CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Are you sure you’re perfectly well, Felicity?” Mother asked for the third time as I fought to keep my eyes open over the breakfast table.
“Hmmm?” I raised my gaze from the plate of toast in front of me, forcing myself to concentrate on her.
“I asked if you were well,” Mother repeated. “You’re looking a trifle pale.” A look of concern flashed across her face, and she half rose from her seat. “Don’t you think she’s looking pale, Isobel?”
“Um, slightly perhaps,” Izzy replied, uncertainly.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I reassured Mother quickly, accepting the cup of coffee that Wheeler handed me with an unhealthy amount of gratitude.
“It’s all these late nights you’ve been having,” Mother said, and I tensed. “Writing your little letters,” she continued, and the tightness in my shoulders eased. It was only the usual disapproval of my actions not an insight into my recent secret life as an agent working outside the law. What a relief.
“Honestly,” Mother continued. “I don’t know why you bother. When I was your age, the only letters I was interested in were love letters.” She eyed me over her teacup. “ Are they love letters?”
“Of course they’re not love letters.” I drained my coffee wearily, wondering how much trouble I would get in if I licked the cup clean.
Mother let out a small sigh and I watched her toy with her breakfast.
I had complicated feelings about my mother. She was a young woman when she had married my much older father, and from what I could gather she had outshone all the other debutantes of the season to land such a catch. She’d been lovely looking, sweet-natured, properly behaved, and always immaculate. She was still all those things, with a surprising will of iron beneath it all.
With her silver-blonde hair and pansy-blue eyes, it sometimes felt that looking at her was a glimpse into my own future, though I could never hope to be half as elegant or ladylike.
As my father died when I was so young, I had barely any memories of him, and none at all of the two of them together. What I did remember of my early years was that my mother simply … didn’t understand me. I was noisy, full of questions, endlessly chasing something or falling off something or jumping in something. I think she’d expected her daughter to be a lovely porcelain-doll version of herself, and so I was something of an oddity, driving off governesses who tossed around words like “hoyden” while they fled.
My mother loved me, but she found me exhausting. When I was a child she kept the sort of wary distance a person might from an overeager and untrained puppy when they were wearing their best gown. Max – who was handsome, solid, dependable, and always utterly right and proper – was her pride and joy. Now that I was an adult, she still seemed unsure exactly what to do with me.
Aside from her children, the things she cared most greatly about were what she wore, what other people wore and other people’s love affairs. She was excellent at finding ways to arrange herself picturesquely, like a cat unerringly finding a sunbeam, and she enjoyed the compliments that followed her. She didn’t care for reading, nor any exercise more taxing than a short stroll through her well-maintained gardens to enjoy the roses. I doubted that even as a child had she ever climbed a tree or torn her stockings.
It wasn’t that I disliked my mother – in fact, I was fond of her; the problem was that we had absolutely nothing in common. If one were to draw a Venn diagram of my mother and myself, we would simply be two circles sitting side by side and touching nowhere. I wished things could be different, but I didn’t see how to change them.
Perhaps because of this, there had never been any question that Max would take care of me, that I would live with him wherever he chose to be, while Mother preferred the comfort of the dower house in the country, and the familiar company of her small circle of devoted admirers. Since Max had married Izzy and we’d been permanently based in London, we’d not seen a lot of her. I think my brother felt guilty about that, and this in turn would make it more difficult for him to defy her wishes when it came to my future.
Families were a complicated matter.
“I must say,” Mother piped up brightly, “that’s a fetching gown, Felicity. You’ve grown even prettier since I last saw you.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying my best to match her tone. “The Dowager Countess Wynter recently told me I looked like you, so I think that’s a compliment to us both.”
