Chapter 2 #2
But she was very clear that she didn’t want to remain with her mother for a moment longer than she was obliged to, and her pride rebelled at being a sad and lifelong hanger-on to Sabrina or Viola, even if they said they didn’t mind.
She minded. It was disturbing that the list had started dubiously and yet still managed to deteriorate as it went on.
Allegra was shrewd enough to see that any elderly lady who employed her as companion would likely be just as bad as Leontina or even worse, and use her as the merest dogsbody; she would make a spectacularly dreadful governess even if she could persuade any poor deluded fool to employ her; and she couldn’t believe that death was a serious suggestion even from a woman who plainly had far too many daughters to support.
Her mother, exasperated, had then added that those, of course, were the respectable choices, presuming death to be respectable, which was debatable. The others were:
7. The stage. (For which she had no reason to believe she had the least aptitude.)
8. Prostitution. (Ditto, if that could be thought to matter.)
9. Making a bare living in some other menial and no doubt deeply disagreeable fashion, for instance as a chambermaid.
10. Some combination of the two above, culminating in death from typhus, consumption, or another low and lingering ailment.
Therefore, Mrs Constantine said, unanswerably, she really should start looking at the suitors in a more serious fashion – given the nature of the alternatives. Hence her current vexation, for she could not bring herself to declare the slightest preference for any one of them.
And yet Viola had pointed out, and Allegra was obliged to agree, that their mother always made the best choices she could with the material at hand.
Even she could not summon gentlemen out of thin air and ensure that they were wealthy, amiable, of high rank, kind, handsome and young.
Merely to contemplate such a list of sparkling qualities was to acknowledge how unlikely it was that one man should combine them all, and should also be possessed with a convenient desire to marry the latest Miss Constantine to enter into society – a woman of no fortune and mediocre birth.
And that was before one began pining for the moon and dreaming of such inessential but desirable traits as intelligence, wit, honesty, or even a full set of teeth.
And as for such an elusive thing as mutual passion – a thing she’d heard whispered about but never experienced – there was no point even dwelling upon it for a second, as far as she could see.
She probably wouldn’t even know it if she saw it.
She had examples before her, of course, besides Viola.
Sabrina’s husband Laurence was neither good-looking nor of noble birth, but he had all the other attributes that a woman might desire, including flawless dentistry.
Allegra didn’t know if there was passion between them – she could hardly ask – but Sabrina still appeared to like him well enough, even after five or six years of marriage and nearly as many children.
Everyone liked Laurence. Could one of her suitors prove to be such an undemanding, easy-going man, and would she with her deep-rooted contrariness care for him if he were?
The uncomfortable fact was, she couldn’t be sure.
Viola’s husband, the Duke of Winterflood, for his part had seemed upon his entry into their lives to have only one flaw – his advanced age – and many, many positive endowments, but it had soon become apparent that his kindness was in short supply, at least where his wife was concerned.
Allegra could see for herself that passion was entirely absent in that particular relationship, and she could not wonder at it.
And similarly, her own suitors all had their obvious drawbacks – though Lord Milton’s defects were something Allegra struggled to define – along with others, currently unguessed at, which they might be cunningly concealing until it was too late, as Edward had.
It wasn’t as though she considered herself to be perfect; she knew very well she wasn’t.
Like most of her sisters, she had a hasty temper, and was liable to speak and act before she thought; long before she thought, or even instead of thinking, on many occasions.
She could play on the pianoforte and ply her needle better than some, despite her left-handedness, and worse than many.
Nobody had ever asked her to sing twice.
Therefore, nobody would ever describe her as highly accomplished, if they were being truthful.
And unlike all her sisters, she was extremely short, which she had been brought to realise was not at all desirable.
This was unfair, because it lay entirely out of her control.
If wishing to be taller worked, she would be already.
Nor was she a great beauty, unless one cherished a fondness for heavy black brows, stormy dark eyes, and olive skin.
