Chapter 9
T he long pause that occurred after the announcement of the engagement of Tobias Miller and Lady Juliet, sister of the Duke of Westleigh, was undeniable.
Mercy would’ve laughed to fill the silence if she had wished to draw more attention to herself, but in this particular moment, she had enough attention.
Mercy felt frozen to the spot. The entire crowd of the ton first stared at her remarkably handsome brother and his remarkably handsome soon-to-be-wife, and then, as one, they seemed to swing their attention to her.
She wasn’t entirely certain why.
After all, it was her brother who was marrying into the Briarwood family, not herself. But then again, the duke had paid her a great deal of attention this evening. And then there was her slight miscalculation of proposing that he dance with her again. Loudly.
The gossip had gone through the entire crowd. The sparkling people of the ton were not amused by her American boldness.
She had a striking feeling it was because they viewed the Briarwood family as theirs. The duke was theirs. The ton owned them all. Surely, even if they were a little bit odd, the ladies and gentlemen of the ton were expecting to be able to collect members of that family to add to their own and increase their power.
The Briarwoods were not participating exactly as they should.
No. A wallflower had won an earl. Or at least that’s what Mercy understood about how Lady Hermia’s wedding had come about. The diamond of the ton, Lady Juliet, had chosen an American printer.
Now, the duke had danced too many times with an American!
It was enough to turn the entire room exceedingly suspicious of her.
As a matter of fact, Mercy caught sight of a gaggle of young ladies who kept shooting darts at her with their gazes. Their voices were not particularly subtle as she wandered towards the punch.
Gaggle really was the only word that came to mind. Though they were dressed in beautiful finery, their gowns shot through the most elegant silver and golden embroidery. Roses and silk leaves and all sorts of ornament were stitched into their stunning costumes.
Their hair was styled atop their heads, laced with jewels and ribbons. Yes, they were the sparkling pinnacle of the ton. Their fans waved through the air as if they could somehow beat back anything that displeased them along with the heat from the crush of the ballroom.
Mercy marched past.
She had not been raised to be a swan. Although if she was to make an argument, none of these young ladies were swans either.
Geese! Truly! They gawked, they pecked, they hissed, and they looked as if they were about to flap their wings at her and attack. And then she heard a little bit too much vim and vigor from one of the young ladies.
“He cannot possibly marry an American.”
“An American?” another one in an ice-blue gown said. “The scandal. How appalling.”
“They’re not even a proper country,” a girl in a mint concoction huffed.
“They’re just a bunch of traitors,” another young lady pouted.
“How could she possibly ever think to be a duchess?” said a lady with giant roses embroidered into her bodice.
“She will fail entirely,” the lady in icy blue stated.
They all seemed to flutter and honk at each other. It seemed as if they were working each other up into a frenzy of indignation, convincing themselves that there was no way a young lady like Mercy could catch the interest of a duke and steal him away from them.
She understood that dukes were a rare commodity and that most of the young ladies likely dreamed that Westleigh would propose to them.
It was rather amusing because Mercy had already, essentially, turned him down.
She flinched inwardly. Turning him down was not quite correct. She just didn’t believe that he really wanted to marry her, despite his insistence. Now she wondered if perhaps he just hoped to escape the geese.
She was not a turkey, which some claimed had been Benjamin Franklin’s favorite bird, though she thought that was likely a jest! Nor was she an eagle, the preferred winged symbol of her country.
No. With her dark hair and love of learning, she thought of herself more as a crow who was persevering, capable, and intelligent.
Still, she found herself hesitating at the punch bowl. No one really liked to be talked about, and the truth was their vehemence was making her consider simply accepting the duke’s proposal.
It would be quite fun to prove them entirely wrong.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” a voice whispered beside her.
She whipped her gaze to that lovely sound. A young lady in an ivory gown, her soft brown hair curled atop her head, stood by the punch bowl and smiled.
“They’re terrible, you know,” the young lady added.
“Are they?” Mercy teased gently before she winked. “I couldn’t tell for myself.”
The young lady’s eyes widened and then she giggled. “I think you could, and you are just teasing me now.”
“Well, perhaps,” Mercy said, “but I’m doing my very best to ignore them. Besides, you seem like eminently better company.”
“Do I?” the young lady asked, quite pleased as she lifted her punch glass in a small salute. “Thank you. I think so too. But I also appreciate the bolstering thought. I’m sure most people would be quite put down by those gossips. I am Lady Priscilla, by the way,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You are the American staying with the Briarwoods?”
“I am one of two Americans staying with the Briarwoods,” Mercy agreed, not sure what to think of that as their description, even if it was accurate. “Are we so very shocking?”
“Oh, yes,” the young lady replied, her eyes lighting with amusement. “Your brother Tobias marrying Lady Juliet, the diamond of the season? How absolutely delicious! I do love it when things don’t go as expected.”
“Do you?” Mercy queried, picking up a crystal cup filled with watery punch. “It seems to me that the ton adores it when things go as expected.”
“Oh, they do,” Lady Priscilla sighed. The girl rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic shudder. “I’ve not been involved in the ton very long, you see. My father, well, he has a great deal of money, but he’s only just been made a peer, and the ton doesn’t really like people like us. They simply tolerate me.”
“Oh! You are another outsider,” Mercy breathed with appreciation.
Lady Priscilla nodded, her soft brown curls bobbing. “There aren’t many of us, if you must know. The ton is like a fortress that seldom lets down its gate.”
“Does anyone actually want admittance?” Mercy drawled as she clutched her cup and forced herself to take another sip.
“Yes, unfortunately,” the girl replied. “Many.”
Lady Priscilla sipped at her own punch, and they found themselves wandering towards a beautiful curtain which would keep them from view.
Mercy was happy to follow the young lady’s lead.
