The following days passed quickly. John read and signed the paperwork his father had left for the solicitors concerning the lesser estate, his mother’s estate, dined at home alone, and revisited the idea of canceling the advertisement in the Ladies Gazette, but thought he may as well see it through. Perhaps there might be a chance one or two ladies would care to become his wife.
He was wholly unprepared for Lady Penny’s urgent summons to Caymore House on Saturday morning. John, thinking of his father, decided to walk. It was a lovely day.
Quiggins showed him into the yellow salon as before. He found Lady Penny and Lady Olivia sitting at the long table by the fireplace, looking over stacks of correspondence.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, Lady Penelope,” John said. “I have no desire to interrupt, although your note alleged exigency.”
“Winsbarren, do come in. I have something to show you,” Lady Penny said and stood.
John moved closer to the table, although remained as far from Lady Olivia as possible. Since he had known her from his childhood, he’d always thought if he got too close, she might take a bite out of him. The Dragon Duchess was a very apt moniker.
“These are yours,” Lady Penny said, waving her hand over the table of letters.
“I beg your pardon.” There must have been two hundred pieces of paper lined up in little stacks across the length of the table.
“From the advertisement,” Penny trilled. “Aunt Olivia and I have been reading through them. We decided to put them into piles of desirable, undesirable, and maybe. I thought as this is your wife we are looking for, you might as well have a hand in it. What we may think might be a good match you might not. Therefore, I have invited you here to go through them yourself. It would not make sense to interview a lady you would not choose.”
John stood gob-smacked. All these women wanted to marry him? There must be some mistake. Women did not desire him. They fled from him.
“Sit down boy, and close your mouth,” Lady Olivia said. “If you want to get on with the process, we do not have time to waste.”
John knew other grown men who quaked in fear at the mere mention of her name so he was not wrong to be intimidated. He sat.
“These are the women whom we think are worthy to be your Viscountess,” Penny said and pointed to a stack of letters on the left side of the table. “These are the no’s, and these are the maybes.” The maybe pile in the middle had the most letters.
“Why do not you read through these and see if they are to your liking.” She pushed the yes stack closer to him. “If you approve, I will set up an interview.”
John picked up the first letter with a small hollow in the pit of his stomach. This scheme had seemed like a good idea when first presented, but now, seeing all this, he wondered how he could make a decision for his life’s companion based on a few words. He read –
Dear Viscount,
My name is Miss Annabelle Fontblain. I am thirty years old, and my father was the late Baron Fontblain. Illness has kept me from attending much of Society; however, do not let that deter you from an interview. I would make a lovely wife. My friends have thought this for years. I play the pianoforte, although I do not sing. My painting skills lack, but I do ply a needle extremely well. Unfortunately, my father spent my dowry to keep a roof over our heads, and I did not begrudge him the funds. Such is the way of life living in a drafty old hall. I would like to secure an interview in hopes that we may come to an agreement.
Most Sincerely,
Miss Annabelle Fontblain
John looked up from the letter. God’s teeth! Were they all like this?
“What do you think?” Penny asked. “A Baron’s daughter is perfectly acceptable, although we did see an Earl’s daughter or two as well.”
“I know not what to say,” John said. Miss Annabelle Fontblain seemed like a sniveling spinster, who would take his money to repair her foundering ruins and leave him with nothing but a wife in name only.
“Well, then, I suggest you keep reading,” Penny said. “Why not make your own pile of the ones you like and put aside the ones you do not. I shall make the interviews from those.”
John placed the letter on the chair to his left. She was a definite no. He read another –
My Dearest Viscount,
When I saw your advertisement in the Ladies Gazette, I knew God, our Almighty Father in Heaven, had bestowed his goodness upon me. It is my sincerest conviction that I was meant to see this and we should be united in Holy Matrimony. I am of good family. My father is the Reverend Whittaker of some little fame in the town of Comptonshire. I have been bestowed the sum of fifty pounds for a dowry. I do not ascribe to a passion for the arts, as I spend much of my day in prayer. I thank God and all the Angels in Heaven it has been answered at last. I look forward to meeting with you and discussing our nuptials. My father will be so pleased.
Very Cordially Yours,
Miss Mary Whittaker
John put that in the no pile as well. As he read more of the letters, the small hollow in his stomach opened into a chasm. This was not what he thought was going to happen. He had hoped he would find a woman of substance, of demeanor, of refinement. The kind his friends had found with their wives, a true and loyal companion, who would hold him in good stead in front of his peers. A faceless name on a piece of paper, a few words scribbled in hope that he would find them attractive, desirable enough to marry, was absurd. How could they think this was any way to catch a husband? He realized his desperation, but these women did not even have the common sense to understand how wretched it made them. The idea he could find a wife like this was preposterous. What had he been thinking?
John looked up and found Lady Penny’s encouraging smile. He bent his head and read all the letters in the yes pile. They were all no’s. He then tackled the no pile. He found one letter that rather intrigued him. He found four more in the maybe pile. Five women out of two hundred. He wasn’t sure if he should be embarrassed or not. Perhaps he was just too particular. Or perhaps not particular enough.
He stood and handed Penny the five notes.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Penny looked at her aunt.
Lady Olivia looked at him. “Out of all these women, you should choose but five?”
“I do not think any of the others struck me as having anything to recommend them. I must remember, I have the Earl’s seat to consider after all,” John said, hoping that point would make him feel less guilty for having put the women through so much work.
“As you wish,” Lady Olivia said. “Well, let me see them. Perhaps I know one or two.”
As the old woman glanced at signatures, John felt the hollow in his stomach now turn upside down. Had he made the right choices? Were any of these women the one to make him happy? And what if there were two and he had another choice to make, or what if there were none? What then? Would he dare go through the list again and settle for someone who might make him a decent match? The avenues for wife-finding were coming to a dead end. He’d exhausted the conventional ideas. Now, here he was at the unconventional.
“Very well then,” Lady Olivia said. “We shall see what happens during the interviews.”
She handed the letters to Penny.
“Would you tell me how you intend to conduct them?” John asked.
“Well, first, I shall meet with them alone to verify what they have said in their letters. The next interview will be conducted with Aunt Olivia. She has a much better eye than I do when it comes to discerning fools and less than honest people. If they meet with her approval, then I believe the last interview will be yours.”
“When should I look forward to the pleasure of your company again?” John asked. The desire to escape to a short tot of brandy pressed him.
“I shall have to write to them and set a date for the meetings, and then conduct them as discreetly as possible. I thought, perhaps, the Bainbridge Hotel would do. I would invite them to tea. Ladies do love to chat over a warm cup.” Lady Penny smiled.
“Yes, of course,” John said.
“I should think within a fortnight I shall have some news to report.”
John wondered if he would live through the next two weeks. Dying of mortification seemed so much easier.
“I shall await word then,” he said. “Thank you again, Lady Penny, Your Grace for all your care and forethought. I shall take my leave.” John bowed low over the table and tried not to sprint from the yellow salon.
Quiggins saw him to the door, and as John reached the street, he took a deep breath. He had worried this scheme would kill his father. He was not so sure it wouldn’t kill him.