CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
“I am happy to hear you admit it,” her parent said before turning to Mrs. Marsh.
“This past two years Lucy has considered herself as good as promised to the son of our nearest neighbours, but her father and I insisted she should have a season before becoming betrothed. A girl will always be the better for a little town bronze, do you not agree, ma’am? ”
“Yes, I felt it was important for Laura to see a bit of the world and go about in society a little. She has known no other life than the farm.”
“Unless my cousin changed radically from when I knew him, I warrant he would have thought differently,” Mrs. Cahill said, directing a shrewd glance at the other woman.
“He … he did not change,” Annabelle admitted.
Seeing that the young ladies were set on drawing details of her prospective fiancé from Lucinda, Mrs. Cahill lowered her voice and began a narrative of her history with her male cousin that was listened to with great attention by his widow.
The elder ladies were still speaking in confidential tones when Jimson returned bearing refreshments, whereupon the conversation became more general.
Mrs. Cahill filled in some biographical details for Laura, explaining that she and her cousin James were the same age which made them frequent companions on visits to their paternal grandparents’ estate, especially since she had been a natural tomboy who revelled in hiking, climbing and riding.
The sadness that clouded her features, as she expressed regret that the shared interests of childhood had not been sufficient to carry their friendship into their adult lives, found an echo in Laura’s heart and brought back the once-habitual melancholy to her mother’s features.
Mrs. Cahill, who proposed that she become “Cousin Bess” to Annabelle and Laura henceforth, was clearly not one to wallow in past misfortunes, however.
She went on to divulge that Lucinda was the petted baby of the family, arriving as she had when her brothers were ten and eight years old respectively.
Observing the glow that animated Laura’s countenance at this unexpected bonus, she leaned over and patted the girl’s hand.
“Now that we have discovered our kinship, I do not intend to lose touch with you and your mother, my dear Laura; in fact, it will give us great pleasure to entertain you at Meadow Run, which is located about midway between Newcastle and Alnwick, set in lovely country.”
This proposal was received warmly by the Marsh ladies, especially Laura, who was interested to hear that they raised sheep on the estate.
By the time the Cahills took their leave, a date had been set to take tea at the furnished house they had rented for Lucinda’s come-out, Sophia had presented them with an invitation to her dance, and the girls, already on first-name terms, had agreed to walk together in the park on the next fine day.
The discovery of her delightful new relatives brought a quiet joy to Laura’s heart and exercised a soothing influence over her restless spirit.
Observing her daughter’s convincing air of polite attention one afternoon when nearly a dozen callers, most of them interchangeable young men of limited interests and conversational skills, had descended upon the Mount Street house, Annabelle privately gave fervent thanks for the blessing of the Cahill connection.
Although Laura’s manners could not have been faulted previously, a certain absence of spirit that had nothing to do with shyness or reticence had been a constant reminder that Annabelle had exercised moral blackmail to win her daughter’s agreement to a London season.
The difference in Laura at present dated from the moment she had recounted the meeting with Lucinda Cahill at Almack’s.
Her own maternal concerns for her child’s possible disappointment had been complicated by a deep personal reluctance to have any contact with members of her late husband’s family lest they discern her guilt for the part she had played in James’ unhappy life and despise her for it.
Thank heavens she had concealed her fears from Laura, for James’ cousin and her daughter had proved warmly sympathetic personalities, both gifted with frank and open natures that were the antithesis of what she’d always assumed was the Marsh character.
Bess Cahill seemed to respect her disinclination to talk about her marriage and showed no disposition to judge her.
After only a few meetings she was convinced that this new connection for Laura would deepen and persist through the years despite the geographical distance that would make frequent visits impractical.
Laura’s inner contentment would aid her in getting through the less pleasurable aspects of a first season: the knowledge that one is always on display, being sized up and graded on one’s potential as an eligible parti in a marriage, and the repetitious nature and sheer number of the social encounters with the boredom and fatigue that was the natural result of such desperate scheduling.
Annabelle, occasionally inserting an encouraging word into a conversation between two matrons, found her thoughts drifting back to her own come-out.
Odd that she had forgotten about the irksome and even terrifying moments associated with one’s debut until sharply reminded by the girls’ reactions to their experiences.
With the passing of the years her memories of that long-ago season had become entirely golden, she realised with surprise tinged with chagrin.
Somehow she doubted that her clear-eyed daughter would delude herself in such a manner.
The faint smile that musing about Laura had brought to her eyes dimmed as her glance passed on to her niece.
As usual, Sophia was the lively centre of a group of young people, but Annabelle suspected that her apparent enjoyment of the admiration was a trifle forced of late.
Part of the problem — if problem there was — was seated beside Sophia at the moment watching with ill-concealed jealousy all the young men who tried to capture her attention.
Annabelle surveyed Sir Cyril Mildmay with a jaundiced eye.
Though she would be the last to deny that there were successful May and December unions — Helena Bentley’s was a prime example — to her mind there was something faintly repellent about a man well on the shady side of forty lusting after a girl not yet out of her teens.
The man had haunted their drawing room lately.
Sophia had made no complaint to her aunt, and she had driven out with Sir Cyril on one occasion, after refusing at least two prior invitations with smooth but mendacious excuses.
At breakfast this morning her brother had informed them that they were to be the knight’s guests at the theatre a few nights hence.
Annabelle had caught a flash of something akin to panic in her niece’s face before she had dropped her eyes, but she had made no protest at the time.
Was Oswald aware of his friend’s persistent attentions to Sophia?
Sir Cyril was said to be extremely wealthy, but she did not wish to believe her brother would condone, much less promote, such a disastrous match for his daughter.
After their evening at the theatre as Sir Cyril’s guests, Annabelle could no longer deceive herself as to her brother’s presumed ignorance of his friend’s intentions.
His duties as host had not prevented Sir Cyril from monopolising the young girl’s attention to an extent that would have made her conspicuous had not her aunt and cousin, acting in concert, intervened at intervals to draw his notice to themselves by asking questions about the performance, the history of the theatre and any other topic mental ingenuity could devise.
It was Laura’s initial visit to the theatre, and until her mother had whispered urgently in her ear during the first interval she had been lost in a rosy haze of enchantment, submerged in the performance.
She was too inexperienced to realise that for many theatre patrons the drama occurring on the stage was of secondary importance to those being played out in the principal tier of boxes in full view of a good portion of society, and Annabelle had been loath indeed to destroy her daughter’s enjoyment.
Oswald, however, was apparently blind to his friend’s inappropriate behaviour and studiedly impervious to his sister’s pointed looks during the evening.
The only time his air of bland agreeableness had faded was when Sophia flinched away from Sir Cyril’s hand that had wandered to her thigh.
Annabelle had seen the annoyance that flickered in her brother’s eyes at Sophia’s imploring look and could only hope that the girl had not comprehended that it had been occasioned by her behaviour rather than the knight’s.
Resentment on her niece’s behalf burned through her body throughout the evening, but by the time they arrived home Annabelle had mastered her initial impulse to confront her brother the moment the girls were out of hearing.
A period of silent reflection had convinced her of the futility of this approach.
She cherished no foolish hope that any words of hers could sway Oswald from his course.
He’d learned his conviction of the inherent inferiority of women at his father’s knee.
Opposition would merely result in a pervasive malaise in the household that would render the rest of their stay intolerable.