Chapter 27
AT NORWOOD MANOR, WHERE ANNABEL HAD BEEN INVITED TO be Fanny’s guest for the week, she sat in the lush drawing room with a leather-bound book open in front of her face: How to Be a Perfect Wife.
Fanny sat on the opposite sofa doing needlepoint.
There was a fire in the hearth, a pretty porcelain tea set on the table between them, a plate of biscuits.
By any measure, it was another picture of domestic tranquility, until Annabel clapped the book closed.
Fanny looked up from her needlepoint. “It will not bite.”
“Is it a serious book?”
Fanny smiled. “Deadly so.”
Annabel put the book on the table, as if terrified of it. Fanny paused with her needle poised to pierce the fabric.
“I assure you, it is a customary gift from a groom’s mother to his intended—”
“She hasn’t even met me.”
“—who may not be the intended she intended for her son.”
Annabel took the point and retrieved the book. “Then I intend to memorize every word.”
Fanny resumed her needling. Annabel opened to the table of contents.
“Hmm, where to begin? Advice on beauty aids, correct dances, dress, deportment, dinner party menus, movement, manners, management of the household, raising children, or recipes for health?”
Fanny laughed. “You see? There is something for everyone who wishes to be the perfect wife.”
Annabel sighed and tried again, reading for a few minutes more.
“Ah, yes, I see now. It’s simple. I’m merely to combine delicate taste with correct judgment, without aiding my vanities or infringing my duties, while cultivating the virtues of patience, obedience, and self-sacrifice to ensure a successful and contented marriage. That sounds easy.”
“Annabel. Of course, one need not adhere strictly to any of it. Many clever women find ways to navigate, or negotiate, within the confines that are prescribed.”
“Is that what you’ll do?”
Fanny set her needlepoint on her lap and gazed out the window with a melancholy look. Annabel closed the book and went to sit next to her.
“What about you and Warnaby? Don’t you love him?”
Fanny blinked slowly. “You sound like my aunt, who cannot brook those who marry without love and would sooner see them hanged by their thumbs, for it would be more merciful.”
“She’s right. Warnaby loves you dearly and has manners and grace and worth.”
“Whereas, Mr. Doofus has heart and understanding.”
Annabel smiled. “It’s true. Together, they make nearly one perfect man.”
Fanny laughed again, but half-heartedly.
“Then you must choose, Fanny.”
“No, they must.” Fanny shrugged one shoulder. “What is choosing for us but dashed hopes and disappointed desire?”
Annabel admired how Fanny was filled with contradictions, admitted them openly, but still seemed at ease with her place in the world.
She fanned her hand over the cover of the book in her lap and thought of the letter from Mr. Bickles, the one that had been forwarded from Kidlington, asking after the new chapter.
She’d carefully tucked it into her embroidered silk reticule, a place women often kept their most precious, personal belongings safe from inquisitive eyes.
“I don’t entirely understand Henry’s objection to my being a writer.”
Fanny looked at her as if she might be kidding. “But, novel writing is the domain of men and women of low rank. Or spinsters!”
Annabel sat back, frustrated. “It won’t always be,” she said under her breath.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Annabel had spoken too fast. “I guess I mean that maybe, over time, it’s possible it won’t be thought of like that . . . and that Henry would come to understand.”
Fanny picked up her empty teacup. “Do you see this charming cup with its lovely pattern of red and orange peonies, the gilt weeping willow, and painted birds?”
“Yes. It’s perfectly beautiful.”
“But it’s not perfect at all.” Fanny spun the teacup around in her fingers. “No chips, cracks, or crazing?”
“I don’t see any.”
“No, you don’t. But British porcelain is never perfect.
Our kilns are fired by coal, so each teacup has firing specks from flying particles or, due to the imperfection of the maker’s recipe, might have small firing lines or develop crazing over time, along with scratches, nicks, stains, or perhaps the gilt gets rubbed away.
Its defects aren’t obvious to the naked eye, but they are there.
If, over time, they overwhelm its beauty, the cup no longer serves it purpose. ”
Annabel sighed. “So . . . the wife is the cup.”
“Think of the wife as an imperfect vessel, who must give the impression, overall, of being just perfect enough to disguise her flaws.”
