Chapter 2 #2
Simon noted he was focusing on his mother in an effort to avoid the young lady seated at her side. It was difficult to stop himself from comparing Miss Boyle to Madeline, but he must refrain from such disloyal thoughts.
He bowed in greeting. “Lady Boyle. Miss Boyle, you look lovely this afternoon.”
It was true enough. She was a pretty young woman, with an elfin face, a delicate nose, and large blue eyes framed by pale lashes. A pleasing contrast to his own darker countenance. It was the contents of her head that were … questionable.
“Oh, Mr. Scott! You are so kind.”
Simon seated himself on a spindly rose-pink chair with a gilded frame. The entire room was decorated in pink and gold, so ornate that it threatened to give him a headache.
He hoped Miss Boyle would not import her family’s sensibilities into the Blackwood household. Their extravagant taste was an assault upon refinement. Perhaps his mother might curb her exuberance, for Lady Blackwood possessed a keen understanding of elegance built upon restraint.
Simon’s gaze strayed to the cupids prancing across Lord Boyle’s waistcoat, and he offered a silent prayer for mercy.
“I was just telling Lady Blackwood that we went shopping a few days ago! I found a pair of kid gloves in the perfect shade of pink! Are they not beautiful?” Miss Boyle held up her hand for Simon to see. He leaned forward to peer at them before smiling in response.
“They are.” They were not. A peach-pink color, which suited her, so that was not the issue.
It was the well-to-do couple, attired in the style of a century earlier, embroidered in intricate detail, which made him wish he was riding in the park.
Anywhere but in this pompous parlor of pageantry.
He longed for the rich red walls of his study, with neat white trim and skillful paintings of Italian masters within gracious frames.
Visiting the Boyle home brought out his priggish inclinations.
He supposed he was something of an art enthusiast. These rooms assailed his senses until he was dizzy from distaste.
“Have you and Papa reached terms?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
“So we are betrothed?”
Lord Boyle coughed into his hand, his eyes darting away to stare sightlessly into the center of the room, which contained nothing but a pink-and-gold rug on the floor.
“I am afraid not. Your father assures me that tomorrow we shall be so.”
“Oh, Papa! What is it this time? I so look forward to informing my friends that I am to marry!”
Lord Boyle tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, unable to face his daughter’s disappointment. Lady Boyle scowled at her husband. Apparently, she did not adhere to Isla’s strict code of living frown-free.
“Lord Boyle! Olivia was hoping to inform Miss Simmons she is to wed. That little chitterling has been lauding it over our dear girl that she is betrothed for weeks now!”
Simon kept a straight face, but Lady Boyle had a habit of misusing jargon.
He thought it likely she had meant to say chit, not the innards of a pig.
He heard his mother’s sharp intake of air, her sole reaction as she sipped on her tea.
When he looked over at her, he could see the mirth dancing in her eyes as she stared back at him with a challenging glint.
He quickly glanced away lest he burst into laughter.
The Boyles’ squabble continued for several minutes, during which Simon silently reminded himself of the advantages of this match.
Olivia is lovely.
From a good family.
Her eccentric tastes will mellow within the elegance of Blackwood House.
The lady is young and will form a more interesting personality over time.
As a married woman, away from her parents, she will find her own voice.
As I grow to know her, she will turn out to be quite delightful.
His tension eased. This was not the life he had once imagined, yet it was the path duty required. Simon had given his word, and he would not go back on it. His family depended upon him to do what was right.
When they at last departed from the Boyles’, Simon shared his assertions with his mother on the drive back home. It took some time because the streets were congested, and Simon appreciated the opportunity to air his thoughts. He found himself desirous of reassurance.
His mother bestowed him with a rare smile, leaning forward to pat him on the knee until her face fell back into its customary benign expression.
