The Spinster Bride (11 page)

Marjorie frowned. “That's Lady Caroline Stanley.”

“Lord Warwick's daughter?”

“Yes. I imagine you know them?”

“My father is good friends with Warwick.” He smiled. “Find out about her. Learn if she's promised to someone. Hell, I can find out myself. I'll write to my mother. She'll know.”

“But she's . . . so young and her father's an
earl
.”

“
My
father is a viscount. Why do you continually forget that? Let me tell you something
Lady
Marjorie, there is not a single mother, with one glaring exception, who would not be overjoyed to be linked with the Norris name and the Hartley title. My family's lineage is pristine and I daresay there are few titles as respected as my father's. I suspect your opinion has been marred by your mother's prejudice. Or perhaps it's your own prejudice that is rearing its ugly head. Lady Caroline is perfect for me.” He was angry and he knew he sounded angry, so angry he didn't even care that she looked stricken.

 

Marjorie knew why she hadn't suggested Lady Mary. It was because she
was
perfect for Mr. Norris. She felt purely horrified by this realization. “Of course she is. I'll introduce her to you tomorrow night. They attend the opera the opening night of every performance and
La Traviata
is opening tomorrow. I'll make certain I'm there.” Marjorie felt unaccountably like crying. She'd remembered considering Lady Mary, but had immediately crossed her from the list. And it
was
because her father was an earl, but part of her now realized it was also because she knew deep in her heart that Lady Mary and Mr. Norris would be a wonderful match. And her job would be done. She would have no reason to meet him secretly, no reason to leave notes. No reason to dance with him. No reason to touch him.

“This is my dance, I believe.”

Marjorie looked up to see a solemn-faced young man looking at her, his gloved hand extended. Who was he again? She hadn't the foggiest notion. But she smiled and laid her hand in his as he took her to the dance floor.

The rest of the evening dragged on interminably. Charles had disappeared, either heading home or to the card room. She danced all her dances with little enthusiasm, noting her mother was paying little attention to her. Instead, she spent much of the evening glaring at George, who hardly strayed from the side of Lilianne Cavendish, their neighbor in Ipswich. Her father was landed gentry, a squire of good standing, who'd always been a pleasant fellow. George had danced with her twice, and Marjorie wondered if he were more than a little smitten.

Finally, it was time to leave. Marjorie's feet ached almost as badly as her hand did, she thought ruefully. There was a long queue of people waiting for their hats and coats; her mother stood stiff and silent by her side, no doubt still a bit miffed by her rebellion earlier that evening. Some sort of commotion ahead of them was slowing their progress, and Marjorie strained her neck to see what was happening. When she realized what it was, she blanched. Something had happened with George.

Leaning toward her mother, Marjorie whispered, “It's George. I'll see what's happening, shall I?”

Her mother's expression turned even more stony. “Go on.”

Marjorie made her way to the front of the queue of people awaiting their hats and coats to find George highly agitated and holding a hat in a hand that shook.

“This isn't my hat, sir. My hat is from Beale & Inman.” He jabbed his finger at the silk label inside the top hat. “This hat is from Tollings. This isn't my hat, sir.”

The beleaguered footman kept apologizing and trying to explain that George's hat must have been mistakenly given to another gentleman, but George wouldn't—or couldn't—stop objecting.

“This isn't my hat,” he said again.

As Marjorie passed by, one man said beneath his breath, “I believe we've established the fact that it isn't his hat. Is he daft?”

Marjorie felt her face flush red as the footman wrested the wrong hat from George's hand, which only created more anxiety in her brother. At that moment, a large manly shape moved past her and toward her brother, who stood now tapping his fingers together in a silent clap of fretfulness.

“Lord Summerfield,” Mr. Norris said. “Where do you get your hats?”

George was momentarily distracted and smiled a greeting, first at Marjorie, then at Mr. Norris, who looked down at her and gave her a reassuring wink. What a lovely gesture, that wink. “Beale & Inman. But that hat,” George said, pointing, “is from Tollings.”

