The Marriage Trap (The Rom Com Collection)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Elizabeth Bennet had not come to Ramsgate to die, whatever her mother’s most recent letter might suggest.

She had come to breathe, properly breathe, without the rattling wheeze that had plagued her since June.

It was the last week of August now, and she could finally stroll along the seafront without always requiring a steadying arm.

If she were very fortunate, she would soon be able to pass an entire day without someone telling her she ought to be resting.

Just now, she was pleasantly cool, sitting on a bench overlooking the harbour with a wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a second shawl draped across her lap. The wind off the water carried the smell of salt, and Elizabeth took deep, greedy lungfuls of it simply because she could.

“You are smiling,” Mrs. Morgan observed from her position at the opposite end of the bench. “I am not certain I trust it.”

“I am merely enjoying the view.”

Mrs. Morgan looked out at the horizon. “The view is grey.”

“Gloriously grey,” Elizabeth agreed. “Grey sky, grey sea, grey stones. After weeks of staring at my bedroom ceiling, I find I have developed an appreciation for grey.”

Mrs. Morgan made a sound that might have been agreement. It might, however, have meant any number of things, as Elizabeth had not yet learned to decipher them all.

Mrs. Morgan was an unsentimental woman of about forty with dark hair and a sceptical expression, who was currently serving as Elizabeth’s companion. She was not truly a companion but a distant cousin of Aunt Gardiner, an officer’s widow who conveniently lived near the sea in Ramsgate.

“The physician said fresh air,” Mrs. Morgan continued, as though reading Elizabeth’s thoughts. “He did not say sitting on a damp bench in weather that would discourage a seal.”

“Seals thrive in this weather. I have read about it.”

“You have read about everything. It is one of your less endearing qualities.” Mrs. Morgan lifted her brows, but Elizabeth could hear the teasing in her words.

She laughed, a brief but proper laugh. The sound—and the fact that it did not end in coughing—surprised her.

“There,” she said, when the laugh had subsided. “You see? I am much better. The sea air and saltwater baths are healing my lungs.”

“The sea air is making your nose red. Your mother will blame me.”

Elizabeth pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, though in truth she was not cold. The wind was bracing but not cutting, and after so many days confined to sickrooms and sitting rooms, she found it delightful. “My mother is three counties away. She cannot see my nose.”

“She will hear of it. Mothers always hear of these things.”

Elizabeth had contrived to hide her own illness from not only her mother but her entire family—someone had to nurse the others, and who else was there? Eventually her body had exacted its price, and she had collapsed before them all like a meringue.

“You are thinking again,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I can see it in your face.”

“I am thinking about pride,” Elizabeth said.

“A worthy subject for contemplation. Most people should think more carefully about their pride.”

“Including you?”

This was met with a tiny smile. “I have no pride. Only standards.”

Mrs. Morgan rose from the bench with a decisive movement. “Though I will say this: pride is a luxury for those who can afford it. A woman without fortune would do better to trade it for something more practical.”

Elizabeth suspected the answer was a husband, and she did not feel recovered enough to argue about husbands this early in the day.

“Come,” Mrs. Morgan said. “We shall walk to the end of the promenade and back. The physician said exercise is beneficial.”

The end of the promenade was at least a mile away, and Elizabeth was not certain she could make the entire distance without rest. “The physician said gentle exercise. He specifically emphasised the word ‘gentle.’”

“Walking is gentle. I am not proposing we scale the cliffs.”

Elizabeth allowed herself to be helped to her feet, suppressing the automatic protest that she did not need assistance. Although she was vastly improved, the galling truth was that she did still need it.

“Are you out of breath?” Mrs. Morgan asked, as they began their slow progress along the promenade.

She was not; it was a hopeful sign. “I am only thinking about how tired I am of being tired.”

“That is at least a productive thought. The more you walk, the less tired you shall become.”

But not today, Elizabeth thought. Today walking would make her very tired indeed.

They strolled in comfortable silence for several minutes, past the tall lodging houses that faced the water and the bathing machines that stood ready for hardier souls than Elizabeth.

A few figures dotted the Parade even at this early hour.

