Chapter 2 #3
The girls, however, are not left to themselves.
Mrs. Dowell, annoyed that her attempt to embarrass me has been thwarted by vanity, coolly thanks them for their stimulating contributions before asking Mr. Nutting a pointed question about grazing rights.
He offers an enthusiastic reply as the girls fall silent, and although Mrs. Dowell’s disinterest is conveyed by the yawn she barely manages to suppress, she would rather listen to male pontification than a litany of birds.
Eventually, the ordeal ends.
We are served flummery for dessert, nicely topped with honey and cream, and then the ladies retire to the drawing room, leaving behind the men to enjoy their port and masculine conversation.
(How their conversation can be any more masculine confounds me.
What will they discuss next: War? Famine? The Roman Empire?)
I am not so misguided as to expect the change to be an improvement, but neither do I conceive that the situation could get appreciably worse.
Alas, I forgot how easily my mother is unmoored by her nerves.
Having uttered one sentence notable for its semicoherence, she will then spend a dozen more in a struggle to clarify her meaning, a process that somehow always ends with her gravely insulting her listener.
It happens like clockwork.
Her inability to hold her tongue is why we have barely settled in the drawing room before Mama calls the vicar’s sister a hopeless spinster to her face.
Naturally, that is not what she had intended to say.
The very opposite, in fact!
Determined to buoy Miss Burgess’s spirits, which she assumes must be flagging, given the desperate straits of her situation, Mama assures her that all is not lost.
It is early days yet.
“You could still wed,” she announces, citing Bea as proof.
If her plain niece with no conversation can find success on the Marriage Mart, then anything is possible. “You might marry a duke!” Mama adds sweepingly.
But then she realizes that the predicament is more fraught than she had originally perceived, for the problem is not only Miss Burgess’s advanced age. It is also the scarcity of dukes with an inexplicable fondness for women of advanced age.
Even just ordinary dukes without unusual tastes are thin on the ground.
Mama titters nervously as she begins to fear she has done the other woman a grave disservice by speaking encouragingly of her prospects. It is better for Miss Burgess to keep her expectations in check than to indulge in a flight of fancy.
Earnestly, Mama urges her to accept the truth of her situation rather than rail against it. “You are a spinster, and your chances are slim if not completely nonexistent.”
And the hint of satisfaction in her voice!
It is tragic and intolerable, for she genuinely believes she has appropriately clarified her position and spared Miss Burgess unnecessary heartbreak.
Mama is thinking: Job well done, Vera!
But only for a heartbeat.
The unvarnished cruelty of her words immediately strikes her, and she stutters an apology for speaking with so much thoughtless candor.
“You must believe that I never meant to insult you. Nothing I have said is a judgment on you or your appearance or your character. You are presentable enough. You certainly have more color in your cheeks than my niece, whose complexion is deathly wan. But these things are so complicated, aren’t they?
Even someone like Miss Nutting, whose beauty is undeniable, might find it difficult to secure a spouse, especially if she continues to make a habit of discussing avian species during supper as though they were a scintillating topic of conversation,” she says before turning as pale as Bea as she comprehends the extent of her insult, for she has also taken aim at her host’s eldest daughter, since it was Mrs. Dowell who had introduced the subject.
Aghast, Mama inhales sharply and shakes her head, as if to clear it of all her previous thoughts so that she may start anew.
It does not work.
She continues to talk of birds, recalling the time Princess Caroline mentioned ptarmigans during a social outing to the theater. As abruptly as she makes the connection, however, she disavows it, for the example is of limited utility.
The princess is a princess, and Mrs. Dowell is not.
She is common.
“Very common,” Mama adds earnestly, for she would loathe anyone in the room to believe she does not understand social order. “Miss Nutting is even more common.”
The Incomparable scowls as a blush sweeps across her face, and Mama, fearful of giving offense, rushes to include Miss Braithwaite in her accounting. “You are just as common, my dear. More so because your grandfather was in trade.”
It is a horrifying performance, and as I sit here silently, wishing I could disappear into the settee, I try to find a small nugget of humor in the debacle.
One tiny thing to laugh about.
Mrs. Dowell’s expression as Mama notes that her name rhymes with bowel.
It is a mixture of outrage, fury, and resignation. If nobody has actually said the words out loud, Mrs. Dowell herself has thought them.
Eventually, Mama falls silent.
By the time she does, she has insulted every person in the room as well as a few who are not. Mr. Nutting’s wig is violently condemned even after his wife insists that his hair parts naturally to the left.
It is a massacre.
I know that sounds lavish, but it is the only description that suits the situation.
An utter massacre.
It is as though Mama stood in the middle of the room with a bow and a full quiver and released arrow after arrow until all the occupants were dispatched.
Having prepared myself for the worst, I am amazed to discover the limits of my imagination. Never in my wildest dreams did I conceive of devastation this extensive.
It is over.
Bea and the duke’s arrival—it will not make a difference.
We are well beyond the Prince Ravenzio scheme now.
If Sebastian decides to continue with the courtship, it will be in defiance of not only his family but also the entire community in which he was raised.
The sensible thing would be to bundle us into a carriage, send us back to London, and forget we ever existed. Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting would gladly lend their assistance to the project.
Aware of how atrociously she has behaved, Mama stares morosely into her teacup, which she is clutching in both hands like a small child.
The poor dear—she cannot help herself.
What little poise or self-possession she has deserts her the moment she grows flustered, and she has no ability to regain her equanimity.
Once her composure is lost, it is gone for good.
I am sympathetic to her plight, yes, but also angry that she could not resist her nature for one evening.
And not even a full evening!
Just the one hour in the drawing room before the men join us and Mr. Holcroft proposes we play a game of whist.
Ultimately, of course, it is all my fault for extending Sebastian’s invitation to Red Oaks to my parents.
If I had the sense of a goose, I would have come up with a convincing lie and refused without mentioning it to them.
Even if it sounded false, Sebastian would never have questioned the excuse.
He is too much of a gentleman to make a lady uncomfortable.
But what is done is done, I think, as Mrs. Holcroft turns to my mother with an overly bright smile and thanks her for her candor. “Your eagerness to share your opinions without censoring your thoughts is so very quaint.”
Mama lowers her head further, her chin practically pressing against the lace trim of her dress, as she mumbles a reply.
Thankfully, it is unintelligible.