“And my wanting to be a writer is a flaw.”
Fanny looked at her but didn’t need to answer.
“And he won’t, over time, understand.”
Fanny patted her hand, deadly serious. “For my part, he’s understood a great deal already.”
Annabel exhaled. “Well, I did have William return the Hepplewhite desk to the Lackingtons, so I suppose that means something.”
“But why? One still needs a desk, of course. There are many other things a woman writes aside from cheap novels. Letters, invitations, lists . . .”
Annabel sank against the sofa back. “. . . dinner party menus, management of the household, recipes for health.”
Fanny smiled. “Why, you might even, now and then, jot down certain of your own thoughts. For private consumption, of course. You wouldn’t be the first.”
Annabel nodded. Fanny was right. It was too much to expect of Henry. She had more than she could have wished for and would learn to be content with writing for herself alone. She’d done it for years as a kid, in her little diaries with lock and key. Why not now, when it mattered most?
She picked up the marriage conduct book with renewed dedication, starting at page one. Suddenly, a servant walked in, announcing Henry, right behind him. The sight of him surprised them both. He had his riding clothes on, hair windswept, face bright.
“Good afternoon, my dears. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Annabel sat up taller. Her heart bloomed in her chest whenever he walked in anywhere.
“You’re always welcome here, Henry,” said Fanny.
“And I’m so happy you are!” Annabel held up the book. “Look! I’m reading your mother’s gift to me.”
Henry beamed. “She’ll be pleased to know it.”
He took off his gloves and pulled a letter from his coat. “This arrived at Ellesmere this morning. I thought you’d want to see it straightaway.” He walked close enough to hand her the letter.
“Thank you, Henry. How thoughtful of you.”
Annabel opened it, unfolded the letter, and read it to herself, her eyes growing bigger with every word.
“Oh my god. It’s Cassie.” She stood and looked at D’Evercy. “She’s gone to Lyme Regis!”
“Lyme Regis?” he said.
“With Lieutenant Revell!”
“Oh dear,” said Fanny, standing too. “This is terrible news.”
D’Evercy pulled his gloves back on. “I shall go at once. I can be there by nightfall.”
“No,” said Annabel. “I should go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Revell is a rake and a rattle. I shall discover his price and pay it at once.”
“What price? What do you mean?”
“What it will take for him to marry her.”
“Marry her?”
Fanny looked at Annabel. “And that, it seems clear, is his plan. Now that he knows Cassandra’s sister is betrothed, he no doubt thinks Henry’s money should do him quite nicely.”
Annabel looked at the letter again; her hand dropped to her side. “But she shouldn’t marry him at all.”
They looked at her, confounded.
“It would be—wrong.”
Fanny took Annabel’s hand. “Lieutenant Revell is, agreed, an unmitigated cad, but we must all observe the bounds of decorum. If she should return without a ring and a husband—”
“It would be a mistake, that’s all! You told me, just now, that a clever woman can navigate and negotiate—”
“This is different.”
“You’re saying there’s no room to make a mistake?”
Fanny traded glances with D’Evercy before looking squarely at Annabel. “For a woman, no room at all.”
Annabel searched Fanny’s eyes for some small sympathy but found her steadfast. She turned to D’Evercy, her last hope. He stepped closer and put a gentle hand on her arm.
“My darling, are you not sensible to the damage this will do to your sister’s reputation?”
“I’m sensible to the damage this will do to her heart!”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid her heart does not enter into it.”
Fanny stood at his side, a regretful sigh. “She would never again blend into Sussex society.”
“But it’s never been Cassie’s desire to blend in! And to the extent I encouraged that, I see now that I’ve betrayed someone dear to me who’s only been true to herself all along!”
D’Evercy rubbed a finger across his forehead, a softer tack. “Annabel, consider what you are about.”
She looked at him, blinking back anger and tears.
“That first night, Henry, when we met, do you remember? You told me you wanted to be a modern man. That’s what you said. And I believed you.” Her breath was jagged, voice shaking. “But I see now, you’re not modern at all.”
He stiffened and pulled back. Shaken but resolved, Annabel rushed out.