Chapter 15 #2
Wealtha had all but simpered at Magnus Johnson when he’d expressed the hope that Wealtha would attend the assembly.
She had stopped short of sighing over her lack of a partner for the minuet, which was fortunate.
Magnus had been merely polite—he was by no means a foolish man—and Wealtha had taken his commonplace for flirtation.
Spare me from rural assemblies. The punch was invariably too strong, the assembly rooms too hot, and the fiddles went out of tune by the end of every set.
The sewing room was a pleasant space, full light from four tall windows, one of which somebody had opened to let in the afternoon breeze.
Mabel unwrapped Wealtha’s treasures—yards of silk to line the merino cloak, more yards to make up a summer dressing gown, yet still more yards for two new evening dresses…
“I am tired of sewing Wealtha’s dresses.” Tired of sewing Orla’s as well, though Orla did not demand as much fine needlepoint on hers. “I am tired.”
Mabel nearly admitted aloud that she might like to wear silk herself for some noted public occasion.
She refrained from that confession because she could hear voices through the open window. The sewing room was situated such that the windows of the sewing room and the windows of Orla’s sitting room were at right angles, sharing a corner overlooking the back terrace.
“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Orla said, “but my guess is, Mabel all but monopolized Magnus Johnson’s conversation. I’m sure you’re annoyed, Wealtha dearest, though you must admit desperation ill becomes a woman so firmly on the shelf. Magnus is younger than Mabel by several years.”
“Mabel brought up shearing,” Wealtha replied. “Of course Magnus went off into flights about this year’s crop of lambs and some nonsense about a breed from the Cheviot Hills. I could not get a word in to save myself.”
Magnus had brought up shearing, on which his farms had made a late start. Mabel had sympathized. Magnus was her elder by at least a year. Orla was apparently trying to console Wealtha, though, and bending facts often figured in that thankless exercise.
“If Mabel was a bit forward,” Orla said, “we must not blame her. She was doubtless told in London that women who draw attention to themselves are regarded as original. Nothing is further from the truth, of course, but that trip to Town likely lives in Mabel’s memory as the accomplishment of a lifetime. ”
“But she failed,” Wealtha retorted over the clink of porcelain and silverware. “She came home without a single offer.” Wealtha’s tone conveyed more puzzlement than malice. “How can she be so proud of a failure?”
She is not. Though Mabel was, in an obscure, inexplicable fashion, proud of resuming her life and putting the past firmly to the side.
“Mabel had her Season, Wealtha dear. She is one of very few in this shire who can say even that much.”
Why remind Wealtha of a point that would doubtless cause her pain?
“Her almighty Season was years ago and just a few weeks, really. Might I have the biscuits, Auntie?”
“Exercise restraint, Wealtha. You’ve had two already. You cannot eat as Mabel does unless you’re willing to hare all over the property in the same unladylike manner. All that time out of doors has taken a toll on her complexion. Such a pity.”
I should go. Magnus Johnson had failed to flirt with Wealtha, and Wealtha’s confidence needed bolstering. Orla’s preferred approach to that challenge was apparently to denigrate Mabel.
Mabel turned for the door as Orla spoke again.
“Did Mabel try to convince you to purchase less costly fabrics in York?”
“Her and her everlasting economies.” A cup was set down with a definite plink!
“We weren’t spending our silly little allowance.
We were spending Richard’s money, and still she did not relent.
Mabel said silk is the devil to keep clean and snags too easily.
Am I to spend my entire summer in dowdy old muslin, for pity’s sake?
The shopgirls gaped at her as if she had two heads, trying to deny me any silk for my summer wardrobe. ”
The shopgirls had gaped at Wealtha, who’d bought enough fabric for two dresses, when Mabel had tried to convince her that even one silk dress might be impractical.
Not expensive—though it certainly was—but impractical.
I truly should go. Mabel instead sank into a rocking chair doubtless purloined from the nursery.
“Mabel might have been thinking of tattling on you to Richard,” Orla said. “Complaining of your extravagance. She is clever enough to goad you into buying more than you need by implying that you should not. You do have a stubborn streak, Wealtha.”
“I am determined, not stubborn. Richard said I am to have my heart’s desire. My heart desired two silk dresses.”
“Well, good for you. You will look splendid in silk, I’m sure. Have you thanked Richard?”
