A Comfortable Wife (16 page)

It rapidly became apparent that their hostess’s injunction to set formal restraint aside had been enthusiastically embraced; with the customary facility of youth, the company quickly got down to brass tacks.

The beauty, a sweet-faced young miss in a pale blue gown with dark ringlets bobbing on her shoulders, proved to be a Miss Catriona Dalling, an orphan from east Yorkshire who was in town under the aegis of her aunt, the Countess of Ticehurst.

“She’s a dragon,” Miss Dalling informed the company, her big blue eyes huge, her distinctly squared little chin jutting aggressively. “No! I tell a lie—she’s worse than that, she’s a
gorgon!
”

“Is she truly insisting on marrying you to the highest bidder?” Cecily Mountford was no more bashful than her guests.

Lovely lips set in a line, Miss Dalling nodded. “What’s more, she’s set her heart on poor Ambrose here.” Dramatically, she put a hand on the bright green embossed silk sleeve of the young gentleman on her right and squeezed meaningfully. “So now we’re
both
being persecuted!”

Ambrose, who gloried in the title of the Marquess of Hammersley, was a pale, obviously nervous young gentleman, short and slightly stocky; he blushed and muttered, and tried to smooth the creases Miss Dalling’s strong little fingers had left in his sleeve.

Geoffrey frowned. “Can’t you both just say no?”

The comment earned him a host of pitying looks.

“You don’t understand,” Miss Dalling said. “My aunt is set on me marrying Ambrose because he’s a
marquess
and we haven’t had one of those in the family before and a marquess is better than an earl, so she sees it as advancing the family’s cause. And
Ambrose
’s mama is pushing the match because of my inheritance, because his estates are not bringing in enough to dower all his sisters.
And,
” she added, with a darkling look, “because I’m so young she thinks I’ll be easy to manage.”

Antonia couldn’t help but wonder if the Marquess’s mama was blind.

“It’s all arranged for consequence and money,” Miss
Dalling continued with undisguised contempt. “But it won’t do! I’ve decided to marry for love or not at all!”

Her dramatic declaration drew approving nods from all around, particularly from the Marquess. Antonia inwardly frowned, wondering if they were all really so young, so untutored in society’s ways—or if they were merely headstrong, trying their wings in vocal but not active rebellion.

Miss Dalling’s championship of the gentle passion provoked argument on all sides, most, Antonia noted, thoroughly supportive of the heiress’s position while openly condemning her aunt’s.

Her spirits clearly unimpaired by the browbeating she had assured the company she had endured
en route
to Brook Street, Catriona Dalling flashed her an engagingly confiding smile. “I understand you’re in town for the first time, as indeed we all are, but you have doubtless more experience than we in searching for your one and only love. I do hope you’ll forgive me for speaking so plainly and rattling on so, but I dare say you can see things have reached a pretty pass. Ambrose and I will have to make a stand, don’t you think?”

Arguments raged about them, revolving about how to spike Lady Ticehurst’s ambitions; Geoffrey, Antonia could hear, was urging the participants to check with their men of affairs. Looking into Miss Dalling’s unquestionably innocent eyes, she felt the weight of her years.

“While I would certainly not condone your being coerced into marriage, Miss Dalling, the fact remains that most marriages within our class are arranged, at one level or another. Some, perhaps, are underpinned by affection or long-standing acquaintance, but others are promoted on the basis of what I admit sound cold-blooded reasons. However, in the absence of either party’s affections being fixed elsewhere, don’t you think there’s the possibility that your aunt’s suggestion might, in the end, bear fruit?” In making
the suggestion, Antonia’s gaze touched the Marquess; she felt an immediate pang of uncertainty.

“There is that, of course.” Miss Dalling nodded sagely. “But you see, I
have
found my only true love, so the argument does not hold.”

“You have?” Antonia could not help eyeing her in concern. The heiress looked barely older than Geoffrey. “Forgive my impertinence, Miss Dalling, but are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely sure.” Catriona Dalling’s decisive nod set her ringlets bouncing. “Henry and I have known each other since we were children and we’re quite sure we want to marry. We had thought to wait for a few years—until Henry has proved himself in running his father’s farms, you see—but Aunt Ticehurst stepped in.”

