Chapter 19 - Dahlia
CHAPTER NINETEEN- DAHLIA
Several days later found the group at the park.
Lily still hadn't overcome her fear of having Dahlia studying her.
Dahlia hoped that the change in scenery, the distraction of a full picnic basket, and the comfort of the faded quilt that Beatrice spread upon the trimmed green grass might help Lily relax enough to be her true self.
After all, that's what Dahlia was after.
That was the key to her genius: watching people behave as they normally did.
"I'm not frightened of you," she’d said when Dahlia had asked about her nerves. "I know it may be silly, but I simply cannot act natural once somebody has encouraged me to do so."
It was a mild afternoon. A cool breeze ruffled several strands that had escaped from Dahlia's low chignon.
Dahlia settled onto the blanket and arranged her skirts in a pleasing manner.
Her day dress was one of her favorites—lavender silk edged with the finest white lace.
Lily's eyes had widened when she saw Dahlia's ensemble—perhaps the lady might be willing to sit still after all.
"It's surprising how many people are out and about today," Beatrice commented.
"Is it?" Margaret shrugged. "The Season is about to start. Nearly everyone is back in London.”
“Don't you find it strange that everyone's assembled and yet it hasn't officially begun?"
"I hate it," Lily said. "It feels like a bunch of racehorses at Ascot waiting for the gun to go off."
"What a description." Beatrice shook her head. "In this scenario, are we the horses?"
"I'm not sure what we are. Not to the other ladies or to the gentlemen."
"Well, if you garner as much interest as a racehorse at Ascot," Claire said dryly, "you'll have no problems at all."
Beatrice rolled her eyes.
"I don't think that the description of a horse race is completely accurate." Margaret tilted her head to the side. "After all, there's only one goal in a horse race."
"Don't you think the same could be said of a Season? Matrimony is the goal, isn't it?"
"Yes, but not to the same gentlemen, thankfully."
"Thank heavens, or it might be a bloodbath.”
“That might make it far more interesting,” Rachel muttered.
Beatrice’s eyes sparkled. “Who's the jockey in this scenario?"
William groused, "Ambitious mamas, naturally—whipping their daughters into a frenzy, trying to get the gentleman with the best title."
Though William had agreed to chaperone the herd of ladies, Dahlia was certain he’d much rather be back at home with his ledgers. To her secret delight, he’d chosen the spot between her and Rachel, which meant that some of his more private asides were reserved for her ears alone.
“Does that mean you’re a jockey, too, William?” Beatrice teased.
Lily fussed with her skirts. "This entire conversation has me feeling distinctly uncomfortable.”
“Dahlia has her sketchbook open,” Claire said. “It’s a wonder you aren’t sweating through your silk already.”
The other ladies cast their frowns in Claire’s direction as Lily’s spine ratcheted tighter. The entire point of this outing was to distract Lily from Dahlia’s surreptitious drawing, and she’d gone and stated it bluntly.
Beatrice attempted to turn the conversation back to other things, even as Lily’s eyes grew wide and latched on Dahlia’s open sketchbook. “What of you, Rachel? What’s your goal for the Season?"
"As long as I don't wander into the gardens and end up in a scandalous embrace with a man who’ll someday blackmail me, I'll consider it a raging success."
Dahlia looked heavenwards as if for divine support, but William just chuckled.
"In all seriousness," Margaret pressed, "do you wish to marry?"
Rachel wrinkled her nose. "I've yet to meet a man I'd like to marry. But I'm not opposed to the institution as a whole."
"I still don't think all of these gowns are necessary," Lily said. "Will it truly make that big of a difference how we're dressed?"
Claire rolled her eyes. "This coming from someone who's not had a Season. Please, take my word for it—it matters more than you know."
"Why are they all staring?" Lily asked, sliding her eyes to the right, where a group of gentlemen rode their horses slowly past on the path.
"You're joking, right?" William said. "Six of the most beautiful ladies of society are in this grouping, and five of you are practically unknown to them. Right now, gaining male attention is the equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel."
"Everyone has been so crude today. First us ladies were horses, now the men are fish in a barrel?" Lily blinked.
