Chapter One #2
Elizabeth smiled faintly. She had yet to meet Lady Rosalind, but she recognized the type. Every Season produced its grand dames—women whose own marriages had long since secured them positions of influence, and who now wielded that influence in the only currency that mattered: advantageous matches.
Mark looked downward in mock humility, a theatrical sigh fluttering his lapels. “She has already informed me that despite being a wretched younger son, my ‘amiability’ makes me marketable. Apparently, she intends to find me a bride before the last candle tapers out tonight.”
Elizabeth harbored no illusions about the looming threat. Mark was a prize regardless of his self-deprecating barbs because he possessed both significant wealth and a genuine warmth that served as a rare commodity within those glacial halls.
“You underestimate her resolve, Elizabeth,” he said, his expression grave.
“Lady Rosalind engineers alliances with the cold patience of a field marshal and the twisted imagination of a playwright. One minute you are discussing the weather, and the next, you are standing at an altar wondering how the hell you got there.”
Elizabeth lifted a brow. “You speak with alarming specificity, Mark. Do you speak from experience?”
“I speak from documented history,” he replied, leaning back slightly as if preparing to recount a grand tragedy. “Have you truly never heard the grim tale of the Winter Conservatory Luncheon?”
“I cannot say that I have,” Elizabeth admitted, her interest piqued despite herself.
Mark’s expression shifted as his features settled into a mask of mock reverence.
He explained that it was three Seasons ago at a modest gathering of no more than thirty souls held under the thin pretense of admiring a shipment of rare orchids recently imported from Singapore.
The guest list, however, revealed the true botanical specimens under cultivation.
There were two eligible daughters with dwindling prospects along with one widowed viscount possessed of a respectable estate and a dangerously fragile constitution.
Finally, there was Mr. Adrian Pritchard whose banking interests had recently tripled in value thanks to some particularly clever investments in the East.
Elizabeth began to picture the scene including the humid heat of the conservatory and the scent of damp earth and desperation while she fought to hide a smile. She noted that it seemed a promising arrangement for a woman of Lady Rosalind’s talents.
Mark had now completely surrendered to the dramatics of the retelling, his glass of champagne punctuating his gestures.
“So one would think. It was a masterpiece of social architecture. Unfortunately, Mr. Pritchard had developed a sudden and wildly inconvenient enthusiasm for global travel. At the height of the first course, he announced his intention to depart for Argentina within the fortnight. Lady Rosalind,” Mark paused for effect, “considered this nothing less than an act of open hostility against the institution of marriage.”
"I begin to admire her already," Elizabeth said, her voice dry as the champagne. "A woman who knows what she wants and is unafraid to pursue those ends. ”
Mark countered that she must reserve her admiration until she heard the full scope of the campaign.
He explained that on the morning of the luncheon a heavy snow began to fall as the kind of sudden, thick blanket that muffled the city.
While a lesser hostess would have been beside herself with anxiety, Lady Rosalind astutely assessed the tactical advantage instead.
The guests arrived shivering and stamped with frost only to discover the conservatory doors were being sealed behind them with ominous efficiency.
"Sealed?" Elizabeth repeated in confusion.
"For temperature preservation, of course," Mark said, his face a mask of solemn gravity.
"The orchids, it was explained, were delicate creatures that could not survive the fluctuating drafts of an open door.
Footmen secured the entrances like sentries, braziers were stoked to a stifling roar, and the gathering was informed that, until the storm abated, departure would be both impractical and, most importantly, botanically irresponsible. "
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in a mix of horror and delight as she laughed softly. "You cannot mean to tell me they were actually detained. Held hostage by tropical flora?"
"Detained with the finest refreshments," Mark clarified, "and a string quartet that apparently had orders to play until their fingers bled. It was a gilded cage of the highest order."
"And the poor Mr. Pritchard?"
"Seated precisely between the two daughters. Lady Rosalind arranged the place cards herself."
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her shoulders shaking as she tried to swallow her escaping mirth. For a moment, the dark presence of the stranger receded, replaced by the ridiculous image of a banker trapped in a greenhouse.