An elderly gentleman was taking his constitutional, a pair of sailors turned their collars up against the wind, a maidservant hurried in the opposite direction with a covered basket, and a nurse held the hands of two sleepy children as they walked past.

Crowds required energy and conversation required wit, neither of which Elizabeth could reliably summon just now. But here, in this grey and quiet morning, she could breathe, walk, and watch the waves without anyone expecting anything more from her.

It was, she reflected, both wonderful and a little dull.

The houses further along the seafront were quite grand, tall, pale structures with iron railings and wide windows designed to capture the sea light.

Some were clearly let lodgings for the summer, houses for people with means to escape the heat and smells of London.

Papa had incurred significant expense to send Elizabeth here to recover and to engage Mrs. Morgan.

He had not even complained about it, which she knew indicated the depth of his concern.

“You are quiet,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Are you still musing upon your pride?”

“I did not say it was my pride, and no. I am thinking about money. It is a vulgar subject, but illness makes one practical.”

“Illness makes one honest." Mrs. Morgan walked several paces in silence, her gaze fixed on some point far out to sea, and Elizabeth had the distinct impression she was deciding how much of herself to give away.

“My husband came home from the war with a cough that never left him, and we had one year before he died. We spoke of money, among other things, for he wished to see me provided for. It was, in an odd way, a good year. I would not trade it, for we fell in love all over again.” She paused.

When she resumed, her voice had lost its usual tartness.

“Life as an officer’s wife was difficult, but we were happy, and that is more than most wives of my acquaintance can claim.” She adjusted her bonnet with a brisk tug.

Elizabeth recalled the easy way in which Uncle Gardiner handed her aunt into a carriage, the private smiles or glances they often exchanged.

That was the kind of marriage she wanted, if she married at all.

She would rather remain a spinster aunt to her eldest sister Jane’s future children than sell her freedom for the sake of a comfortable settlement.

One house at the far end of the terrace stood slightly apart from its neighbours, set back from the Parade behind a low stone wall—likely leased for the summer at an expense Elizabeth could not comfortably imagine.

Its blinds were down, giving it a shuttered, secretive look.

Elizabeth might have thought no more of it had her attention not been caught by her companion.

“There,” Mrs. Morgan said, nodding towards a figure ahead of them on the promenade. “That girl again.”

Elizabeth followed Mrs. Morgan’s gaze. A young woman stood near the railing, looking out at the sea. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, fair-haired and slight, dressed in a pale blue pelisse that was too thin for the windy weather. Even at this distance, Elizabeth could see that she was shivering.

“She was here yesterday as well,” Mrs. Morgan continued. “Staring at the water, and not in a peaceful way.”

They drew closer, and Elizabeth studied the girl. There was something in her taut posture that was more than simple contemplation. She appeared to be searching for an answer to some perplexing question, though what that might be, Elizabeth could not say.

“We should not stare,” Mrs. Morgan murmured.

“You pointed her out.”

“I did not point. I merely made an observation.”

The girl must have sensed their attention, because she turned suddenly, her eyes meeting Elizabeth’s across the distance. For a moment, something like surprise or perhaps alarm flickered in her expression. Then her features smoothed into a careful blankness.

She was a pretty girl, Elizabeth noted.

“Good morning,” Elizabeth said, because it seemed wrong to simply walk past.

The girl dipped into a curtsy that was correct but somehow mechanical. “Good morning.”

Her voice was soft and cultivated, bearing the unmistakable polish of an expensive education. A gentleman’s daughter, then, or higher. But there was no maid in attendance, no companion hovering nearby, only this solitary figure, shivering in the early morning wind.

“Forgive my impertinence,” Elizabeth continued, ignoring Mrs. Morgan’s warning look, “but you appear to be cold. There is a tea shop just there.” She gestured at the place several shops ahead of them. “It has an excellent chocolate. Might we persuade you to join us?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “I—that is very kind, but I could not possibly. My companion would not like it.”

Elizabeth could not help but glance about. “Your companion?”

“Mrs. Younge.” The girl made a slight gesture at the house behind them, the one at the end of the terrace. “She does not approve of my speaking to strangers.”