Chapter 1
(After seven months of “wedded bliss”)
A letter from Genevieve, Lady Burnsby, to her sister, Rosie
Dear Rosie,
I’m writing from the village of Sifton, on the way to Lord Burnsby’s hunting lodge in the Highlands to celebrate his seventieth birthday and meet his heir. I wish I could be home for Christmas, as I miss you horribly. I do hope you’re well.
On a more cheerful note, I discovered a new magazine with exquisite fashion illustrations, La Belle Assemblée.
When I return to London, we’ll order such a magnificent wardrobe that gentlemen will throng to leave you posies.
Father promised me that he would continue paying for your dancing lessons, so do work on those tricky bits of the polonaise.
I’m spending our journey reading novels in which heroines are beset by chilling, unearthly danger, preparing for any and all ghosts because I’ve been reliably informed by Burnsby’s housekeeper that all three of his former wives haunt the lodge!
I’m intrigued by the possibility of sharing notes with my spectral predecessors, but I will keep my eyes open for other phenomena.
The lodge used to be an abbey; perhaps a doleful, transparent monk paces the corridors, his head tucked beneath his arm.
Tomorrow, we begin the final climb into the Highlands. After that, I won’t be able to send a letter until we return from the Grampian Mountains.
I’ve been thinking about the “if you ever” game we used to play. Remember? If you ever have the opportunity to kiss a duke, run away.
I made up that game to teach you the rules of polite society. After Mother died, I speculated that only perfection would coax the ton to ignore our lack of dowries. I was a panicked eleven-year-old, and, in retrospect, the answer to every etiquette question was no.
No, don’t kiss a duke.
No, don’t admit to boredom.
No, don’t laugh at jokes, at life, at men—particularly not at men.
I barely understood at the time how important it was that I master those rules, especially the last. Hopefully you won’t experience my impulse to chortle at husbandly pontificating, but not to worry: Burnsby could never guess my feelings.
I have mastered the simpering paper-doll expression required of married ladies.
These days I’m trying a new game, gathering advice based on experience, which we can laugh about when I see you after Christmas.
Here’s my first:
If you ever have the opportunity to meet your husband’s (dead) former wives, consider . . . Consider what? Reconsider? Just say no? Be open to possibilities? Wave?
With much love,
Your sister, Genevieve