“Well then, I can certainly understand your concern. Tollings is far inferior to Beale & Inman. I, myself, get my hats there. I'll tell you what. Why don't we go tomorrow and get you another hat, just like the one lost this evening? I'd lend you mine, but I noticed you prefer a taller top hat and mine is only six inches. Yours is nearly eight, is it not?”

Her cousin Jeffrey sidled up next to her, apparently drawn by the small commotion. “He's so charming, your brother, isn't he? I must go to Beale & Inman tomorrow and tell them of your brother's great loyalty to their hats.”

Marjorie ignored her cousin's words and instead watched with relief as Charles took charge of the situation.

“Seven and three quarters,” George said, visibly relaxing. It was as if the embarrassing incident had never happened. Mr. Norris had maneuvered George aside so others could retrieve their hats and coats, and the impatient murmurs had ended. “Tomorrow is Tuesday. I could meet you there at two in the afternoon.”

“Two it is, then.” Then Mr. Norris glanced briefly at her, and added, “Perhaps your sister can join us.”

“She cannot,” Dorothea said in a tone so cool Marjorie half expected frost to emit from her lips.

Mr. Norris bowed politely to her mother and turned to George. “I'll see you tomorrow, then, Summerfield. Perhaps afterward we can go to Brooks.”

Dorothea took Marjorie's arm rather roughly and hauled her toward their wraps, which were quickly retrieved. Marjorie didn't dare look back to give Mr. Norris a smile of thanks.

The ride back home in the carriage was silent and thick with tension. Dorothea was livid, Marjorie could tell, and sat stiffly across from her. It was rare indeed, that her mother expressed anger toward her. She was often
disappointed
, but rarely angry, and Marjorie felt a bit more trepidation than usual. Still, she had no patience for her mother tonight and was feeling unaccountably depressed about the entire evening. And her hand ached terribly. She'd lied to Mr. Norris about how much it had hurt when he'd gripped her hand, but now wished she'd been more honest. She'd seen little of him at the ball after their discussion about Lady Caroline, and the entire conversation had left her feeling out of sorts. Worse, before departing the ballroom, he'd stared at Lady Caroline as if he were leaving his intended for the evening.

When they entered their townhouse, Dorothea snapped, “I want to speak to you in the parlor.”

“I'm tired, Mother. I'm going to bed.” Marjorie was sick to tears of her mother's lectures on how she should or should not act. With whom she should dance or flirt or consider as a husband. All she wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep, perhaps for a week or two so she could miss watching Mr. Norris fall in love. She'd just started to turn away from her mother when the side of her face exploded with a burning pain and a loud crack of flesh hitting flesh resounded in her ringing ear.

Marjorie's hand flew to her burning cheek as she stared, stunned, at her mother's enraged face.

“You will not disobey me again,” she spat. “I have invested far too much in you to have you throw away all that I've worked for. You will marry and you will marry this year. I shall pick out your husband and you will marry. And you shall never speak to Mr. Norris again. I want you to know what will happen if you choose to marry someone I do not approve of. You will never be allowed in this home again. I will disown you entirely. That is how serious I am about this. Is that what you want, Marjorie? Are you trying to break my heart with your obstinacy?

“I have sacrificed much over the years for you. I have spent money we don't have on Worth gowns and balls and lavish entertainments, all in the name of finding you the best possible husband. And this is the thanks I get. Throwing it in my face, making a mockery of me in front of my closest and dearest friends. Do you not know the comments I had to endure this evening because of your foolishness? Do you not care about our reputation? You will never dance with that man again. You will be a good and obedient daughter as you have been up until this evening. You will do these things because you are a good daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

Her hand still pressing to her face, Marjorie's eyes filled with tears. Her mother, as stern and stalwart as she was, had never struck her.

“Answer me! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“This has gone on long enough. I blame myself for my lenience with you. You've become willful and disobedient. I've allowed you to make your own decisions, but that is over. I will decide whom you marry. You have forfeited your rights in this matter this evening by blatantly disobeying me and dancing with that man.”

Dread filled Marjorie as she realized what it would mean for her to be married, to be out of their home, to be away from George, who needed her so. Her mind reeling, and feeling her will dissolving, she shook her head. She might have laughed at her mother's expression had she not been quite so terrified.

