Chapter Three #2
“This is the point at which either of my parents would tell me in desperate whispers not to say such nonsensical things in front of other people.” She offered a conspiratorial smile.
“They are convinced that someday someone will mistake me for a Bedlamite and insist I be locked away, and wouldn’t that be a terrible thing.
” She shrugged. “I suppose there is a certain madness to continually antagonizing one’s parents with humor they cannot seem to recognize, let alone appreciate.
Although, it is also rather imbecilic to speak nonstop to a gentleman with whom one is not the least bit acquainted.
” Her expression turned apologetic. “I would tell you that I don’t usually talk this much, but honesty compels me to admit that I do. ”
“And honesty compels me to admit that I am enjoying this admittedly one-sided conversation.” He truly was. His as-yet-unnamed companion was decidedly diverting. “Although I would very much appreciate knowing what it is I am to call you.”
“Ah, yes. That is where we began this tangent, isn’t it? The utter lack of unoccupied guests to make a proper introduction.” She squared her shoulders and faced him fully. “I am Agatha Holmwood. And I likely needn’t tell you that I have no dowry, no pin money, and no prospects.”
“And I likely needn’t tell you that I am to inherit a worthless estate that is one poor harvest away from severe indebtedness, a younger brother who will forever be a drain on my future nonexistent income, and have been politely shunned by every matchmaking mother in London.”
She nodded solemnly. “London Society can sense poverty the way foxes sniff out the approach of the hounds. Terrifies them.”
“Except for the Warricks.” Edward motioned to their gleeful hosts. “They’re encouraging the hounds.”
“They are taunting them,” Miss Holmwood corrected.
At last, someone who viewed the display the same way he did. “Making the destitute compete for something their entire families are desperate for? I was beginning to suspect I was the only one here who found that off-putting.”
“My father certainly doesn’t. He is convinced this is the answer to all of our problems and means to throw the both of us headlong into this humiliating farce.”
“Would you take a turn with me, Miss Holmwood?” Edward wished to continue their conversation but did not care to push the bounds of propriety by remaining even as isolated as they were.
She nodded her agreement, and they walked, side-by-side, out of the alcove and along the outer edge of the drawing room.
“You disapprove of this competition,” Edward said. “Is that why you are sabotaging your father’s efforts?”
“I am not interfering with his efforts,” she answered. “I am simply not making any efforts of my own.”
He gave a quick dip of his head to one of the guests as they walked past. Then, to Miss Holmwood, he said, “Did you actually offer to stir Mrs. Warrick’s tea?”
She laughed lightly. “No, but I could not resist seeing the shock on my father’s face when I said that I had. I really am the worst sort of daughter.”
But the best sort of conversational companion. “It seems you and I are the only guests who do not intend to participate. We may find ourselves spending a great many evenings conversing whilst the other guests undertake their scraping and bowing.”
“Fortunately for us, talking is one of my particular specialties.”
“What are your other particular specialties?” he asked.
They had nearly completed their first circuit of the room. Few people were anywhere other than very close to where the Warricks held court, so Edward and Miss Holmwood had made their turn unimpeded.
“I have a tremendous talent for begging,” Miss Holmwood answered unabashedly.
“I have, in my day, convinced the collier, the merchant, several dressmakers, and a rather disgruntled creditor of my father’s to grant us a bit more time before paying our debts to them.
And I once managed to leave the grand estate of Birchall in our neighborhood with a charity basket and a promise to send their brick mason to inspect our crumbling chimneys. ”
She had begged charity of a fellow member of the upper classes? That was an exercise in humility most ladies of her station would never need endure.
“Yet this”—he indicated the Warricks—“feels different, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Our receiving the basket and mason did not take a basket and mason away from someone else.”
She hit upon exactly what he’d been trying to put into words.
His distaste for the Paupers’ House Party went beyond simply disliking the humiliation of it all.
The Warricks were turning people who might otherwise be empathetic toward one another into competitors.
They were taking away hoped-for futures and would-be friendships.
They were using people’s desperation as a source of entertainment.
He couldn’t change what the Warricks had set in motion, but he vowed not to contribute to the humiliation of the other guests.
And though he’d only known her a matter of minutes, he felt particularly determined to keep that promise where Agatha Holmwood was concerned.