Chapter Four
Livy
“Livy, darling,” said Cilla, “must you argue with Papa over dinner? You know it upsets his digestion, and then he is grumpy for days.”
Livy winced slightly, for what Cilla said was true, but truly, Pa was impossible. “I only said I didn’t see any point in a London season,” she argued. “You’d think he’d be pleased not to have the expense!”
This was all Aunt Ginny’s fault. Even after the true story of the Misrule Mishap had become common knowledge among the female half of Marplestead and its surrounding countryside, Aunt Ginny was delighted with her nieces, or at least with Cilla, and wanted them to come to London with her when she presented her daughters, all three at once, in the coming season.
Livy knew she was being unfair. Pa had always gone along with his wife’s desire to see her daughters join their cousins and have their turn among the upper classes in London. But Livy’s seasons had been a disaster and Cilla had been ill last year, when it should have been her turn.
This year, Pa still said that Cilla was delicate. Papa had always insisted that Cilla was delicate. Mama had been delicate, and Cilla looked just like her, but—apart from the severe ague last year—had always kept excellent health.
Livy said that Mama’s delicacy was caused by Papa’s habit of bellowing, which might be true, but did not go down well with Papa.
Delicate or not, Livy’s sister had a will of iron, and she was determined to join her cousins.
The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Cilla was going, and so Pa insisted that Livy must go, too.
Furthermore, even Pa was coming. He had had a miserable Christmas, and refused to be left on his own again.
He decided to take a house in London, leave a skeleton staff to look after their home just outside of Liverpool, and uproot everyone else for the three months from the first of April until the 30th of June.
Livy still did not want to go. Cilla should, Livy agreed.
Cilla was pretty, personable, polite, and pleasant.
A plethora of “p” words, and all highly desirable in a wife.
She was also young—not as young as her youngest cousin, but still not yet twenty.
To add to her appeal, she was an heiress.
With Aunt Ginny as her chaperone, Cilla would have the one final criteria to make her irresistible to a well-born but poverty-stricken gentleman—an eligible connection.
As for herself, Livy had already had two-and-a-bit miserable seasons.
She was more handsome than pretty, and none of the other “p” words applied.
She was six years older than her sister.
Yes, she was also an heiress, and Aunt Ginny was as much her connection as Cilla’s.
But all the other counts against her meant she was not marriage material.
Furthermore, she was happy in that state. Apart from one youthful mistake, she had never met a man to whom she wished to shackle herself.
The irritating internal voice that refused to accept the lies she told herself threw up a mental image. Nonsense. After all, she had not really met Mr. Bane Sanderson, had she? Undoubtedly, he would be a disappointment if she knew him better.
“Let me stay home and look after the house and the estate,” she begged her father.
He refused, but she kept arguing. “Take Cilla, Pa. She would like to find a husband, and I’m sure she will easily attract the gentlemen. But leave me at home.”
In deference to Pa’s digestion, she stopped besieging him over dinner, but she sought him out several times a day with new arguments for taking Cilla and leaving her, until Pa finally blew up.
“Enough, Olivia. No more arguments. No more complaints. You are coming to London. You are joining in the season. Furthermore, you will make yourself agreeable to the gentlemen. For I tell you this, girl. I shall not see Cilla married before you. If you do not marry, then neither does Cilla. And it shall be your fault.”
It was the one thing that could silence Livy—the thought that Cilla might miss out on anything her heart desired. “But surely, Cilla, if you meet someone you care about, Pa will change his mind,” Livy said.
Cilla’s, “Ye-e-es,” was not convincing, and rightly so, for once Pa dug his toes in, the whole earth would be easier to budge.
But Cilla was not downcast. Not at all. “Look on the bright side, Livy. Now I can enjoy myself without any fear of being stuck in a marriage that suits Papa or Aunt Ginny, and does not suit me at all. If I cannot marry before you, and you do not want to marry, then we shall have all the fun of London and none of the trials.”