“I see.” The heiress’s straightforwardness rang truer than any impassioned declarations. Antonia frowned. “Have you explained your attachment to your aunt?”

“My aunt does not believe in love, Miss Mannering.” The militant gleam was back in Catriona Dalling’s eye. “She might be more amenable were Henry a marquess too, only unfortunately he’s simply a squire’s son, so she’s not disposed to acquiescence.”

“I had not realized,” Antonia admitted “that your situation was quite so…awkward. To be urged to turn your back on love, given the connection is not ineligible and your attachment has proved constant, must be distressing.”

Catriona gave another of her decisive nods. “It would be, if I had the slightest intention of giving in to the pressure. As it is, I’m determined to stand firm. Not only would marrying Ambrose ruin my life and Henry’s, it would undeniably ruin Ambrose’s as well.”

Viewing the determined cast of Miss Dalling’s fair features, and seeing the Marquess, weak-chinned and timid, in earnest conversation with Geoffrey beyond, Antonia could only concur.

“One way or another, I’m determined to win out. It’s not
as though love matches are all that rare these days.” Catriona gestured grandly. “Even in days gone by, such affairs were known. My very own aunt—not Ticehurst, of course, but my other aunt, her sister, now Lady Copely—she defied the family and married Sir Edmund, a gentleman of sufficient but not extravagant means. They’ve lived very happily for years and years—their household is one of the most comfortable I know. If I could have as much by marrying for love, I would be entirely satisfied.” She paused only for breath. “And only last year, my cousin Amelia—my Aunt Copely’s eldest daughter—she married her sweetheart, Mr Gerard Moggs.” She broke off to point out a young couple across the room. “They’re over there—you can see for yourself how happy they are.”

Antonia looked, effectively distracted from Miss Dalling’s concerns. This was, after all, what she had come to London to see—married ladies consorting in public with their spouses.

What she saw was a young gentleman of twenty-five or six, standing by a
chaise
on which a pretty young lady was seated, angled around and looking up to meet her husband’s gaze. Mr Moggs made some comment; his wife laughed up at him. She laid a hand on his sleeve, squeezing lightly, affectionately. Mr Moggs responded with an openly adoring look. Reaching out, he touched a finger to his wife’s cheek, then bent and whispered in her ear before straightening and, with a nod, leaving her.

Antonia noted he went no further than the refreshment table, returning with two glasses.

“Miss Mannering, is it not?”

With a start, Antonia turned to find a gentleman of much her own age bowing before her. He was neatly if fashionably dressed, having avoided the excesses to which the younger generation had fallen prey.

“Mr Hemming, my dear Miss Mannering.” As he straightened, Antonia looked into mild brown eyes set under
wavy brown hair. “I hope you’ll excuse my impertinence, but Lady Mountford tipped me the wink that the musicians are about to start up. Can I prevail on you to honour me with the first cotillion?”

The invitation was accompanied by an engaging smile; Antonia responded spontaneously, graciously extending her hand. “Indeed, Mr Hemming. I would be pleased to stand up with you.”

She was well-versed in the cotillion, more adept, as it transpired, than Mr Hemming. Despite his pleasant disposition, he was forced to give his attention to the figures, leaving Antonia free to pursue her principal purpose. As she twirled and swirled, it was easy to examine those not dancing for couples who might be husband and wife. Other than the Moggs, she found no likely candidates. As for the Moggs, they, she felt certain, were hardly representative specimens.

It would, she felt sure, be unwise to use their behaviour as a guide to how she might behave with Philip. For a start, Philip was a good deal older than Mr Moggs. As, hand held high, she pirouetted, Antonia scanned the room. Indeed, she couldn’t imagine Philip at such a gathering—there were no gentlemen like him present.

The age difference was telling in another way. She could not, by any fanciful stretch of her imagination, imagine Philip casting adoring glances at her, in public or otherwise. Likewise, she was quite certain any affectionate squeezes would result in a frown and a reprimand for damaging his suiting.