“You don’t like balls?” Mercy prompted.
“Oh, I do. I do!” Lady Priscilla exclaimed as they hovered just beside a fringed velvet curtain. “They are absolutely wonderful places to study the madness of our ruling class,” she said. “But the ruling class does not find me particularly interesting. Still, that’s quite all right.”
“Is it?” Mercy asked, rather surprised by Priscilla’s stoic nature.
Priscilla’s merry demeanor only brightened as if she was terribly amused. “Yes, I will make a great marriage. There’s no question.”
“Indeed?” Mercy asked, struck by the girl’s confidence. “Even though you don’t enjoy the other young ladies of the ton? And the ton doesn’t enjoy you?”
Lady Priscilla cleared her throat. “You see, I’m not what you would call a wallflower. I actually dance every dance.”
“Do you?” Mercy asked, feeling as if she kept asking rather idiotic questions. But she found herself enjoying Priscilla’s revelation. “Explain to me how this is possible?”
Priscilla waggled her brows. “The young ladies might not like me because they consider me to be an outsider, but all the gentlemen are quite hoping that my funds will bolster their moldering estates. I am quite sought after, if you must know. I am actually exhausted by the constant calls, poems, flowers, and dances. Hence, me coming here to hide with a drink of punch. I’m always parched.”
“Goodness!” Mercy piped, finding Priscilla to be a wonderful reprieve from the ton. “I’m quite surprised that no one is hunting you down.”
“They most likely are,” she whispered sotto voce, “which is why we are standing near this curtain. If anyone comes over here, I’m going to dart behind it and see if I can get out of a dance.”
Mercy threw her head back and laughed.
“Don’t draw attention!” the young lady rushed with mock horror.
“Forgive me,” Mercy said, quickly stifling her laugh with her gloved hand. “I am so sorry. I do not mean to give out your location.”
The young lady laughed in turn before asking brightly, “Are you going to marry the duke then?”
Mercy coughed, stunned by Priscilla’s quick and seemingly innocent pivot. “Wait, are you a spy from that gaggle of girls who’s come over here to find out my intentions?”
Priscilla drew back with melodramatic horror. “Of course not,” she said before giving Mercy a devilish grin, “but you were behaving in a way that, by ton standards, suggests that we’ll hear an announcement at any time.”
“Really?” Mercy said, agog. “Just those two dances?”
“It wasn’t the two dances.” Priscilla leaned forward, her punch cup aloft as she explained, “That’s quite normal, but the duke generally does not dance with a young lady twice in a row. And there’s the fact that you asked him. I don’t know if the ton shall ever recover from that moment. They’ll be dining out on it for years.”
“In truth?” Mercy all but crowed, much like the bird she rather imagined she was. If she were to be a bird, that is. “I can make people dine out on little bits of gossip for years?” Mercy clarified, amazed.
Priscilla nodded firmly. “It would seem that way, but I would be careful about it if I were you. People can be very, very cruel.”
Mercy’s merriment dimmed a bit and she sighed. “Yes they can, but while the gentlemen might have been, none of these ladies have actually been in a war. I’m not particularly concerned about the cut of tongues and explosion of words when I have seen the real thing.”
The young lady gave her a sympathetic look and gently touched her arm. “I’m sorry that you have seen such difficulty, but you should be careful of people’s words. Words do have power. A great deal of power, as I’m sure you know. You are quite an educated person, as I understand, and I’ve heard that your brother runs a printing press.”
“Not just my brother,” Mercy corrected.
“You assist him?” Lady Priscilla asked is if it was the most delicious thing she’d ever heard.
“Not a bit of it. I run the company in New York,” Mercy said before having to add much to her dismay, “when people aren’t harassing me.”
It still felt like a failure to have run away from New York. It didn’t feel fair, but life was not. The fact that she could not have independence without the difficulty of a man bothering her. It really was a difficulty in this society that young ladies needed to be attached to a gentleman of power to make certain that other men could not ruin their lives.
Perhaps she could consider the duke. He certainly would lend an air of superiority to her. And no one would bother her!
She could hardly believe that she was actually seriously thinking on it, but there was something about the Duke of Westleigh. Something about his presence, his promise, and there was, she had to admit, a certain temptation about being able to take the gossip of those young ladies and shove it right back down their throats.
If she was a duchess, Mercy could do whatever she pleased. Well, maybe not everything she pleased. But it was quite mind-boggling the power and wealth she could have if she chose.
“I can see you’re thinking about it,” Priscilla mused.
“I am, and you are not helping,” Mercy groaned.
“Oh, please marry him. Please do,” Priscilla rushed, delighted.
Mercy arched a brow. “You are encouraging me to steal a suitor?”
Priscilla shook her head. “Oh, I will never marry the Duke of Westleigh. He does not even know that I am alive, and he does not need money. He has more than Croesus.”
“Does he?” Mercy asked, though this did not truly surprise her.
Priscilla leaned forward and whispered, “The Briarwoods are very clever with funds and somehow have managed to do it without living off the pain or the backs of others. I don’t really understand it. Still, if you married him, it would be absolutely wonderful. You would infuriate the English. That seems something that Americans quite like to do.”
Mercy grinned slowly. “It’s true. Another little act of revolution, I suppose.”
Priscilla took her hand, quite surprisingly, and squeezed it. “You should do it. It will be grand, and I’ve heard the Briarwoods are absolutely marvelous.”
They were, Mercy agreed inwardly.
Everything about the Briarwoods seemed, well, different. Her own family life had been so full of abandonment that she didn’t dare trust such affection, but perhaps she could trust being a duchess.
It seemed lunatic to go from fighting in a war of independence to joining the aristocracy, but the world was full of strange things. Perhaps she should give way to those strange things and see where it all took her.