The Bargain Bride (21 page)

—By Arrangement,
a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber

 

 

 

L
ady Goldwaite was quizzing West about his friends, his unmarried friends, as prospective sons-in-law.

“None of them would make good husbands, I fear.”

Mavis giggled. “Mama says a gentleman with a title is always a good match.”

Constance bobbed her turbaned head. “Only if he is ready to settle down.”

Penny spoke across the table, as the others were doing. “Nonsense. You would not wish to marry a rake or a fortune hunter just because he has a title.”

Mavis giggled again. “You did.”

Constance laughed, a high-pitched, girlish sound that was more grating than her daughter's titters. Nigel snorted.

Before Penny could reply, or throw something, by the look in her eye, West said, “Neither Penny nor I had any say in the arrangement our parents made. Neither of us can be accused of greed or ambition.” He stared even Mavis into looking down at her plate.

Sir Gaspar slapped his thigh. “But the gal's got the right of it. For all your protests lately, Penny, you must admit you never said nay to the match all those years.”

She hadn't, more's the pity. When she was young, she thought of Kendall Westmoreland as Sir Lancelot, not a little in love with the idea of him. Then it was too late and she was a spinster.

“Quite right,” Constance said. “As is proper. A daughter's duty is to her father, then her husband.”

West smiled at Penny across the table. “But a woman, a mature woman of intelligence and education, has opinions of her own.”

Sir Gaspar swallowed his green beans and made a face. “Gals shouldn't have that much education. It muddles their thinking. Look where it got Penny, for all the blunt I spent on governesses and tutors and that fancy academy and Lady Bainbridge to polish her manners.”

Once more West came to her defense. “Her education got me a wife to be proud of.”

Nigel snorted. “And her dowry came in handy.”

Now West set down his knife and fork. “I think the topic of our marriage has been discussed ad nauseam.” No, that was the food, but he went on: “Enough ill-mannered strangers will be dissecting the circumstances over their own meals”—which were bound to be better prepared and more generous than this one—“without kinfolk adding to my wife's embarrassment.”

Penny raised her glass and muttered, “Amen to that.”

No one could miss the steel in West's voice this time, so no one else spoke. They all pretended to concentrate on their meals.

Since part of Penny's pricey education consisted of how to go on in social occasions, the silence felt awkward. She was already irked that West should see her family behaving so badly, without having him think they were totally gauche. So she turned to the younger girls and asked what their hopes were for their own futures. “Do you have any gentlemen in mind? I know you have been out and about London, so have you met any young swains who have caught your eye?”

Amelia never did raise her eyes, but Mavis bounced in her chair. Before she could speak, her mother said, “Tsk. What matter is it if a man smiles at a female in the park or fetches a cup of punch at an assembly? A handsome face is not what a woman needs in a husband. My girls know better than to become infatuated with unsuitable
partis
. Sir Gaspar and I are compiling a list of gentlemen worth considering. I shall send it to you when you are ready to issue invitations to your ball.”

“Then the girls are to have no choice in their future husbands?”

“If someone more suitable offers, why, of course we would consider accepting.”

“What of their feelings? Are Mavis and Amelia not to be consulted?”

“Do not be more foolish than you are tiresome, Persephone. And do not go putting forward notions into the girls' heads. They shall marry where they ought, as Sir Gaspar and I know better than any chit what is best. But do not worry, with your too-tender sensibilities. Everyone on the list will be a gentleman.”

“Gentlemen come in all shapes and sizes, all ages and attitudes. For that matter, they have different moral standards as well as different personalities. Should they not suit your daughters' as well as your ideas of an advantageous match?”

“Give over, Penny,” her father said. “The chits will do as they are directed. We will try to find handsome young men. Lud knows enough of them gamble away their patrimony soon enough to need a heavy dowry. No need to fear we'll hitch 'em to some old roué who's killed three wives already, or a man with a different mistress for every night of the week, or a widower with seven children.”