“I thanked him in front of the Johnsons.” Wealtha spoke as if her mouth might be full of cinnamon biscuit. “To shop without regard to cost was glorious.”
Mabel had found it tiring and upsetting. Watching Wealtha make purchase after purchase, mostly items she did not truly need, had been like watching an inebriate succumb to the bottle. Sad and disquieting.
“You were wise to take advantage of the opportunity to refurbish your wardrobe. Richard will soon tire of the Glen. I much preferred the place when he wasn’t on hand to upset every routine. The Johnsons are just the start of the calls we’ll receive.”
“I like having callers.”
“But the calls must be returned, Wealtha, and my health has only begun to improve. You will have to take Mabel with you for propriety’s sake when my energy falters. Tell me, did she usurp your right to preside over the tea tray?”
Mabel glowered at the open window. Wealtha had spent so long dithering with her toilette that the tea would have been cold had Mabel not poured out.
“She absolutely did, Auntie. Sat there before the service like the queen of all she surveys.”
“Right across from Magnus Johnson?”
“Almost.”
Mrs. Johnson had been across from Mabel, her son beside her. With every question and observation, Orla was determined to show Mabel in a bad light.
“She was doubtless trying to impress Magnus with a pretty, domestic picture. That sort of behavior is common in Mayfair, I’m told.”
“I wish I had had a Season,” Wealtha said. “I’m still not too terribly old, but people might recall that Mabel is my relation of some sort, and her Season was a failure.”
“No relation at all, really. She doesn’t share your name, and I’m sure she made little impression on anybody who matters.
Better, though, to be the prettiest young lady in the shire than to try to outshine dukes’ daughters dripping in diamonds, Wealtha.
Have one more biscuit, why don’t you, and then you must leave me in peace.
I do feel a megrim coming on. Too much upheaval.
I cannot wait for Richard to quit the Glen. ”
Why emphasize that sentiment to Wealtha?
“I like Richard, mostly. He can be stern, but he’s not mean.”
A surprisingly accurate assessment.
“I do not like Richard. As willful and obstinate as Mabel can be, she declares that she has no ability to persuade him to go. When has Mabel ever doubted her own capabilities, I ask you?”
“She had no success in London, Auntie. That had to leave her with some doubts.”
Wealtha was a font of wisdom today.
“Doubts, perhaps, but precious little wisdom or humility.”
“Nobody tells Mabel what to do. I envy that about her. She just does as she pleases. Magnus Johnson is handsome, but he’s not a great catch. Perhaps Mabel should marry him.”
“You are being fanciful. Magnus Johnson might have shown Mabel some polite interest on topics that qualify as small talk, but Mabel has nothing in the way of settlements, she’s too old to bear many sons, and you are far, far prettier and more accomplished.”
I have my competence. How often had that notion been Mabel’s sole comfort in a tiring and cheerless world?
“Odd,” Wealtha said on a rustle of fabric. “I don’t feel accomplished. Mabel can stitch up a pretty frock in less than a week, while I can barely embroider a recognizable daisy on a pillowcase. Good day, Auntie. Shall I convey your regrets at supper?”
“Yes, please. I will take a tray and hope that solitude and quiet will spare me the agony of another headache. Richard really must go and go soon, Wealtha. I do hope you agree.”
“Certainly, Auntie. He’s handy to have about when a lady needs to visit the shops, but all that business with title and so forth… Very awkward. If he has tended to my settlements, then he’s welcome to remove to Portugal for all I care.”
Mabel set the chair to slowly rocking as she tried to make sense of what she’d heard.
She’d never attributed sheer meanness to Orla.
To Wealtha, yes, but not to her step-mother.
Orla was practical, biased in Wealtha’s favor, and more than a little bitter over life’s injustices, but she wasn’t spiteful.
The evidence of Mabel’s own ears contradicted that conclusion and raised an uncomfortable question: Why snipe and find fault like that? Why goad Wealtha into a resentment that had little basis in reality?
More voices came through the window. Clementina had come to clear the tea tray.
Mabel rose, abruptly glad Orla had sent regrets to supper. Perhaps it was Orla who needed a change of air. Not Richard. Orla.
Or—another uncomfortable thought—maybe it was time Mabel quit a situation where she wasn’t appreciated and apparently never would be.