“Have you listened to anything I have been saying?” Her mother’s frustrated rebuke made Charlotte lose hold of her morning biscuit, which went flying through the air.
Right into the receptacle where her father tapped his cigar ash.
Drat, Charlotte thought. “Yes, of course I have, Mother,” she said, leaning forward to retrieve another biscuit from the pile. Her mother tapped her hand away before she could snag it, however. Charlotte leaned back in her chair and consoled herself with the thought that the biscuit was dry, anyway. She reached for Christian’s latest letter instead—at least her brother could be counted on not to nag her.
“What have I been saying?”
She withdrew her hand from the letter and tried not to roll her eyes. Christian’s letter would have to wait until she was alone. “Why, you were commenting on the party last evening, and speculating on the number of eligible bachelors in attendance, and wishing the food were better, and then ringing for fresh tea.”
Her mother nodded, a smug smile on her face, no doubt thankful her daughter was finally listening.
That her daughter was merely reciting what her mother said every morning when they were in London was something she did not realize.
“And I was wondering if Lord David Marchston would be staying in town long. He has been away for years.” Her mother’s fig-brown eyes sparkled with untold gossip.
“He has been in India, I believe he said?” Charlotte replied, knowing full well where he’d been.
Long after he’d danced with her, long after she’d returned home from the party and gotten into her nightdress and into bed, she’d thought about him. About their conversation, and how he’d danced, not to mention those eyes—his blue, blue eyes that reminded her of faraway oceans and storm-swept skies and other natural beauties.
She doubted he would enjoy hearing himself referred to as a “natural beauty,” however. Perhaps she would tell him, just to see if he got that startled expression on his face again. She had to suppress a giggle at the thought—her mother would know for sure she hadn’t been listening, since Charlotte usually was not amused at her mother’s conversation. Peppered, as it was, with alternating laments about Charlotte’s continued spinsterhood and a constant analysis of all the available men in town.
Thank goodness Christian did write, or the only conversation she’d have with her family would be with her mother.
“I have no idea where he’s been, just that he hasn’t been here,” her mother said dismissively, as though London were the center of the world. For a mother with a marriageable daughter, perhaps it was.
That the marriageable daughter was Charlotte, in this case, made the center of the world more … centric, since it didn’t seem likely Charlotte would get an offer this Season. As she had not the last. Or the one before that. And likely would not the next.
Which made her eccentric, come to think on it.
Neither Charlotte nor her mother had discussed what, precisely, would happen when Charlotte was a confirmed spinster—thus far she was unconfirmed. The possibility hung over them like a sword spinning in the air, nonetheless.
For Charlotte, the sword that dangled above her was tantalizing, as if she herself might wield its power, if only she could seize it. For her mother, the sword threatened to slice through her heart, such as it was, causing Charlotte to be an Eternal Burden on the family. Charlotte had shortened the situation, whenever she thought about it, to EB.
“You danced with Lord David,” her mother said. Charlotte nodded. It had been a wonderful dance, even if her partner’s mind had retreated someplace else. They had waltzed, and Charlotte had never felt so light on her—
“Well, there is no chance he will be interested in you,” her mother continued. “You should not waste dances on such men, Charlotte.”
Charlotte did not point out that if she only accepted the invitation of interested men she would never, ever dance. All part and parcel of the EB.
Thank goodness.
Her mother hadn’t yet accepted that Charlotte would be fine if she never married—she had her own money, and friends, and a brother who made her laugh. Her mother believed life was incomplete unless a female was safely wed.
Not that Charlotte had yet broached the possibility she might never marry—she wasn’t sure her mother could handle even the thought of it.
“Who should she waste dances on then, dear?” God bless her father. There he sat, in the corner, his face buried behind his morning paper, a swirl of smoke rising up from the pages. He was smoking a cigar; thankfully, the paper was not on fire.
Her father was the only reason Charlotte hadn’t protested more when her mother had made plans to take her to London for an unheard-of third Season. He adored London, loved visiting the horse auctions, and drinking port at his club, and spending hours playing piquet with his widowed sister and her coterie of equally aged friends.
He was utterly useless when it came to standing up to her mother, of course, but he could be counted upon to do the unexpected.
Which was a quixotic reality Charlotte didn’t have the time to parse out at the moment.
“She should not waste dances at all,” her mother said in a shrill voice. “She should—
“Lady Silver, Lady Anne Silver, and Lord Charles Silver,” their butler, Bennett, intoned at the door. Her mother immediately altered her expression to one that was an attempt to look pleasant. Charlotte thought her mother just looked as though she had dyspepsia, but it was preferable to the look on her face when she was lecturing Charlotte.
Then she just looked as though she had an EB. Which, to be fair, she did.
Lady Silver, the matriarch, entered the room first, her two offspring trailing behind. Lady Silver was wearing something that made her look remarkably like the sausages Cook made in the fall; she was stuffed into her gown with bunches of fabric squeezing in at the especially expansive parts.
Charlotte was glad not to have eaten that biscuit after all.
Lady Anne Silver was a thin wisp of a girl, with light-red hair and pale eyes that always seemed watery, as though she’d just been tearing up at something. Perhaps at the fit of her mother’s gowns.
Lord Charles was one of the group of young men who’d dubbed Charlotte “the Abomination.” Thankfully, the nickname hadn’t yet reached her mother’s ears.
Because his mother and hers were friends, he was required to dance with Charlotte at every party they attended. Where there was dancing, of course; dancing when there was no music would have simply been odd.
