Chapter Fifteen #2
“She wants you to get married? As in not just attend balls but actually marry someone?”
Harriet nodded, her lower jaw set. “She does. She told me she’s been inspired by Uncle Fitz getting married when she never thought he would.
She said, ‘There’s hope for you still, even though you’re three and twenty and almost an old maid.
’ Can you believe it? I may not want to get married, but I strongly object to being called something that goes against all my beliefs.
As though marriage is the be-all and end-all for every woman and if she doesn’t marry then she must be a failure.
I do not need a husband to validate my existence.
And, as a consequence of all this.” She waved her hand at the offending gown.
“I have decided not to go the ball at all.” She wound down to a breathless halt.
Good heavens. What to say to that? Georgiana had to feel sympathy for her new friend, but she could also see this from her mother’s point of view.
She inclined herself to thinking marriage was something to bestow the laurel wreath of success upon a young lady, as well as respectability.
But then, she only had Aunt Patience as a measure of what old maids would end up like.
Somehow she couldn’t see Harriet finishing up like Aunt Patience, whom she now knew was really rather a sad old lady.
Seeking to change the contentious subject a little, she felt the gorgeous silk between her fingers. “But you would not object to attending my ball if it were in a different gown?”
Harriet was clearly wrestling with herself. After a moment or two and several inarticulate noises, she finally succeeded. “I suppose so. I said I would go when this ball was first projected, so I suppose I should not go back upon my word. But this dress! Would you wear it?”
Georgiana surveyed the offending article trying to decide whether to be honest. Honesty won. “No. I wouldn’t. But I would never have ordered a dress like this in the first place. Pink would not suit my coloring.”
“You think it suits mine?” And now Harriet did stamp her foot.
Georgiana shook her head. “Didn’t you accompany your mother to the dressmaker’s?”
Harriet shifted awkwardly. “Erm, I was busy. I don’t like choosing clothes. For me, all they serve as is something to keep me warm and dry and decent. Their appearance is of no interest to me at all. I’ll admit that was a mistake on my part.”
Georgiana tried not to chuckle. “Clearly your appearance does matter at least a bit, or you would not be making such a fuss over this gown.”
Harriet’s brows lowered into a glare. “Please do not mock me or I shall cease to be your friend. When I say I don’t mind about how my clothes look, I mean I don’t at all mind them being plain.
Nothing about this…” She picked up a corner between a disdainful finger and thumb.
“Nothing about it could be considered plain. My mother has done this on purpose. She has a ridiculous liking for pink herself—have you seen that frightful portrait of her as a young lady in the dining room?—and she thinks I should also have one. Ridiculous. I won’t wear it. ”
Georgiana pulled her new friend over to the window seat. “You are overwrought. Sit down and breathe deeply a few times. You need to calm down and we can then decide what to do.”
Harriet allowed herself to be settled on the upholstered seat but her hands remained clenched into fists of fury. “Throw it out of the window into the street,” she muttered.
What to do? She had to admit that Harriet was right about this dress. She could not wear it. Perhaps a very young and pretty blonde ingenue could, but not a twenty-three-year-old spinster with brown hair and pasty skin. And glasses. Something had to be done.
Her own gown forgotten, Georgiana sought a solution. Inspiration came. “Do you have any other evening gowns? Old ones?”
Harriet’s eyes lit up. “I do. Nice plain ones. In my wardrobe. From when I was younger and it was harder to refuse when my mother insisted I should attend some social gathering or another.”
Georgiana beamed at her, a feeling of relief washing over her.
The last thing she’d wanted today was to be dealing with someone else’s problems. What she wanted to do was concentrate on winning Fitz over, according to Fanny’s plan.
If that were possible. “Then you shall wear one of those. Your mama won’t check on what you’re wearing this evening, I’m sure.
She’ll be too busy with her arrangements for the ball.
By the time she sees you, it’ll be too late to make you change.
But…you must let me get my maid, Havers, to do your hair for you.
She’s very good at it and I can already think of a style that would suit you without making you look as silly as this pink thing would have. Do I have your agreement?”
Harriet narrowed her eyes at Georgiana for a moment before nodding.
“In that case, can we prepare for the ball together? In your room? Mama has put you in the pink—yes, the pink bedroom. I would like that very much.” She paused and her voice lost its tone of strident objection.
“Perhaps if I’d had a sister like you I might not be the way I am now.
You’re so pretty yourself that I almost find it in me to want to be a little like you.
” She gave an apologetic smile. “Only a bit, mind. For the most part I prefer to be plain and unobtrusive.”
Georgiana patted her hand. “Splendid. We shall prepare ourselves together.” She leaned towards her new niece. “And I will confess to you that I am hoping to impress my husband with my lovely new gown. Which is not in the least bit pink, you will be pleased to hear.”
And they both laughed.
The object of Georgiana’s hopes, meanwhile, had been swiftly welcomed by his sister, who was, she said, up to her ears in final preparations of the rooms for the ball. Having escaped her clutches, Fitz was now hiding in the study with his brother-in-law, Lord William Fortescue, Baronet.
Marianne and William had married when Fitz was only a child of eleven.
Back then, William had been a fine figure of a man with broad shoulders and slender waist as well as a full head of luxuriously curling chestnut hair.
Nowadays, time had caught up with him and his shoulders possessed a distinct sag, his waist had burgeoned into something he liked to contain with a corset and his hair, now gray, had receded until it resembled the style of a monk; bald on top with a fringe around the edge.
Being somewhat puritanical in outlook, he had never quite approved of Fitz and his lifestyle, a lifestyle which had begun while Fitz was still at Eton, but now he appeared to have changed his opinion. Strange what a few marriage vows could wreak on people’s opinions of one.
“And how is married life treating you, eh?” he asked, slapping Fitz on the back with enough gusto to make him stagger.
“Very well, thank you,” Fitz managed, wondering what the family puritan would have to say if he found out the circumstances of this marriage.
“Pretty girl,” William remarked. “Lovely glow about her face.”
That might be due to her condition. Best to not answer that one.
“We find ourselves rubbing along nicely,” Fitz lied.
Well, not quite a lie as they were indeed getting on well together.
As friends. But that was what was irking him.
This girl had somehow got right under his skin.
Perhaps because she continued to appear unaffected by his presence.
He was not used to women not falling for his charms. Not at all.
And of course, now he wanted her to do just that more than ever.
What he did not want to admit was that he might be truly falling in love with her.
No, it was just that she seemed more attractive because he couldn’t have her.
Love did not come into this. Not at all.
“How did you meet the gal?” William asked.
Pleased to have something that put him on firm ground, the lie now being well-rehearsed, Fitz told the tale of the blown away parasol. William appeared to believe it.
“Never thought to see you leg-shackled,” he said when Fitz reached the end of the story. “Very impressed you’ve done the sensible thing. And from what I gather you’ve done well out of it. I hear the gal has a sizeable fortune to her name. Very wise move on your part. Very wise indeed.”
Fitz rather wished he could deny the fortune having had any influence on the marriage, but he couldn’t, so he stayed silent.
William, who was fond of the sound of his own voice and liked to hold forth in the House of Lords from time to time with long, boring speeches, didn’t appear to notice that he was doing all the talking. “I’ve a damned good port here. Would you care for a fortifying glass?”
It was the afternoon, but what did that matter? Fitz felt he had need of something fortifying as tonight was the night he intended to attempt to sweep Georgiana off her feet, so he nodded. “I would love one.”