do with anything. Gentlemen who are not themselves interested in marriage are liable to do everything to hold back and dissuade their friends from matrimony. They consider girls and women a dangerous snare that will forever ruin a man’s liberty and peace of mind. Wetherby is older than Sir Conrad and has travelled to China. He does not strike me as a family man.”
“You hardly paid him any attention.”
“He merely tagged along with Sir Conrad. If he had important business of his own, or were a man of substance, he would not find time for that. He was well dressed, but I must suppose he is merely a fribble, a hanger-on.”
That did not sound fair to Emily. Possibly her grandmother had taken a dislike to Mr Wetherby because he had not paid her any compliments, or expressed admiration of her. The old lady could be capricious, as she knew to her cost. But it was not worth arguing over; Mr Wetherby would soon leave Verona and return to his own life, whatever it might be.
“I had no idea that we had such a good-looking cousin,” Margaret said dreamily. “We must tell mother all about him and get her in better spirits for his call tomorrow morning. She will know all about the Bollands, her own family. How providential that our cousin thought to travel via Verona on his way back from the East.”
“Indeed,” Emily murmured. “Come, let’s go to Mother right away. I hope this news, and tomorrow’s visit, cheer her up.”
“Today’s visit has already cheered me up,” Margaret said. “And that ball! I could have dropped with astonishment when Grandmother said we might attend with these men we had only just met. We have to look to our gowns. There is not much time to prepare.”
“You do not think Sir Conrad will feel trapped into escorting us? Grandmother more or less forced him to offer.”