Mother laughed, pleased. “I always liked Lady Wynter. She used to terrify us all. One never knew what she was going to say next. I remember” – a dreamy look flitted across her face – “that when I was at the Simpsons’ ball there was the most tremendous scene when she was particularly withering about Lady Simpson’s gown. My friends and I had to hide our giggles behind our fans.” Her smile widened. “I had so much fun during my season. And now I finally get to share that with my own daughter! I’ve dreamed of this since you were a baby. It’s why I couldn’t wait to arrive,” she said, clapping in delight. “I know we said we’d wait, but there are already some social events beginning to take place, and who knows, darling? You might meet your future husband at any of them!”
I could feel Izzy’s sympathy from across the table.
My mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. I was torn. Hearing how much it meant to my mother to share her daughter’s first season, the excitement and obvious pleasure she felt, followed at once by the news of imminent parties and husband hunting… I longed to connect with her, but it seemed it would never be possible in a way that would please us both.
“I’m glad you’re here,” was what I settled on. Not exactly a lie; not exactly the truth.
Mother’s smile widened further. “And we can go shopping! Even buried away in the country, I’ve heard about this Madame Solange who is taking London by storm. I want a whole new wardrobe to take home with me.”
“Madame Solange is wonderful,” Izzy agreed, sipping her tea. “I thought you might like to visit her shop and I took the liberty of making you both an appointment for this afternoon.”
I repressed a groan at the thought. Mother, however, looked delighted. “Oh, Isobel, how thoughtful! But won’t you be joining us?”
“I’m afraid I have several appointments today,” Izzy said apologetically. “And Max has bought me more gowns than I know what to do with. If I went with you, I’m certain I’d end up coming home with more, and soon every cupboard in the house would be bursting.”
“He enjoys spoiling you,” Mother said, satisfied. “As a husband should. Felicity, you have that to look forward to.”
I scowled. “I wouldn’t want to be spoiled, like a child.”
“Oh?” Mother’s eyes glimmered dangerously. “So you have given some thought to the matter? Tell us, Felicity, what do you want in a potential husband?”
It was a neat trap, and I was able to admire it, even as my mind flashed to a certain piratical figure whose kiss had discombobulated me more than an actual bomb. I pushed the image firmly aside.
“Well, for a start, he has to understand Newtonian kinematics,” I said as serenely as possible. “And I would prefer that he have a firm grasp of Poincaré’s qualitative theory of differential equations.”
Izzy laughed, but Mother only nodded wisely. “A man must have a quick brain to keep up with my daughter,” she said, and for a moment I thought there was even a note of pride in her voice.
“There are six or seven possible candidates on my list who should fit the bill,” she continued.
“Your … list ?” I asked, the word coming out more sharply than I had intended.
Mother’s nod was solemn. “Well, of course there’s a list ,” she said. “We’re not approaching this carelessly. One must have a rigorous system in place when it comes to such important decisions.”
I felt as though I was trapped in some strange nightmare. Lists, systems. For once my mother was speaking the same language as me – only because she wanted to marry me off. My head was aching again.
Before I could say anything, my mother leaned forward, her gaze intent on mine. “I know I’ve left too much of your upbringing to your brother, that I haven’t always been the best mother to you, but here I can be useful. I am going to do this for you, Felicity. I’m going to give you a perfect season and find you a perfect husband.”
“But perhaps…” I began, hating how tentative I sounded. “Perhaps I shan’t find a husband. I mean, perhaps there isn’t a suitable match for me.”
“Nonsense,” Mother said briskly. “I know you’re a tad late in coming out – I let your brother persuade me on that. And you’ve always been an … unusual child. Still,” Mother sailed on, “you’re a bright, beautiful young woman with an extremely healthy inheritance. You’ll have your pick of them. We’ll find you a clever, handsome man who will take care of you.”
She beamed at me, delighted that I would be able to choose my own destiny – as long as that destiny was as a wife and a mother. As long as I left my brother’s house for another man’s and traded one place where I didn’t quite fit for another. As long as there was someone to take care of me .
“And we’ll begin the hunt tonight!” she continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I’ve already secured us invitations to Lady Wellerby’s ball.”
“A ball ?” I said, unable to disguise the horror in my voice, so that the word sounded synonymous with a tooth-pulling.