She doubted that such attributes had ever been fashionable, and they definitely weren’t now.
If a man had a fancy for delicacy and wistful charm, for the ethereal, he had best look elsewhere.
If he dreamed of a lady who would look meltingly up at him in adoration of his superior masculine intellect, he should probably run away in almost any direction.
And if he particularly disliked blunt sarcasm, mockery, and bad temper in the morning (and at other times), he should leap on a fast horse and make his escape while he could.
So perhaps she should be grateful that despite all this she had admirers.
There were men in society who unaccountably seemed to wish to court a short, plump, sarcastic, beetle-browed female of uncertain temper, middling accomplishments and no fortune, who had besides three annoying younger sisters who were bound to be a burden on him, and a mother who had more than once been described as a Napoleon in petticoats.
And actually, when one looked at them in those terms, it wasn’t at all clear precisely why the gentlemen who wooed her did so.
They had many, many other debutantes to choose from, dozens of them more obviously agreeable, taller, slimmer, prettier, and with greater fortune and higher birth to their names.
So why had she been chosen? It had never occurred to ask herself this before, but now she thought that it should have done.
Helen of Troy she was not. Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?
It wasn’t. Maybe three ships, at the highest estimate.
Two and a half ships. A couple of leaky rowing boats.
Perhaps that was the answer to her problem, or the start of an answer – if she could work out why precisely each of them wanted her, it might become clearer what she should do about it.
Sir Harry had already offered for her, several times, if she chose to take him seriously, blushing and stumbling over his words but comprehensible enough; Mr Englishby was apparently on the brink of doing so; and her mother was of the opinion that Lord Milton could be brought to that desirable point with just a little effort and agreeableness on her part.
Sabrina had had to make no such effort, of course.
Laurence had fallen in love with her on sight – he was prepared to tell the story, at length, to anyone who seemed even slightly interested.
That wasn’t helpful to Allegra, because Sabrina was beautiful, and anyone who spent a moment or two in her company must also realise that she was even-tempered (unlike the rest of them), clever (but not too intimidatingly so), warm-hearted and amusing.
These qualities were written on her face – of course men had fallen at her feet and rolled there, panting, like so many puppies desperate for belly rubs and treats.
She was tall, too, and yet it was impossible for even Allegra to dislike her for it.
Edward, by contrast, had married Viola purely because she was young and fertile; he had been twice married already, recently widowed, desperate for an heir and largely unconcerned with anything else.
She was lovely also, and well above average height, but he didn’t seem to notice or care, and now he had his heir – two, in fact.
This marital bargain had worked out in a highly satisfactory fashion for him, but perhaps less so for Viola.
It was apparent that she loved her little children with all her heart, but not her husband.
She didn’t even seem to like him all that much, as far as Allegra could tell.
And if he’d noticed that sad fact, as surely he must have done, he didn’t appear to shed a single tear over it.
Viola was one and twenty, with all the material possessions and financial security anyone could desire, but in many other respects her future was cold and bleak.
So – since Allegra had a long and depressing list of reasons why marriage was the least terrible choice available to her, and yet many equally compelling arguments for caution in the choice of a mate – she resolved to examine her suitors as dispassionately as she could, and work out why they desired her, and then, armed with that knowledge, whether she could bring herself to tie herself to one of them for life with no realistic prospect of escape.
At least such enquiries would keep her busy, she supposed.
And what could be more important? Her whole future was at stake.
The stark reality was, she must make her choice and marry at the end of this Season. She was almost out of time.
And these were her options:
1. Lord Milton: handsome, amusing, clever, amiable, but sadly tepid. Rich.
2. Sir Harry Eager: not handsome, not amusing, not clever, certainly amiable, not tepid. Very rich.
3. Mr Englishby: handsome, somewhat amusing, possibly clever, probably not amiable, definitely not tepid. Not at all rich.
There they were; there would be no more; no bachelor number four. Allegra simply could not afford to delay any longer, nor would her mother permit it. She must decide.