"Indeed," Claire said dryly, "if we could refrain from comparing people to some sort of stupid animal for the next quarter hour, that would be delightful."
"Do you think our lady’s maids should be standing closer?" Lily wrung her fingers together.
"Why would that be an issue?" Beatrice frowned.
"For chaperones' sake, perhaps."
Claire shook her head. "The only gentleman present is related to four of us, and he's already besmirched one of the other two. I hardly see how anything untoward could happen."
"Besmirched?" Rachel scowled. "No one here is besmirched, thank you very much. If you insinuate such a thing again, I’ll let a badger loose in your bedroom."
Claire looked vaguely alarmed. Dahlia thought the reaction intelligent—Rachel didn’t make such threats idly.
Margaret tilted her head. "Where on earth would you even find one this far from the countryside?"
"I have many connections in the country, but my sources are valuable and therefore secret."
Rachel’s narrowed eyes were still fixed on Claire. Dahlia recognized her sister’s expression; she was planning something. A smile played on Dahlia’s lips. Claire had no idea what she’d set into motion.
"Dear heavens, I shouldn't know what to say if one should approach and greet us," Lily said, still sneaking peeks at the gentlemen on horseback.
Dahlia took advantage of her distraction by rapidly sketching a walking dress of peau de soie, complete with a pelerine capelet edged in lace.
William rolled his eyes. "Don't fret, they're just looking. It's like how you ladies walk past a shop window to take in all the hats."
"And now we're hats. I don't know which one of these comparisons is more offensive.”
Margaret asked, “Are you saying that gentlemen choose their wives the same way a lady might pick out a bit of millinery?"
"I should think so," William said. "There are many different considerations, all done in a matter of moments. The first thing that attracts is the look of the item, whether it be a lady or a pair of gloves. Next comes a consideration of price—is it affordable or dreadfully expensive? Along with that is the determination of whether the thing would be at all practical. With gloves and wives it’s much the same—one must consider whether you’d regret the purchase instantly or in the years to come. "
Claire pursed her lips. "A pair of gloves, indeed."
"Shush," Rachel said, leaning forward. "This is deeply interesting. I've never heard a male perspective on the issue, and I’d like to know more. You're saying that although appearances might be the initial thing that makes a gentleman approach, it wouldn't be enough to seal the deal?"
"A woman's attractiveness might be enough to entice me to speak to her or ask for a dance, but only a fool would marry a woman just because she's pretty.
Now, granted," he said, "there are plenty of fools about, which is why if the only thing you ladies want out of this Season is to enter the married state, you'll undoubtedly have no issue with it.
It's whether that married state is happy or not that quickly becomes the issue. "
"That's the trickiest part, isn't it?" Beatrice nibbled her lower lip. “Knowing what will make one happy over the long term.”
Dahlia nodded. She finished embellishing the walking dress and made a mental note to ask Claire whether she’d spent any time devising her own list of requirements for a husband.
"But don't lie, brother." Lily leaned forward. "Beauty does have something to do with it, does it not?”
“Just as you wouldn't purposely buy an ugly pair of gloves, no man wants to invest in a lady he won’t want to look at for the next thirty years."
Beatrice selected a chilled grape. "Thirty years sounds well ambitious. That's a very long time to live with someone."
William said, "Then perhaps you should marry Lord Fettiwig and be done with it. I believe he only has five years left topside."
"Topside?" Lily said.
"On the right side of the soil."
"Goodness sakes, you're crass today. Horses and fish and now death. What's next?"
"Whatever you prefer," William said, popping a grape into his mouth. "What would you like to speak of next?”
“Anything proper.” Lily fluffed her skirts in agitation.
“Very well. If you’d like to pretend that we don't talk about such things freely at home, I’ll engage in your little charade of normalcy."
"Perhaps we can speak of Reginald," Rachel said.
"Who’s Reginald?"
"My pet raven. But on second thought, I doubt that Lily will be amenable to that conversation, because although I perch him on my shoulder regularly, he’s on the wrong side of the topsoil, as William would say."
"Whatever do you mean?" Margaret frowned.
"It means he's dead," Claire said.
