Chapter Eight #2
“None, other than my brother’s wife, but she’s much occupied at the family seat in the country. Angela has no mother or sister to care for her.” He let out a sigh. “The appointment’s out of necessity more than choice. I dislike the notion of a woman compelled to earn a living.”
Pompous fool!
“What nonsense!” Portia said. “A woman should be permitted to make her own way in life as much as a man, and not all women are compelled to earn a living—some of us do by choice.”
“Surely you’re not engaged in commerce, Lady Portia?”
Her stomach twisted in apprehension. “N-no, of course not.”
“Commerce is a man’s world,” he said.
“There are plenty of women earning a living in the City.”
“Not women of your station. I wouldn’t want my sister to earn her living. In that, I’m in agreement with your brother.”
Portia caught sight of her brother at the far end of the ballroom, striding across the floor with all the insufferable arrogance of the superior male, turning the head of every unattached female—and most of the attached.
It was as if he cast a spell that caused women to lose all reason and rationality.
Were he not so overbearing, Portia might have pitied him. But, as with all men, the unwanted attention of the opposite sex did not pose any danger to his person or his reputation.
“There she is,” Colonel Reid said.
He gestured toward a lone woman sitting in the corner, her gown a shade of blue that could only be describe as somber.
She wore no jewelry save a brooch in the center of her neckline.
Her hair, a rich, dark chestnut with streaks of gray, was scraped back into an unflattering matriarchal style.
She sat, back stiff, a folded shawl on her lap, gazing out toward the center of the ballroom, but as Portia’s brother passed, the woman startled and her wide, expressive eyes focused on him.
Portia caught a flicker of yearning, but unlike the hunger seen in the other female guests, her expression carried an undertone of despair.
Despite the crowd in the ballroom, Portia had never seen anyone who looked so utterly alone.
“That’s Mrs. Stowe,” the colonel said, “whom I’ve engaged to chaperone my sister.”
“She doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself.”
“That’s the price a woman pays for her independence.”
“It’s a price that Society imposes on her, colonel,” Portia said. “Why is nobody talking to her? It’s as if she doesn’t exist. The world is not going to descend into anarchy if a woman earning a living is accepted into Society.”
He steered Portia toward the woman, and she lifted her head in recognition, then rose to her feet and dipped into a curtsey.
“Colonel Reid,” she said, her voice a rich alto. “Is your sister here tonight? Forgive me, I thought her first social engagement was next week.”
“It is, Mrs. Stowe,” he replied. “I am alone tonight.”
She settled her gaze on Portia.
“May I introduce you to Lady Portia Hawke?” Colonel Reid said. “Lady Portia, this is Mrs. Stowe.”
Portia offered her hand, and Mrs. Stowe curtseyed once more. “Delighted,” she said. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”
“I don’t think I’ve had that pleasure, ma’am,” Portia said. “But perhaps you know my brother? He’s the Duke of Foxton.”
Mrs. Stowe’s eyes widened. “Oh…yes, of course. Hawke. I-I’m aware of His Grace, but we’ve not been introduced.”
“Then let me—” Portia began.
“Please don’t trouble yourself, Lady Portia. I…” Mrs. Stowe colored. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn.”
“Very well,” Portia said. “It’s no great loss to you. My brother disapproves of the notion of an independent woman.”
“As do all men.”
“But not your husband, Mrs. Stowe?” Portia said.
“I’m a widow, Lady Portia.”
“I’m sorry. Do forgive me.”
A slight smile curved Mrs. Stowe’s lips. “My late husband would not have approved of my earning a living. Widowhood brings with it the kind of freedom that may be socially acceptable, but it elicits an excess of pity.”
“And there’s nothing worse than being pitied,” Portia said.
“Quite so, Lady Portia. I—” Mrs. Stowe broke off and lowered her gaze. At that moment, Portia’s brother appeared, together with Lord Maybury—the very man whom Heath Moss had engaged the Farthing to shoot at, as soon as dawn broke tomorrow.
“There you are, sister.” Adam gave a cursory glance at Mrs. Stowe, then resumed his attention on Portia. “Do you have a partner for the next dance?”
“No.”
“Then you should circulate,” he said. “You’ll never find a partner if you loiter about at the edge of the ballroom.”
“Particularly if it’s the dowdy edge,” Lord Maybury said, eyeing Mrs. Stowe.
Portia’s brother let out a laugh and clapped Maybury on the back.
“Please excuse me,” Mrs. Stowe said, her voice tight. “I must attend to Miss Turton. It’s rather cold and she needs her shawl.” She approached a young woman at the center of the ballroom.
“I say, Maybury, there’s no call for that,” Colonel Reid said.
“Oh, don’t be so stuffy!” Maybury chuckled. “A man attends a ball to look at pretty girls, not down-at-heel maiden aunts.” He gestured to Mrs. Stowe’s retreating back. “Women like that make the place look deuced untidy.”
“Women like Mrs. Stowe protect young ladies from rakes, Maybury,” Colonel Reid said. “She’s no maiden aunt, she’s a hired chaperone, and has as much right to be here tonight as you or I.”
“A paid subordinate?” Maybury said. “I trust she’ll be eating her supper downstairs tonight.”
Portia glanced toward Mrs. Stowe, who was draping the shawl over a young woman’s shoulders, her eyes bright with moisture.
A gong sounded, and Henrietta clapped her hands. “Time for supper, mes amis!”
Colonel Reid offered his arm, and Portia took it. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Henrietta and her husband approach Mrs. Stowe and her charge. Earl Thorpe offered Mrs. Stowe his arm and escorted her to the dinner table, Lord Maybury watching with a scowl.
“Bravo, Thorpe,” Colonel Reid said.
Bravo indeed. Few men possessed enough kindness to defy social convention.
Perhaps Colonel Reid was one such man. As her brother and Lord Maybury were not.
But tomorrow, at dawn, the Farthing would take much pleasure from aiming his pistol at Maybury’s head.