Chapter Two #3
After dressing and having a late breakfast, she took the family carriage to call on her friend for tea.
Isobel’s family had known hers for years, and the girls had practically grown up together.
Once she was admitted and shown into the parlor, over green tea and biscuits, Sibyl relayed the events of the previous evening.
Isobel laughed out loud. “Your mother took you to dinner at the Sprouts? Well, at least now I know you’re an expert in shooting.” Her brown eyes twinkled.
Sibyl couldn’t help but laugh. “It was true. It was a total waste of an evening. The young men there found I had nothing useful to say, and they in turn had nothing interesting to say to me.” It had all ended in silence, followed by a polite cough, and then half-mumbled excuses to talk to someone else.
She didn’t mind a silence sometimes, but…
“Ugh. I can only imagine your mother standing there, telling you to always smile, while losing patience.” Isobel giggled and shook her head.
“At least it wasn’t all bad. They had a library and… that man was there.”
“Who?” Isobel’s interest quickly piqued.
“The man we met at the bookshop. At Borough Market. The man in green.”
“Oh, Lord, you mean the one you were about to fight over a book? Ha! Tell me you fought again. He looked positively delicious.”
Sibyl giggled. “No. But I know his name now. Mr. Neville Heyter. He was wearing green again.”
“Hmm, your favorite color. Well, at least he has good taste.”
Sibyl raised her teacup in gratitude.
“But… I think your mother may have a point,” Isobel started gently.
She looked up from her teacup and blew on its contents.
“You do perhaps read more than is healthy. I mean, I like a periodical or a novel as much as the next woman, but… you’re always reading.
I can understand why your mama wants you to step away from it for a bit. ”
Sibyl looked down and sipped her tea. She did like Isobel and didn’t want to argue, but…
reading was the only way she felt close to her father.
As a traveling mapmaker, he had been constantly on the go, and when he would return home, he would often check with her and ask if she’d finished the last book he’d given her, wanting to hear her thoughts. Until he hadn’t.
Mary, Sibyl’s elder sister, had already been engaged at the time and married happily enough.
Now, as the second sister, Sibyl knew it was her turn.
Her younger sister, Lucy, was still too young to take an interest in such things and was now waiting her turn to be introduced to society, being just fifteen.
Sibyl knew she should put her fairy tales away and books of poetry and novels, but she just didn’t want to.
The last book her father had sent her was a copy of the Brothers’ Grimm fairy tales, sent in German from the area he had been mapping, and she had loved it.
It had been his last gift to her. So she would treasure it always.
But there was a hole in her heart that nothing could fill.
Not a good book, or a fine meal, or wine, or a pretty dress.
Nothing could make her feel whole again.
And worse than that, she felt lonely. Each member of the family mourned her father’s loss in different ways.
And he had only died a few years ago. They had stopped wearing mourning attire and had put away their dull, black gowns.
Now was the time for something happier. Like love, perhaps.
Except that she felt clueless speaking to men.
All she knew were books. Sibyl didn’t know a trade, she didn’t hunt, for she loved foxes, and she didn’t shoot.
She could ride but was no more than a barely competent horsewoman, and she had no real talent for sketching or painting.
That belonged to her younger sister, Lucy.
So now she sat, sipping tea with her friend Isobel, pondering her life. “I just don’t understand. It’s like I’m missing something. Some vital element of how to speak with a man.”
“You should share his hobbies, take an interest in him.”
“But what if I don’t like his hobbies? I only like reading.”
“Well, maybe that’s your problem, then. You only have one hobby. Have you tried anything else?”
Sibyl pondered this. “Just going to parties and dinners with my mother. I thought that the man I would marry would be a reader, like me. Now I wonder if I was wrong.”
“Nonsense. There are men who read for pleasure, I’m sure of it. We just need to find someone who also happen to be single, attractive, and rich.”
Sibyl raised an eyebrow at this last sentiment.
“What?” Isobel fluttered her eyelashes at her in a semblance of innocence. “Just think of all the books you could buy.”
Now that was an attractive prospect, Sibyl thought as she sipped her tea.
That evening, over a hearty butternut squash and broccoli soup, Sibyl looked at her mother, who idly stirred her soup. The older woman looked dejected. Even her younger sister shot Sibyl a disapproving look.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Sibyl said.