Lady Goldwaite was mentally erasing gentlemen from her list.

Sir Gaspar reached for another helping of potatoes. “I did fine by you.”

“No.”

“No?” West asked. So did almost everyone else at the table, everyone looking at Penny now, even Amelia looking up from pushing her peas around on her plate.

“No, we are not going to talk about my marriage. And no, if you wish my assistance in bringing your daughters to the attention of gentlemen who do not swim in your usual circles, no, you shall not do ‘fine' by them. I shall go about it my way.”

“What, will you line the brats up and take bids, like you sell your grandfather's paintings?”

“That was hateful, Nigel, and far from the point, which is that the br—the young ladies are entitled to make their own choices.”

“Absurd.” Constance was scowling, and to the devil with wrinkles.

“It is fair. You sought my help, and you can have it, on my terms. I shall be happy to present Mavis and Amelia once I am assured their manners are suitable for polite company. Which means no brazen flirting.” She directed that to Mavis, who predictably tee-heed. Then Penny turned toward Amelia. “And no hiding in corners. Lady Bainbridge can help tutor you so you are better prepared. You must also be dressed like other young misses, demure and modest.” Mavis started to whine. Penny ignored it, hoping Lady Bainbridge could work miracles, and told her father and his wife, “After that, I shall invite your listed guests, and anyone else you wish . . . and anyone else they wish, so they can make their own choices.”

“Nonsense,” Sir Gaspar insisted. “What do they know?”

“Precisely. If they do not know their own feelings, then I shall not be party to pushing them into the arms of some man they cannot admire or share affection with. I refuse to take part in forcing a woman to wed where she would not.”

Constance was fuming, but she could not shout her refusal of Penny's terms. One did not shout in front of a viscount, and she did need Penny's help. Truth be told, no gentlemen had approached Sir Gaspar about courting either of the girls. Not a single man they met had sent a bouquet. And she simply did not have access to the same grand parties Penny would, where titled swells lined the walls, looking for brides. She chewed her beef—twice, it was so tough—and said, “We shall see. I am not giving my girls to any spendthrift who will waste their dowries, then leave them starving in a cottage.”

“If your daughters are old enough to marry, they are old enough to weigh all their options. I know my father's investigators will discover every personal detail, giving them the information they need. That is simple precaution. Men lie.”

Nigel made a rude sound; her father harrumphed; West raised an eyebrow. Penny ignored all of them. “But I insist. Amelia and Mavis must not be forced to marry against their wills in a match someone else makes. It shall be their decision, no one else's.”

Mavis was clapping her hands, rattling the silverware.

Penny had to smile. “I take it you have a gentleman in mind?”

“Oh yes, he is ever so good-looking. Tall and with straight teeth.”

“Those are excellent qualities in a husband, I am sure. What else is attractive about him?”

“He smiles whenever I see him at the bank.”

“Ah, so he is smitten, too? Then why has he not asked for your hand?”

“Oh, he is Father Goldwaite's clerk. He would not dare, until now.”

“Mr. Crenshaw?” Constance shrieked. “Never! Your father's grandfather was a viscount. I shall not have you throwing your life away on some banker.”

Mavis gave one last giggle. “You did.”

Penny thought Constance might choke on her chicken. Penny herself had given up on the tough old bird—the sere slice, if not her stepmother. “Well, we shall see if another gentleman takes your fancy. I am sure many will smile at you, once we have you looking like a debutante instead of a doxy.”

“But I like pretty colors.”

“You can carry a bright bouquet of flowers or a painted fan. What about you, Amelia? Do you hold a
tendre
for any young man?”

Amelia never spoke to young men. They terrified her. She looked at her sister with beseeching eyes.

“Oh, she was moonstruck by that poet we met last year in the Lake Country. Mr. Culpepper was ever so romantic looking.”

“And did he return your interest?”

Amelia shook her head, but Mavis said, “He seemed to like the sheep better. That's what he wrote about. Amy likes sheep, too.”

