Chapter One #2
“You imagine yourself clever,” Aunt Margaret sniffed.
“But cleverness in a young lady is like too much spice in a pudding—it unsettles the stomach. She thrust the journal back at Cordelia with disdain. “You would do better to apply yourself to the Italian sonnet Lord Marbury requested you recite, or light conversation about the fine weather we’ve enjoyed recently. Such things win husbands. Sketches do not.”
Cordelia forced her lips into a smile. “I shall endeavour to discuss the weather with great enthusiasm, Aunt.”
“Do not mock me, child.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “It is high time you thought of your future. Beauty fades, wit turns sour, but a husband’s fortune...that endures.”
Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. Better to be thought bland and ignorant than discovered. Better to smile and nod than let her see how near the truth she treads.
Her fingers curled tightly around her teacup. “Of course, Aunt Margaret. Thank you for your guidance.” Cordelia dipped her head, though her heart hammered so fiercely she feared her aunt might hear it.
Lady Margaret turned toward the window, adjusting the curtain unnecessarily.
“It is fortunate, however, that your beauty continues to draw attention despite your eccentricities. Why, only yesterday, your uncle received a most gratifying note. It seems Lord Thomas Trollope has expressed an interest in attending our supper next week.”
Lord Thomas Trollope?
The name echoed like a warning through Cordelia’s mind, though she scarcely knew why.
A cousin to the Duke of Thorenwood—handsome, charming, and entirely acceptable to society.
But as her aunt’s tone lingered on interest, dread coiled in Cordelia’s stomach, as if some unseen net had just been cast about her.
She felt her lips curving into a practiced, mechanical smile, but her thoughts screamed in silence.
What if he came and looked too closely? What if any outsider, any man of that family, drew near my hidden work…
Cordelia clutched the journal to her breast, her knuckles white against the leather, and whispered to herself...
“My goodness, what will become of me?”
“Priscilla!” Margaret’s shrill voice rang through the house like a summons to judgment. “The morning room, at once. You too, Cordelia. From what I have seen, it would seem both you and my daughter would benefit from further guidance from me this Season.”
Cordelia smoothed her expression into the practiced mask. She’d studied the debutantes of the ton and worked hard to embody everything about them. Unfocused eyes, lips parted just enough to imply agreeable temperament and insipid vacancy.
The look of a girl without a thought in her head. Heaven forbid I appear to own a mind at all.
Priscilla descended the staircase, clutching a folded handkerchief in both hands, as though it were a talisman against her mother’s sharp tongue. Cordelia met her at the bottom, rolled her eyes in solidarity, and they followed Lady Margaret reluctantly.
In the morning room, Margaret stood at the hearth with her hands clasped behind her back, her chin lifted as though she presided over a courtroom rather than her daughter and her niece.
“Tonight,” she declared, “marks a crucial opportunity. Lady Ditton’s ball will be the best attended of the Season. Do you comprehend what that means?”
Cordelia and Priscilla curtsied in unison. Cordelia’s lips twitched upward; a parody of a simpering smile.
Aunt Margaret’s gaze speared her at once.
“Do not smirk, Cordelia. This is not a matter for levity. You have frittered away two Seasons with nothing to show for it but withered roses and idle chatter. Do you imagine you may drift on indefinitely, continuing to be a feather-headed burden upon this household?”
Cordelia folded her hands neatly at her waist. “Of course not, Aunt Margaret.”
I imagine escaping entirely and taking my ‘clever’ head with me.
Margaret sniffed. “Both of you will remember that gentlemen do not seek wives to challenge them. A clever tongue, a sharp mind—such things unsettle a man’s peace.
A husband requires admiration, not analysis.
He wishes to be confirmed in his superiority, not corrected at every turn by ladies who know much less than he. ”
Priscilla’s shoulders hunched as if the words themselves weighed upon her. She twisted her handkerchief until the linen knotted. Her eyes met Cordelia’s; one swift, secret glance. Cordelia read the plea in her cousin’s look, and answered with the barest tilt of her head.
Yes. Prisoners both. Shackled with ribbons instead of chains.
Aunt Margaret pressed forward. “Cordelia, you must cease these unfeminine airs. A woman’s place is to support, to soothe, to elevate her husband’s sense of worth.” With each attribute she voiced, Lady Margaret gestured her hands upwards as if the movement would cement such lofty ideals.
“If he speaks nonsense about the stars, you will gaze at him as if he has solved the very riddles of heaven. If he comments upon the weather, you will listen in admiration as though he has written poetry worthy of Shakespeare himself. Do I make myself clear?”
Cordelia dug her nails into her palms, a small rebellion hiding beneath her demure posture. “Perfectly, Aunt.”
Priscilla merely nodded her acceptance.
Ah, yes. Another evening nodding at raindrops and wind, and playing concertos in my head while my mind screams its truths into silence.
The door opened with a squeak. Lord Geoffrey, Cordelia’s uncle, entered with his usual air of self-importance, bowing shallowly to Aunt Margaret.
“I bring glad news,” he announced, smoothing his coat sleeve. “Lady Ditton’s ball promises to be most excellent. Half the peerage will attend, and I have it on good authority that several gentlemen of considerable fortune have already accepted their invitations.”
“Splendid! Did you hear that, girls?” Margaret clapped her hands together with such force that the sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot. Cordelia flinched before she could stop herself.
Her aunt’s eyes snapped toward her, sharp with disapproval.
“See that you do not sulk, Cordelia. This is an opportunity you cannot afford to squander. Your Uncle Geoffrey will be kind enough to provide introductions. If you comport yourself with grace, if you can manage a smile without sarcasm, there is every chance you may yet secure a proposal before the Season ends.”
Cordelia forced the mask tighter. “I shall endeavour to charm them all.”
Charm them? With vacant eyes and a simpering laugh? A puppet on strings would serve as well.
Margaret folded her arms, clearly unsatisfied. “Cordelia, my daughter shows the proper docility.” She gestured to Priscilla who looked utterly confused. “You would do well to emulate her instead of cultivating this disagreeable spirit. Beauty is a gift, child. Do not squander it with insolence.”
Cordelia inclined her head, offering silence as compliance.
Geoffrey stepped further into the room, his expression one of smug satisfaction. “I daresay Thomas Trollope will attend this evening. A most suitable match, wife, if I may say so. Good family, ample fortune, and he has already expressed admiration for Cordelia’s… appearance.”
Priscilla’s eyes darted to Cordelia’s, wide with warning. She couldn’t understand why they were more interested in a suitor for her than Priscilla, but felt grateful that it might give her cousin some respite.
Margaret clasped her hands. “Thomas Trollope! Indeed, an excellent prospect. Cordelia, you will converse with him at supper. A pleasant word here, a gentle laugh there, and you may have secured your future.”
Cordelia’s stomach churned, though her smile did not falter. “As you wish, Aunt Margaret.”
The mantel clock ticked into silence. Priscilla folded her handkerchief, smoothing its creases with trembling fingers. Lord Geoffrey looked smug, Lady Margaret triumphant.
Cordelia’s mask held. Barely.
A proposal before the Season ends. She could not imagine anything worse.