“What? Oh. Don’t worry, my dear. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t. As Sibyl had returned from tea at Isobel’s, she’d overheard her mother talking to Lucy. Hearing her name mentioned, Sibyl had lurked outside the living room to listen.
“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Lucy had said, wise beyond her years.
“No. That’s just what they want us to believe.
” Her mother fretted. “I should have known. I was in the market not an hour ago when I overheard Mrs. Sprout talking with another woman about a party she is to throw tonight. That we are not invited to.” She tutted.
“Mrs. Sprout is a dear friend, but after Sibyl’s poor showing at her dinner the other night…
The woman said she has other friends with daughters of marriageable age whom she wants to introduce to her male guests. Can you imagine?”
Sibyl felt her shoulders slump and tried not to cry.
She had tried to be cheerful and lovely.
She really had. She just… seemed to fail miserably when it came to men.
Sibyl just didn’t know what to say, and while she had little trouble in attracting the male gaze, keeping their attention was a skill she lacked.
She opened and closed the front door loudly, held a finger up to her lips for silence to the servant facing her, and said, “I’m back.”
There was a small sound of hurried movement. “Good afternoon, dear. Did you have a nice time at Isobel’s?” her mother called.
“Yes.” Sibyl popped her head in, waved, and walked up the stairs. She didn’t want to hear any more about how much of a disappointment she was. She already knew.
So that evening over dinner, as she broke a piece of fresh, crusty bread and spread a bit of butter over it, she thought to herself, I will try this time. I really will.
Her chance came a day later, when her mother procured tickets to an evening concert.
With the help of her lady’s maid, Greene, Sibyl dressed with care, determined to do well by her mother.
Even if she did not make any new social acquaintances, she would at least look her best, and that would make her mother proud, hopefully.
She’d hated seeing her mother look so dejected over dinner.
That night, Sibyl wore a teal evening dress trimmed with gold embroidery around the scoop bodice and hem, with a pair of white kid gloves and light dancing shoes. With her favorite forest-green cloak around her shoulders, she joined her mother for an evening’s entertainment.
They arrived at the concert hall. Sibyl liked it immediately. Well-dressed men and women circulated, and the walls leading to the main concert hall bore fine frescos of artistic scenes. Muted conversation echoed around her and the many candelabras offered a warm, golden light to the foyer.
Once having shown their tickets, gained entry, and shed their cloaks, her mother said, “Good Lord. Who is that?”
Sibyl looked. There, circulating amongst the guests, was a woman dressed in shadow.
Like out of a Gothic novel, the woman could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years of age, dressed in black silk or bombazine, with a gauzy veil over her face.
Her face was indistinguishable, but her class was not; this woman glided through the crowds like a well-respected dark mistress, her mourning dress cut elegantly, her black gloves expensive, and her dress bearing shining, jet-black buttons that caught the light.
This woman wasn’t just wealthy; she was known.
Sibyl watched closely as the woman nodded and was curtsied and bowed to in return. Men and women paid their respects, which led Sibyl to wonder aloud, “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. Could she be a member of the nobility, do you think?” her mother asked. “A countess, maybe?”
“That is Mrs. Dove-Lyon, one of the most particular and discerning matchmakers in London,” a matronly woman said behind them. “She runs a gambling den in town. Truly wicked. A den of vice.”
Sibyl and her mother turned. There stood a stout woman in a pink dress with a large bosom and ruddy cheeks. She wore a stiff feather in her hair and a pearl necklace, with small, beady eyes. The women curtsied to each other, and Mrs. Clifton led Sibyl away.
“What an interesting woman,” Sibyl said, eyeing the matron who watched them.
“Yes, yes. But never mind her. We should endeavor to make the acquaintance of this Lyon woman.”
Sibyl snorted. “You can’t be serious.” Seeing her mother’s face, she said, “Mama. You heard what the woman said. She runs a gambling den.”
Sibyl half-stopped, a smile on her face.
Since when would she protest against visiting a gambling den or speaking to its owner?
The woman did look intriguing. Like a dark flower, a deep-violet dahlia, to whom other flowers bowed.
She certainly stood out. But then, Sibyl supposed, widows probably enjoyed a bit of evening entertainment as well.