“Especially the little lambs,” Amelia whispered.

At least she could speak. “Then you might prefer a gentleman from the country, away from the crowds of London.”

“Oh, yes, please.”

Penny turned to the girls' mother. “You see, she does have opinions of her own to be considered. You would marry her to a city man, willy-nilly.”

“Bah.”

“No, brava. The young ladies will pick their own mates. There will be no arranged matches without their consent.”

Which made West feel as small as the portion of beef on his plate. And as unappetizing.

Sir Gaspar pounded on the table. “There will be no marriages without my consent, not if they wish me to provide fancy weddings.”

“You saved a great deal of money on mine.”

“I had to purchase a special license, didn't I? Besides, I agreed to provide their dowries. Their own father did not leave them a shilling. That gives me say in the matter.”

“I offered to repay Penny's portion,” West put in.

Penny paid him less attention than she gave her watery mashed turnips. “Wouldn't you rather a man wed them out of love than out of need for your money?” she asked her father.

Now Nigel laughed. “What a fool you are, Penny, and at your age. You should know better. No one weds out of love, only advantage. Especially in your husband's social circles.”

His mother was nodding fondly. Her precious son understood the way of life. Her girls did, too.

Then Nigel added, “Love is for affairs, after you are wed.”

Which earned him foul looks from his moral mother, his guilty stepfather, his bemused brother-in-law by marriage, and his angry stepsister. Mavis giggled. Amelia, as usual, sat mumchance.

Constance hurriedly ushered the ladies from the room, leaving the three men to who-knew-what conversation. As far as Penny could guess, they had nothing in common except a connection to her. One was a financier, one was an aristocrat, and one was gallows bait. Sir Gaspar knew banking, Viscount Westfield knew horses, and Nigel Entwhistle knew how to cadge a living. Then again, she herself had little enough in common with her father's second family.

When the four women reached the sitting room—a chamber done in white and gold this time—Constance was still in a pet about having to let the girls take part in choosing their own husbands. What did they know? What did high-and-mighty Lady Westfield know about living with a man, making ends meet, worrying about one's future?

Constance picked up her needlework and began to set fast, furious stitches, leaving puckers on the cloth and not bothering to call for tea or conversation.

Mavis opened the nearest fashion journal and started picking the most unsuitable styles she could. If she had to wear white, she claimed, she'd need a new wardrobe. If Father Goldwaite was buying new clothes for Penny, he could buy them for her, too.

Ignored, Penny wandered toward the pianoforte, where her younger stepsister was seated. “Do you play?” she asked Amelia, who looked at her mother, then bobbed her head. “We had to learn. She said all young ladies are supposed to know how to entertain at private gatherings.”

“She is quite right. Will you play for us now?”

“But I hate to perform in front of anyone,” Amelia cried. “I only make mistakes.”

“Well, there is no one here except family, so why don't you practice on us?

Amelia made mistakes anyway. Penny suffered through one unrecognizable piece, then got up, indicating Amelia should follow her to a sofa. “Why don't you tell me more about your likes and your interests? That way I will know more about the kind of gentleman you might admire.”

Amelia was just as relieved to leave the pianoforte and sit beside Penny. She twisted her ringlets through her fingers, though, and said nothing.

“Surely you have some activity you enjoy? Painting? Riding? Needlework?”

Get her hands dirty? Fall off one of the dumb brutes? Spend hours at tedious stitching no one needed? “I like to read.”

Penny was relieved the girl knew how, much less enjoyed it. “Novels, I suppose,” she said with a smile to show she liked the Minerva Press offerings, too.

“Oh, Mother will not permit us to read such low literature. They are a bad influence, she says. Recently I have been reading Greek mythology.” Amelia smiled for the first time, and Penny realized she was actually pretty when she did, with a sweet smile. “Mother thinks anything classic is acceptable and impressive. She has no idea what those Greek gods and goddesses were up to.”