Chapter 18 #2
The Baron thrust it at her. “Your Aunt Cornelia writes that she is sending someone to you to settle a certain matter, as she calls it. Is she the one pressing the match? I suppose she thinks it a proper turn for Frotheringale to unite the name and estates with her income, after her father was ass enough to split it up.”
Lucasta took the letter with trembling fingers. “You read my post now?”
This time her aunt’s cheeks reddened. “We have the right to know about any correspondence of yours that affects us.”
Lucasta lifted her chin. “How does my cousin’s coming to town affect you?”
She glanced at Trevor, whose jaw was set mutinously. He refused to meet her eyes. How long would he be able to hold out against the pressure of his parents?
How long would she? It was easy to say that in this enlightened age, she could no longer be wed against her will. They couldn’t sign her marriage lines for her; she had to give her consent.
But consent could be wrung from a friendless poor relation in any number of ways.
“Don’t play dim, girl. Your one saving quality is that you have two wits to rub together,” the Baron snarled. He directed a cutting gaze at his son. “You know our plans. Don’t make my son a booby by prancing about with other men beneath his nose.”
“Mr. Pevensey has made no declaration to me, sir.” Lucasta’s voice wobbled.
“Then it’s time we got it settled, don’t you think?”
Her ladyship gave a small cry, raising a hand to her mouth.
“I won’t have my hand forced by threats, sir.” Trevor was stony-faced, his back ramrod straight.
“It’s not threats forcing you, by God!” the Baron roared.
“It’s a very simple equation. Do you want to continue with your fancy tailor and your horses and your shiny phaeton and your clubs?
Or do you want to be a beggar with a hungry belly, cast out on the street?
It’s she—” He flung a hand in Lucasta’s direction, stabbing at her through the air— “who will keep a roof over your head, if you want it!”
Her ladyship’s cry broke free. “Peter! Is it so bad? Have things come to this?”
The Baron’s face stiffened. “I will find a way for us to survive, Patience. The tradesmen’s bills can be put off.
We can shift houses if we need to. But my daughter will need to marry, and this one—” He stabbed a finger in Trevor’s direction— “will need to make something of his looks and my investment in his education, if he wants to hold his head up about town.”
“But Lucasta,” her ladyship moaned. “Does he have to sink to Lucasta?”
Lucasta held back her retort. Her aunt was working in her favor, though she didn’t appreciate the slight. “Indeed, sir,” she said instead, appealing to the Baron’s vanity. “There are any number of available heiresses this season who will make Trevor a better wife.”
“Are there? Heiresses with their income assured, and no family to meddle with the use of their assets?”
“Gale will fuss if I take Lucasta away from him,” Trevor said.
“Name another, then,” the Baron accused Lucasta. “Name three.”
Lucasta racked her brains. She could name one heiress of the season: Cici. Or at least, everyone assumed she came with a generous dowry.
Would Cici be able to marry where she wished if Lucasta refused Trevor?
She clenched her hand around Aunt Cornelia’s note. The ornate touches of the formal parlor pressed in on her: the hand-painted wallpaper, the expensive rugs, the porcelain and marble and silver pieces scattered about, all the pretty and expensive ornaments hiding a great emptiness.
“Where is Cici?”
“At Arendale House, calling on Rudyard’s cousin, that girl you introduced her to at Ranelagh,” her ladyship said sharply. “I told her to wait for you, but your friends came to collect her and bid you join them there when you were free.”
“Your friends. The ones they call the Gorgons. They are all rich, are they not?” The Baron’s voice turned calculating.
Trevor looked alarmed. “If I’m to put my head in the parson’s mousetrap, sir, I’ll decide who’s holding the shackle.”
“My credit is running out,” the Baron said. “And so are your purse strings.”
The look the Baron gave her made Lucasta feel an inch tall. She was nothing but a purse to him. She much preferred when she had been invisible.
She straightened her shoulders. It must be fury making her bold. She would never have dared oppose her uncle a few weeks ago.
“I find it curious that you are discussing my marriage, sir, when you have not yet procured my consent.” As the Baron’s eyes bulged in anger, she turned to Trevor. “Will you take me to Arendale House? It seems you and I have some matters to discuss, and fresh air will do us good.”
A muscle flicked in Trevor’s jaw. “Cici won’t want to walk home in this chill. I’ll order the carriage.”
Lucasta walked out of the parlor with milord and milady Pevensey gaping after her.