“Only a small get-together,” Mother carried on, her enthusiasm undimmed by my response.
“Your Grace,” Wheeler interrupted then, all apologies. “You asked me to let you know at once if you received any correspondence.” He carried a note on a silver platter round to Izzy’s side of the table.
“Is it from Max?” Mother asked.
“No,” Izzy said, breaking the seal on the note, which I recognized as Mrs Finch’s stationery. “It’s from the friend I’m due to see today.” She scanned the note and stood. “In fact, she needs to meet a touch earlier. I do apologize.”
“Of course you must go!” Mother exclaimed. “It’s my fault for arriving unexpectedly. Besides, it will give me a chance to spend time with Felicity.”
“Yes, go,” I said, knowing that whatever was in that envelope was much more important than the tension simmering at this breakfast table. “We’ll see you later. At the ball .”
“Of course,” Izzy agreed, sending me a look of moral support before she whirled out of the room. I envied her sense of urgency and purpose.
Mother and I were alone, and I listened to her enthusiastic chatter, careful to keep a pleased smile on my face the whole time, trying not to dwell too much on what was in store for me.
“… And of course one tries to keep abreast of all the town gossip, though it can take a day or two to reach us,” Mother said. “I rarely miss the city, but I must admit I am looking forward to getting all the latest news.”
An idea struck me then. Perhaps I could make use of Mother’s love of gossip.
“I found out only yesterday that a young baron had passed away,” I said, carefully casual.
“No!” Mother exclaimed. “Who?”
“Peregrine Archer,” I replied.
“Peregrine Archer,” Mother murmured thoughtfully.
“Baron Ely,” I said. “I believe.”
“Ah, Viscount Ely’s eldest.” She nodded. “I don’t think I ever met him, though I am acquainted with his parents. But what a shame! He can’t have been much older than Max, poor man.”
“Apparently he was the victim of some sort of attack,” I added woodenly. Truly, I was going to have to work on the art of espionage.
“Oh, yes.” Mother’s eyes widened. “Now I do remember. It was the most shocking thing! I heard that he was shot in the street, an attempt at burglary that went awry. It was put about he was on the mend, but clearly that wasn’t true.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “If the man who killed him had known what he was about, then he’d never have bothered in the first place, because the Archers haven’t two pennies to rub together. Now that poor young man is dead, and the desperate soul responsible will hang for it if they catch him.”
“You say you know his parents?” I asked, digging further.
“Mmm…” Mother nodded again. “Though not well. We moved in different circles, and Lady Archer was several years older than me. A proud woman, from what I recall. The viscount’s title is an extremely old one, but the family fortune has dwindled over the years. Bad investments, apparently. They have one of those great old piles somewhere that they can hardly afford to keep.” She sighed. “It’s becoming a more and more common problem, you know. Of course, we’re lucky that your brother is such a responsible steward. The Roxton estate is certainly in a safe pair of hands.”
“And do they have more children?” I plucked at my napkin, trying to seem like I wasn’t too invested in the answer.
Again, Mother looked as though she was trying to recall the details. “Yes,” she said. “I seem to recall they did have another son … but he died too.”
“He died ?” The words came out too loud, too shocked. “I-I mean, that’s terrible. To lose two sons,” I covered quickly.
“Isn’t it?” Mother agreed. “I believe it was about four or five years ago.”
“So who will inherit the title now?” I asked, my brain trying to rearrange the pieces of information to fit with what I knew about Ash. Had I made a mistake? Was he not Perry’s brother?
If Mother thought the question strange, she didn’t show it. “I’m not sure,” she started. “Oh, no, wait… How could I forget? It was such a scandal! There’s a third son.”
“A third son?” I murmured.
“Yes, though the rumour was he wasn’t Archer’s son at all.” Mother seemed to catch herself, as though remembering who she was talking to. “But really, Felicity,” she said, suddenly prim, “we mustn’t sit around gossiping. We have appointments all over town!”