“I'm not a child, Mother. You cannot force me to do your will. I understand your anger, truly I do, but you cannot force me to marry a man I do not want.”

Her mother gave the most horrible smile at that moment, one that chilled Marjorie and was more frightening than the threat of being struck.

“We shall see about that, my dear. Good night.”

Her mother marched up the stairs, leaving Marjorie alone to wonder what sort of plan lay behind that threat.

 

I
t was June tenth. In just five more days, Dorothea would be on a coach headed for Ipswich and a life of isolation with her widowed Aunt Frances. Each day that passed made her more desperate to find some reason to put off the trip. She even began to pray she'd become desperately ill and unable to travel. Perhaps Lord Smythe would hear of her illness and come to visit, realize how very much he loved her, and beg her to marry him.

She knew such fantasies were ridiculous, but couldn't stop her mind from creating scenarios in which he fell to his knees and asked her to marry him.

Ascot must be perfect. She must look her best. She must wear the most charming dress, the loveliest hat, especially on the first day, when the royal procession arrived. She must stand out. She must make Lord Smythe look at her anew. She wasn't a friend. No, she could be a wife, bear his children. Never a slim girl, she tried desperately to lose weight, and succeeded a bit. Even her maid commented on how her dresses were a bit looser. It was a small triumph.

Her maid tried a variety of hairstyles, finally settling on the one that would be the most flattering beneath a hat. Dorothea practiced her smile, her laugh. She pretended to have conversations with him so that she wouldn't be so nervous when she finally did see him. He would look at her, stunned, and realize she was more than handsome. She was pretty and still young enough. And she had a brain and loved the same things he did. She studied her copy of
Revue Horticole
so they would have something to talk about. She read every article in the
Spectator
about the upcoming race, the competitors, the horses. Everything she did, everything she read, every thought she had in the two weeks preceding Ascot was on how to attract Lord Smythe.

The only thing she had left to do was buy a hat for the first race. It was a terrible oversight not to have already ordered one. She only had four days, after all, until the races. But her milliner, Mrs. Gibson, would accommodate her. Dorothea was her best customer, after all.

Her shop was located just off Regent Street in a charming little brick building. She walked in, her stomach nervous, and she saw it. The perfect hat. She actually gasped, and clutched at her maid's hand.

“Tillie, that's the one,” she said.

Mrs. Gibson, a middle-aged woman with blond hair just starting to go gray, smiled as Dorothea walked in. “It's my favorite creation this year, I think,” she said, walking over to where the hat sat on a counter. “But I'm afraid it's for another lady.”

It was large and high, with big blue bows on each side and flowers adorning it, as if sprouting from the wide brim. Dorothea had to have it.

“I see. May I try it anyway? Perhaps I can have you make one similar.”

Mrs. Gibson hesitated, but no doubt remembering just how much money Dorothea had spent over the years, acquiesced. Dorothea picked up the hat lovingly, walked to the mirror, and placed it on her head. Behind her, Tillie gasped.

“Oh, my lady, it's beautiful.”

And it was. There was something about the hat, the color of the flowers, the wide brim and high crown that all combined to somehow transform her face. She had never in her life felt so pretty.

“I'll take it,” she said.

Mrs. Gibson had come up behind her, looking slightly ill. “I'm so sorry, my lady, but this hat was designed—and paid for—by another lady. Perhaps a different—”

Dorothea shook her head. “No. This one, or an exact duplicate. You must, Mrs. Gibson. Surely you have duplicated hats in the past.”

Looking torn, Mrs. Gibson said, “Yes, but this one is so special and designed by the young lady herself... Of course, I will make it for you. You do look lovely in it, my lady. It is, by far, the most charming hat I've seen on you.”

Dorothea looked in the mirror again and smiled. This hat, along with her new dress, would make all the difference. What were the chances the other lady would be invited to enter the Royal Enclosure at Ascot?

On the way home, Dorothea was assailed with familiar doubt. She turned to Tillie. “You would tell me if it was absurd, would you not? It was a rather large and unique hat.”

“But that's what sets it apart, my lady. And you did look ever so pretty in it. Truly.”

Relief flooded her. “Thank you, Tillie.” The final piece was now in place.