But he never failed to comment on what she was wearing in a way that sounded complimentary on the surface, but held a pointed barb. To remind her that she was the butt of certain people’s jokes and that she should be very grateful he deigned to ask her to stand up with him.
She wished, just once, that she had too many partners to accept his invitation. To glance at her dance card and apologize for not being able to oblige him with a dance that evening.
But as they were both well aware, that would never happen.
So Charlotte endured his sly comments and caught the glances he gave to his friends when he thought she was looking elsewhere, and she wished the EB sword would just crash down already, hopefully right on his head.
The Silvers arranged themselves in the sitting room’s chairs, and Bennett appeared with a tray of fresh tea. Thankfully, Lady Anne sat between her brother and Charlotte.
“A lovely party, wasn’t it?” Lady Silver took a biscuit from the tray. “The Davenhams certainly know how to entertain properly. Though how they are going to get all those girls married off, I’ll never know.”
“There aren’t enough blind men in London for that,” Lord Charles said in a low aside. Neither of the older ladies heard him, but Charlotte saw his sister shoot him a sharp look. Interesting; the Silver wisp wasn’t as wispy as she seemed.
“It’s hard enough to get one married off.” Charlotte’s mother sighed, casting a look at Charlotte.
“I know that, certainly,” Lady Silver said, echoing the sigh and looking at her own daughter.
What would the ladies have in common if one of their daughters ever did actually get some male to wed her? They’d be forced to actually converse, rather than huff long-suffering sighs at each other.
Charlotte caught Lady Anne rolling her eyes as her mother spoke. She’d have to ask Lady Anne what her version of the EB was. Perhaps they could compare notes on what they planned to do as Confirmed Spinsters. So far, Charlotte’s list only included “Move as far away from my mother as possible,” but there was doubtless room for refining. Perhaps listing the actual distance in mileage?
“Lady Charlotte, was your evening pleasant? I know Anne wished the evening’s entertainment had been just a bit shorter.” Lady Silver tilted her head and said in a whisper that everyone could nonetheless hear, “Why those Davenhams can’t serve dinner while their daughters are prancing about, I’ll never know.”
Charlotte’s mother made a tsking sound. “And you would think that given just how many daughters they have, they would ensure there were plenty of eligible men.”
“Should they have imported them from China, Mother?” Charlotte asked. She heard Lady Anne give a surprised snort. “Perhaps raid a university and round them up like cattle?”
Charlotte’s mother’s face twisted into that lemon-sucking expression with which Charlotte was so familiar. “That is not what I meant at all. My point,” she said, deliberately not making eye contact with her daughter, “is that there are just not enough men to go around.”
“Like cookies on a tray,” Lady Anne added in a soft voice. “Never enough.”
Charlotte definitely liked Lady Anne.
“I agree with your mother, Lady Charlotte,” Lady Silver said, to no one’s surprise. That is, not to Charlotte or Lady Anne’s surprise; Lord Charles was apparently too engrossed in examining his fingernails to pay any attention, and Charlotte’s father seemed to have dropped off to sleep, judging by the soft snores emerging from behind the paper. All the females in the room, however, continued to remain alert. “I did hear Lady Emma was leaving town. Her sister is in a delicate situation,” she added, emphasizing the last two words with an arch look. “At least there will be one fewer eligible female around. More chance for our girls.” She nodded to them, as though it was only Emma’s presence that was keeping the men from flocking to Charlotte and Lady Anne. Not the fact that Emma was a remarkable beauty, whereas Charlotte and Lady Anne … well.
Charlotte had forgotten all about writing Emma’s column. She glanced down at her morning gown and felt her lips crease into a smile. It would horrify Emma. It was totally plain, unadorned with any ribbons, but it was a remarkable shade; neither pink nor orange, it was somewhere in-between, like a peach gone to rot.
Lady Silver drew out a piece of paper from her reticule and held it out at arm’s length, presumably so she could read it. “There was Mr. Smeldley, Lord Watkins, Lord Peter Watkins, that younger Partridge boy, the one with the unfortunate hair, Mr. Carruthers, and—and who else?”
Him. The gorgeous man with the distant blue eyes. The one who was taller, handsomer, more well traveled and experienced, and the best dancer.
The one who probably had not remember her right after he bowed and made his departure the previous night, much less today. If he met her today, she’d have to remind him that she was the poorly traveled young lady with all the questions. His “not ugly” dance partner. And then he’d likely have to ask, “Which one?”
“Lord David Marchston,” Charlotte’s mother said, a certain something in her tone of voice. Even her mother had been affected by him, even though she knew full well he was not a possibility for the EB.
Lady Silver sat upright as though she’d been struck. Or perhaps she’d been rendered unable to breathe because of the constriction of her gown. Either way, she had quite an impressive posture.
“Lord David Marchston! Of course. He would be quite a catch, wouldn’t he, girls?” Lady Silver nodded and smiled to Lady Anne and Charlotte as though they had a speck of a chance with him.
Charlotte’s mother gave a snort that indicated just what she thought of that. “Good luck! Don’t you remember—” She lowered her mouth to Lady Silver’s ear, whispering furiously.
Of all the times for her mother to be discreet. It couldn’t be when she was rolling her eyes at what Charlotte chose to wear, or wishing her offspring were more normal, or criticizing the quality of the refreshments.
No. It had to be when her mother was talking about the Natural Beauty.
Who aroused what Charlotte could only imagine were some very natural feelings in her. Unfortunate, then, that she should have no chance to pursue her natural urges.