Gentlemen, her mother and all Yorkshire ladies had assured her, were made uncomfortable by any public show of fondness; ladies must never, so she had been taught, wear their hearts on their sleeves. While Miss Dalling and her family, one branch at least, as well as the youth of the
ton,
might freely acknowledge the softer emotions, Antonia
could not believe that gentlemen of Philip’s age and temperament had been won over.

The dance ended and she sank into the prescribed curtsy. Mr Hemming, beaming, raised her. “An excellent measure, Miss Mannering.” Gallantly, he offered her his arm. “I take it you’ll be attending the coming balls and parties?”

“I expect we’ll attend our fair share.” Antonia accepted his arm; he very correctly escorted her back towards the fireplace.

“Have you seen Lord Elgin’s marbles? Quite worth a visit, in my humble estimation.”

Antonia was about to reply when they were joined by an acquaintance of Mr Hemming’s, a Mr Carruthers. Introduced, Mr Carruthers bowed extravagantly. Within minutes, two others had joined them, Sir Frederick Smallwood and a Mr Riley. Before Antonia could blink, she found herself at the centre of a small circle of gentlemen. They chatted amiably, pleasantly; she danced the quadrille with Sir Frederick and the last cotillion with Mr Carruthers. Mr Riley begged to be remembered when next they met.

Then the party started to break up. Geoffrey appeared by her elbow with the information that Henrietta was ready to depart; Antonia excused herself to her cavaliers and politely withdrew.

Once she had settled Henrietta in the carriage, draping extra shawls about her shoulders, Antonia sat back and pondered all she had seen. “Aunt,” she eventually asked, as the carriage rocked into motion, “is it common for married gentlemen to accompany their wives to such entertainments?”

Henrietta snorted. “Noticed the Moggs, did you? Hardly surprising—they attracted quite a bit of interest, that pair of lovebirds.” Her tone suggested the matrons had not been impressed. “But to answer your question—no, it’s not general practice, but not only is Gerard Moggs quite openly
besotted with his wife, she’s also in an interesting condition, so I expect we’ll have to excuse him.”

Antonia nodded; she now had the Moggs in their proper perspective.

“Quite a fine line, actually—just how much husbandly attention is allowable.” Henrietta spoke into the darkness, her voice only just audible over the rattle of the carriage wheels. “Not, of course, that the question arises in many cases—gentlemen being what they are. Only too glad to keep to their clubs and their dinners. Most put in an appearance at the best balls and parties, enough to nod to their wives in passing, but the consensus has always been that, in town at least, husbands and wives follow essentially separate social calendars.” She fluffed her shawls. “That, of course, limits the opportunities for the sort of exhibition you witnessed tonight.”

Any doubts as to her aunt’s opinion of the Moggs’ behaviour was laid to rest. Antonia shifted in her seat. “I had thought gentlemen often escorted ladies to the various entertainments?”

“Indeed.” Henrietta yawned. “But, in the main, such escort duties fall to the unmarried males, the confirmed bachelors or the yet-to-be-snared. Only occasionally would a married lady expect her husband to act as her escort, and then only if he was wishful of attending the same function.”

The shadows hid Antonia’s frown. Her enjoyment of the outings Philip had organised, the laughter they had shared, the undeniable pleasure she found in his company—would all that change once they were wed? Be relegated to history, never to be experienced again? What, she wondered, was the point of being married—of having a firm friendship with one’s husband—if being married prohibited him from spending time in your company?

The carriage swayed around a corner then rumbled on into Grosvenor Square; Geoffrey shifted in his corner. As they drew up outside Ruthven House, he jumped down,
smothering a yawn. Between them, Antonia and he helped Henrietta up the steps; Carring stood at the top, holding the door wide.

Behind him, in the glow of the hall chandelier, Antonia spied Philip. He strolled forward as Carring shut the door. “A pleasant evening?”

The question was addressed to her but Geoffrey answered it.

“Dull work,” he said, around another yawn. “Nothing of any substance except for the heiress’s dragon of an aunt. She really did look like a gorgon.”