Trevor helped her into the carriage and arranged the fur throw over her lap, shielding her against the damp breeze.
Lucasta studied his strong, fine profile as he navigated them out of Caroline Street.
Trevor was an attractive man, an observation she made with an almost sisterly tenderness.
From what she had seen of him since his return, he would make an unobjectionable husband.
But not her husband. “Did you know of your father’s financial situation?” she asked.
He flicked the ribbons, guiding the horses around the corner. “He’s been dropping hints. I think he received a report from his steward that brought matters to a head.”
“You seemed—” Lucasta curled her fingers in her muff and breathed from her belly. “I had not gathered before that you meant to defy him.” Please defy him. Please, please.
He avoided looking at her. “When he first posed the match to me, I presumed you had no other attachments. But I won’t be saddled with a wife who hates me. Or is in love with another man.”
“I’m not—” Lucasta swallowed back the words. She would not lie.
“I do not hate you,” she said quietly. “But you are correct that I hate not being consulted about my own wishes in the matter.”
Which were what? To pull off the concert with as much style as she could, and then flee to Miss Gregoire’s to lick her wounds in private, count over her meager savings, and drown herself in music until she had come to a proper sense of things and all her newfound fancies had died for lack of feeding.
“We simply refuse, then.” She lifted her chin.
“I can refuse,” Trevor said, drawing the carriage to a halt before Arendale House. “But you’ll need somewhere to go when he throws you into the street.”
The girls had gathered in one of the smaller drawing rooms at Arendale House: Cici, the Gorgons, and Bertie, beaming at her role as hostess.
The circle only wanted Judith. She’d adore being introduced to the Gorgons, feeling their fancy gowns and hearing talk of the events at Ranelagh while they sipped tea and nibbled cakes.
Trevor made his bow to Bertie, but left at once when he realized the conversation was about Frotheringale.
“And when he tore off his turban and threw it at Jem!” Bertie giggled. “I vow I thought I might faint in surprise.” She paused. “He’s rather handsome, d’you think?”
Cici’s eyes were wide, round sapphires. “He was ever such a mischievous child. Belle-mère would take us on visits to Frotheringale House, and he tormented me till I cried. But when we last saw him after his father died, when he became viscount— He’d quite changed.
Trevor hated him from the start, they’re always in competition, but I do think he’s grown up.
To think he wants to marry you, Lucasta! ”
Lucasta managed a crooked smile. “He doesn’t want to marry me. He wants the inheritance he thinks my aunt Cornelia will leave me, which includes part of the Frotheringale properties that the old viscount, our great-grandfather, divided up among his children.”
Along with the properties and incomes her aunt had acquired by her own means, through marriage and investment. Her aunt had still given no hint that Lucasta would be her heir of choice, which made her wonder why the Baron and Frotheringale both seemed convinced of it.
“It’s rather unpleasant,” Lucasta added, accepting the tea that Bertie poured for her, “to be wanted for one’s presumed inheritance, and not one’s own self.”
Cici wrinkled her nose. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying all Season.”
Her new worry struck Lucasta silent. Cici had begun the Season with vague thoughts of enjoying herself and entertaining proposals at the end. Now, it seemed she would have to marry. But who would have her if her dowry disappeared?
Lucasta could offer her a home once she had her studio established, but it would be a great fall for a baron’s daughter. Pevensey’s improvidence had thrown away his children’s future and narrowed his own.
She hugged her muff to her middle. She’d never make enough as a music teacher to support Trevor and Cici. Perhaps Aunt Cornelia could be persuaded to help. Or the Dowager Viscountess Frotheringale might bestow something on Aunt Patience, her only remaining daughter.
Of course, if Lucasta did inherit something from Aunt Cornelia, she could provide for her cousins. Without having to marry any of them.
“Try being admired for one’s father’s rank.” Minnie snorted and plucked another cake from the tray.
“Or whom he knows,” Annis agreed, taking the cake Minnie passed her.
Selina bit her lip. “Better than not being wanted at all.”
“Well, at least I had a bit of fun while I could.” Bertie slumped on the settee, her ruffled gown mounded about her.
“It seems I’ll be back in mourning again soon.
My grandfather arrived a few days ago. He was visiting the estate in Dorset but took ill in his travels.
He’s always said he wants to die at his seat in Arendale, but he’s too weak to travel north.
Jem’s with him now, and my mother brought in his solicitors to make him review his will. ”