"But how is that possible? What about—pardon me for saying so—but what about the smell?" Lily whisper-hissed the last, looking about to ensure no one could overhear her.
"He's preserved. There's no odor whatsoever."
Lily reared back, eyes wide. Dahlia began to sketch her a ballgown.
"Except that's not precisely true." Rachel frowned. "I often spritz him with lavender oil. He smells rather like a potpourri sachet."
"Where on earth did you find him?"
"He was my childhood pet." Rachel's eyes were wide, beguiling.
"No, he was not," Dahlia said. "You bought him in an antique store. Stop telling stories."
"We don't call that a story in our household," Claire said. "We call that what it is—a lie."
"Very well," Rachel said petulantly. "I only bought him weeks ago. However, it feels like we've known each other for an age. It's a recent interest of mine—animal preservation arts."
"What a strange thing.” Margaret selected another lemon shortbread from the plate. “I wonder who on earth first looked at a dead animal and thought, ‘I would like to stuff that and put it in my house.’"
"It is a bit macabre," Rachel admitted.
Claire scoffed. "No doubt that’s the source of the appeal where you’re concerned."
"My brother-by-law, Percy, says that I’m aggressively odd," Rachel supplied cheerfully.
"That doesn't offend you?" Beatrice tilted her head.
"Not at all. It's a badge I wear with honor. Actually, I rather wish I had a badge that marked me as aggressively odd.”
"So do you not expect to marry, then?" Lily frowned. "Forgive me for asking, if that's offensive."
"I'm not sure yet. Luckily for me, two of my sisters have married so well that at this point marriage is an option, not a requirement. Even if the Marquess of Salisbury were to become on the wrong side of the topsoil—”
“Thanks for that, by the way," Dahlia interjected, sliding her gaze toward William. "She's never going to refer to death correctly ever again."
"As I was saying," Rachel said, "even if my brother-by-law ends up on the wrong side of the topsoil, there's always the other one.
Once you have two brothers-by-law, it's like having an heir and a spare.
They're honor-bound to take care of you, after all.
As are their friends. I can split my time between Netherton Hall, Devon Manor, and a multitude of other estates, and I don't need to be married to do it.
So while I've agreed to a single Season, I don't know that I'll have another after this, and I'm uncertain as to whether I'll marry at all. "
"And that doesn't bother you?" Lily pressed.
"Perhaps it might if I had my hopes set on a specific man, but I don't. I've yet to meet one that I thought I could spend the next two hours with and remain entertained, let alone the next thirty years."
"Granted, you haven't met very many gentlemen, Rachel," Margaret said. "You've been cloistered away in the country."
“You’re one to talk,” Claire jibed.
"It doesn't matter,” Rachel said, ignoring Claire altogether. “I have an excellent imagination, and I can't even imagine a gentleman I'd want to marry."
Across the park, a lone man strode towards them.
When he got close enough, Dahlia could see his roguish good looks and recognized Lord Rutheridge, a gentleman with whom she'd once shared a dance during her first Season.
Since then, he hadn't paid any marked attention to her.
But it looked as if his eyes were intent upon their blanket.
Claire stood suddenly.
"Brother," she said, sounding a bit breathless, "I'm going to walk with Lord Rutheridge."
William waved his fingers. "As long as Mary attends you."
Claire nodded and set off toward Lord Rutheridge with a long, unladylike stride.
"What is that about, I wonder?" Dahlia said curiously. "They certainly make a handsome couple."
"Nothing of that nature, unfortunately," Beatrice said. "Claire and Lord Rutheridge have been friends since childhood. It's nothing more than that, I assure you. He’s a notorious rake."
Dahlia blinked at William. "You’d let your sister go walking in the park with a notorious rake?"
"He's not a bad sort of fellow," Margaret argued. "It’s more like he has rakish tendencies towards ladies who aren't connected to his family."
"And that's a good thing?" Rachel said, frowning.
"Good that he doesn't point that sort of attention towards Claire. Or she'd likely bite his finger off."
Dahlia was unconvinced. She watched as Claire approached Lord Rutheridge and they strode away, their heads bent as if conspiring with one another.
Very interesting, she thought.