It was not so much that Livy did not want to marry as that she was sure she could not.
Even if the incident in her first season had never happened, she had the habit of speaking her mind, and no plans to change.
A man who was not interested in her views and opinions was not one she wanted to spend her life with.
Unfortunately, in the three years she had gone to London, none of the eligible men she had met appreciated outspoken women.
Except in her first season, and that was a lie.
Livy had every reason, as a result of that season, to sympathize with Aurora.
She, of all people, was in a position to understand that a girl was only ruined if people knew.
And only Livy and a certain man, long gone to face a judgement higher than hers, knew what had spoiled Livy’s first season so thoroughly.
Shortly after the incident that didn’t ruin her, her mother’s illness had cut her season short. What with nursing Mama and then mourning her, it had been two years ago before she again went to London.
It had not been like the first time, with Mama.
She was much older, much warier, and much less tolerant of male arrogance and stupidity.
Also, she had missed Cilla, and was determined to blot her copy book with her paid chaperone so she would be sent home.
Sure enough, six interminable weeks into the season, the chaperone had thrown up her hands and written to Papa.
Livy had been spared the rest of the season, though she’d had weeks of grumbling from Papa.
But last year, Pa insisted on trying again.
“I promised your mother that you would have your chance,” he insisted.
That time, Livy was even more miserable, even more of a fish out of water, and—she could concede it, if only to herself—even more grumpy and difficult.
And last year, Pa had insisted on her seeing the season out.
At least this time she would have her sister and cousins with her, but she did not suppose that would protect her from the consequences of her well-earned reputation as a difficult woman.
She had worked hard to become one. The wits and the gossips made fun of her. Suitors wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole, even if she did have a large dowry and was the eldest daughter of a fabulously rich man.
They would flock to Cilla, of that Livy had no doubt. But in the end, Cilla wanted to go to London, and Pa refused to leave Livy behind, so go to London Livy must.
“You might meet the Countess of Sutton,” Cilla pointed out.
Unlikely, Livy thought. She doubted if Aunt Ginny moved in such exalted circles.
And if she did meet the esteemed lady, what would she say?
“Please, my lady, I want to help ruined girls like you do, but I have no access to money beyond a few coins, and in Liverpool, people tell me either that fallen women have bought their fate on themselves, or that the work is not for unmarried women.” In fact, one cleric had frowned at her from under bristling eyebrows and said, “One must question the morals of an unmarried woman with an interest in such miserable creatures.”
Horrid man.
No doubt, Countess Sutton would also turn her away. However, they were leaving for London at the end of this week, and Livy could think of no way to stop it.
*
Cilla
Papa had ridden most of the way from home to the inn where they would stop for the night.
He said he could not be confined in a coach with Livy while she was sulking.
Cilla knew better on both counts. Papa got sick in carriages and would ride on his horse even in the rain to avoid such embarrassment.
And Livy was not sulking but anxious. When Livy was worried, upset, or frightened, her response was to snap and snarl. For Cilla’s sake, she had been trying to keep her mouth shut on all the angry comments she wanted to make. The result was what her father called a sullen silence.
Truly, though neither Livy nor Papa would appreciate the comparison, the pair were more alike than they cared to think.
Papa could not see that Livy’s sniping was a defensive measure, used when she felt threatened or out of sorts, and Livy refused to believe that Papa’s complaints and remonstrations arose from bewilderment over and concern about his elder daughter.
At least with Papa not in the carriage, Livy was able to relax.
Since neither of them suffered from Papa’s complaint, they took it in turns to read out loud.
They speculated about who might be in Town that they had met at Aunt Ginny’s house party.
They discussed fashions, for the first order of business, Aunt Ginny had written, was to see to their wardrobes.
Even Barker, their shared maid, joined the conversation instead of insisting on the distance she assured them was only proper. Barker was a devoted reader of Ackerman’s and other fashion periodicals, and had strong opinions about how to turn them out to do her credit.