"And did he make it to Argentina?" she managed to ask.
“The quartet,” Mark continued, “was strictly instructed to play selections conducive to conversation instead of dancing. It was a masterstroke. No one could escape into the anonymity of movement; no one could plead fatigue and drift away to the edges of the room. They were pinned in place. The poor viscount, eventually overcome by the stifling humidity and a surge of misplaced sentiment, began a rambling recount of his late wife’s particular fondness for camellias.
This naturally drifted into a discussion of domestic harmony, which led, with the inevitability of a falling axe, to the daughters’ accomplishments in watercolor, the pianoforte, and the management of poultry. ”
“The management of poultry?” Elizabeth repeated, her eyebrows shooting up.
“An underrated domestic virtue designed to appeal to any pastoral proclivities the men might secretly possess,” Mark said, “Egg yields were discussed at length, Elizabeth. I’m told it was riveting.
Mr. Pritchard attempted to stand twice—once for air and once, presumably, for his sanity.
Each time, Lady Rosalind appeared at his elbow with fresh refreshments and a remark so deftly phrased that sitting back down seemed to be his own brilliant idea. ”
Elizabeth shook her head, the image of the cornered banker vivid and ridiculous in her mind. “And the snow? Did it truly trap them until morning?”
“It ceased promptly after the dessert course,” Mark said, "almost as if Lady Rosalind had negotiated the timing with the heavens themselves. Though the damage was done. Before the first carriage was even called, Mr. Pritchard had agreed to postpone Argentina indefinitely in order to attend a musicale the following Thursday. By Easter, the poor man was engaged.”
Elizabeth’s laughter escaped before she could restrain it. “And the viscount?” she managed to ask, her eyes dancing.
“Married the elder daughter’s dearest friend within six months,” Mark replied, his voice dropping into a droll, matter-of-fact tone. “Lady Rosalind officially declared the outcome ‘efficient,’ as if she’d just balanced a particularly difficult set of books.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You exaggerate. No one has that much control over the elements.”
“I omit details out of respect for the fallen,” he countered.
“There are those who maintain the snow was coincidental. There are others who point out that her brother serves on the municipal improvements committee and that street-clearing crews failed to appear on that avenue until precisely four o’clock. ”
Elizabeth’s eyes shone, her smile wide. “Surely not.”
Mark lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug.
“In this city, my dear Elizabeth, the weather is unpredictable. Lady Rosalind is not.” He straightened his waistcoat, scanning the perimeter of the room with a look of theatrical apprehension.
“If she corners me tonight, I fully expect to be seated beneath a somber portrait of her late husband and subtly informed that my height would improve the visual symmetry of her family line.”
“And what will you do when the trap springs?”
“Feign a sudden, overwhelming vocation,” Mark said promptly. “Possibly the clergy. I shall develop a sudden and incurable passion for missionary work in the furthest reaches of the Hebrides.”
Elizabeth laughed again, the sound lighter and more melodic than it had been all evening. “And if she proves immune to your sudden ecclesiastical ambition?”
Mark sighed, a long, dramatic exhale. “Then I shall require immediate and total rescue. You must spirit me away under some plausible pretense. A medical emergency, perhaps a fainting spell on your part, would be preferred for the drama, but a fabricated note regarding a distant, dying aunt may suffice.”
“I shall begin drafting the symptoms of my ailment at once,” Elizabeth promised.
“Bless you,” he replied fervently. “You see now why your presence is essential tonight and to my continued liberty.
" Mark paused then, his playful expression softening into something more sincere, almost apologetic.
“Though, truly, it is my fault for making you come tonight. I should not have overly insisted.”
He checked his pocket watch, the gold casing catching the light. “I do need to make the rounds, though,” he said softly. “Duty calls, and all that. I need to shake the hands that hold the pens. Would you mind terribly if I abandoned you to the wolves for a while?”
"Go!" Elizabeth said, giving his arm a gentle, dismissive shove. "I’ve heard rumors this house possesses an art collection that actually justifies attendance. This gives me a rare, unencumbered chance to determine if that is truth or mere social inflation."