“It is true, dear. It is fashionable for young ladies of the ton to appear empty-headed. Once they wed, their true personalities are revealed as they mature. I hear Miss Boyle possesses quite a musical gift, which implies discipline, so I know her strength of character shall come to light after you wed.”
“What of our attachment? The young lady seemed more concerned with boasting to her acquaintances than our connection as husband and wife.”
“If you are honest, Simon, you are more concerned with duty to the title than the young lady’s heart.”
He grimaced. “True, but I intend to work on building a genuine marriage.”
“And I am sure she will be committed, too.” It was Isla’s last word on the subject. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and put her head back to doze off while the carriage trundled on.
Madeline checked her pocket watch as her carriage pulled to a stop in front of her home. Her footman opened the door to set the steps in place. As she was alighting from the dim interior, she caught sight of Simon with his mother walking up to their front entrance.
She paused, watching for a moment as they disappeared inside. Her heart gave a faint tug before she looked away. She had been thinking of her daily routine on the drive home, of how much she enjoyed the walled garden. But the memories and hopes it evoked were troubling.
Was there a way to reclaim the garden without reclaiming the past? Perhaps there was, and she had already begun to form a notion. A test of her theory would be in order soon enough.
But, for tonight, she was going to deliver the news to her mother that she was willing to consider courtship.
Perhaps Mama could engage a matchmaker while there was still a possibility of Madeline being able to bear children.
She knew Mama would be pleased. Legacy was important to her, and with no sign of interest from Henri, Eleanor Bigsby was facing a future without grandchildren unless Madeline pursued marriage.
The clock was ticking, and the process of finding the right man would be complicated, given a wife’s lack of legal rights and that the endurance of the manufactory must be assured for decades to come.
Entering the house, Madeline located the news sheets and headed to the library for a read. Soon, tea was brought in, and she perused the articles. It was too soon for word of Simon’s betrothal, but she found herself committed to skimming all the headlines despite herself.
She was just finishing her cup when Henri entered.
“Good evening.”
“Oh, excellent! I am in need of a cup.” Her sister walked over to flop onto the settee beside her, then poured out her tea and added milk and sugar.
After testing the temperature, she set her cup down to cool, settling back with a blissful sigh. “Did you hear the frightful news?”
Madeline’s brow puckered. She could hardly claim she did not want to hear the latest on-dits while holding news sheets.
Gossip made her weary, and she rarely read them except for the stock and business news.
She could not admit to the embarrassing truth that she was scouring the small print for an announcement about Simon Scott and Olivia Boyle.
“Has something of import happened?”
“A baron was found murdered. This morning! He had not visited London in more than twenty years, but he was here for the coronation. All of Westminster is talking about it.”
Madeline squashed a surge of irritation.
In her opinion, Henri was far too enamored with the celebrity of Parliament and high society.
She supposed it was appropriate. Her sister acted as a social hostess for their great-uncle Reginald, who had been widowed nigh fifteen years ago and displayed no inclination to remarry.
It was just that Madeline found it dull.
Perhaps exposure to the Scotts next door had made her weary of class distinctions.
However, a significant portion of their clients fell into the categories of people her sister and Uncle Reggie dealt with, which had led to orders for Bigsby’s, so she could hardly dissent.
Nevertheless, she needed to consider her idea about the walled garden. She found her peace there, away from the family business and social gossip.
“Which baron?”
“Lord Filminster. They say the coroner suspects that his estranged son did it to hasten his inheritance. They have not spoken in years, but the son resides in their London townhouse.”
Madeline considered this surprising turn of events. A nobleman murdered? Such a heinous act was unheard of.
“Well, then … I hope the heir is guilty or his reputation is being destroyed without cause.”
“I did not think of that. It would be terrible for him if he is innocent.”
Nodding in agreement, Madeline hoped that her sister would reconsider her propensity to gossip. Henri spent far too much of her time with people who were willing to ruin the credibility of their acquaintances for their own entertainment and, perhaps, from hidden envy of the people in question.