The Marriage Mart (7 page)

It was exactly sixteen and one-half days before Mary’s mother announced over the breakfast table, “You’ve received a letter from Rothayne.”

Mary looked up with expectant eyes, watching carefully as the sealed letter was passed down the table toward her. It was not uncommon for their extended family to gather from their various homes (which Mary privately thought saw a lot less of them than did herself) on a Saturday morning for a repast together. When Lydia extended her hand to pass on the letter, Mary all but snatched it from her, but then she settled it next to her plate, unopened.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Lydia asked.

“Yes,” was Mary’s tight-lipped answer.

“Soon?”

“Yes.”

Lydia pursed her lips as well, and promptly abandoned her little sister to turn instead and grill her sister-in-law as to what she was going to do today. Both she and Mary knew she’d had years of experience at trying to get Mary to do something she did not want to do, ever failing.

Mary ate a few more bites to establish a sense of propriety, but then she quietly made her excuses, slipped the letter into the pocket of her morning gown, and hurried away upstairs to her room. There, she sliced open the wax seal with her letter opener, and greedily read:

My Sweetest Mary--

How I long for your company! You cannot imagine the daily torture I endure. I am emasculated. I am trampled. I am as nothing more than a source of gleeful vindictiveness to these persons I must call my relations. I, who love the ladies well and often (ah, I can see the glowing red tips of your precious tiny ears even from here, my own) now find I am stranded amongst the coldest and cruelest of all females--my siblings.

My only comfort comes with solitude, for I ride several times daily, when they are willing to accept my pleas that I have duties as a landowner. I find the properties in sad estate, if not quite destitute. I fear it will be a hard year for the poorer of the district, and have therefore ordered my steward to desist from trapping rabbits, that the locals might have something for their cook pots. The worse news is, should it ever cease raining, we will have to plant anew. Will we bring in a harvest? I cannot say.

Georgette is still not delivered of her first child. I rather pointedly told her to do so last night, but it seems she ignored me. I am hopeful that the poor, dear child who comes of this blessed event will draw, at least for a while, some attention from myself. (I can hear you saying “What a conceit’!” and of course that is quite true.)

Remember to keep the gentlemen at arm’s length
…
well, perhaps a little closer, for we do wish that you shall marry fairly soon. But beware of the ‘nice ones’, for they usually are not truly so in many ways, I’ve found. I hope and pray I shall be returning to London soon. (You see, then, your influence on me--I am now praying.)

Your mostly obedient and completely affectionate friend, John.

She read it again twice, smiling all the while, feeling almost as though he were there in the room with her, for his written word was just as his spoken word. She nodded over the wisdom of letting the rabbits find their way into someone’s stewpot, and she found herself putting up a tiny prayer that John should find himself blessed with a new
nephew
soon.

That night when she dressed for the musical evening at Mrs. Windom-Holly’s, during which she had agreed to play the harp as accompaniment to Miss Antonia Windom-Holly, it was not of the music that she thought, but of John’s letter. She had known, of course, that she was going to miss his company. Her life was no less active and merry with his absence, for she was now firmly established in her growing circle of acquaintances, but the special thrill of hearing him sum up any situation quickly and piercingly was lacking. No one else dared to say quite exactly what they thought, or even if they did they did so clumsily and sometimes even cruelly, whereas she had learned John saved his stings only for himself or those who had a talent for unkindnesses. When Mr. Hann might elbow her and indicate the ridiculously bright waistcoat of a contemporary, John would say how glad he was that someone was not afraid of a little color. If Miss Hennings commented on another girl’s lack of grace, John would, without fail, be the next to stand up with the girl. That he also was a fine enough dancer to help the poor creature look a little more to advantage was to his credit also.

Yes, his was a curiously honest nature, not bound by conventional rules, and he was therefore also not always well liked. He made more than one fellow angry when he refused to drink or play cards with the chap, but, as he privately told Mary, he was not about to fleece a half-drunk man-child, nor aid him to make a fool of himself. Most ladies adored him, for his clever tongue was also sincere with its compliments, but then others could not see the intellect and the humor behind the risqué comments he must forever issue. He shocked and he thrilled, and it was exciting to know him, to be in any degree close to him. That he should write to her was but another sign of his regard…and it caused her to sigh now at his absence even though she knew the evening ahead promised to be a pleasant one.

Although she returned home late, she sat down at once and wrote in return:

Dearest John,

How shall I say my evening went tonight? I played the harp for Miss Antonia Windom-Holly, and though normally she has a fine voice, tonight it was quite unsteady. I believe I know the reason why, and I believe that reason is called Lord Trimble. He is very young, perhaps twenty, and flushed of face, but with lovely brown curls, over-long, which I must say rather suits him. She spent the entire evening glancing at him and then away, and every time she did so, her sweet little voice quite lost its nerve. It must be said Lord Trimble did not seem to notice the lack. I believe we shall have news in that quarter soon.

Even as I sit here writing I wonder if your sister has brought another of the Rothayne clan among us. Is it a fifteenth granddaughter? Oh, surely not! It boggles the mind.

Tonight Lord Bretwyn asked me to accompany him, his sister and her husband, Lord Hammand, to Vauxhall Gardens. Now I know that for a young girl this would be considered inappropriate, but since I am not that, and since we are just going for the fireworks, and since Lady Hammand has not caviled, neither shall I.

A new gentleman has sailed upon my horizon. His name is Lord Pentford. He is dark of skin, due he says to his devotion to time spent aboard his ships. (Yes, I said the plural: ships). He races them, and apparently wins quite often, with himself at the helm. He has a large laugh--almost frightening until one becomes accustomed to the sound--and is very knowledgeable. We have found ourselves moving to the side of a dance floor and spending many minutes talking. (Do not fear, Mrs. Pennett sees that I do not become monopolized.)

Lt. Hargood, alas, has been called back to duty. I did not get his direction--such as a soldier’s may be--but he has mine and
vows he shall write. He left for foreign soils over a week ago. Pity, he was the best dancer I’ve met, besides yourself.

Come home soon, dear friend. London is rather stifling without you.

Your very weary (it is four in the morning) and yawning friend,

Mary.

She went to Vauxhall Gardens with Lord Bretwyn and the others, where she very much enjoyed a fine meal in a purchased box from which they watched the fireworks. She stored it all up in mind of her next letter to John.

His came a week later, and this time her brother and sister were breakfasting in their own homes, Mama was still abed, and Papa was already gone from the house. Mary read her letter at table, laughing out loud once, unexpectedly, an errant hand nearly tipping over her dish of coffee. She coughed and held a hand to her breast and tried to breathe, swallow, and giggle all at once.

Beloved Mary--

I have sat down at once, upon receiving your letter. It was as manna from heaven! There is still society out there! There is still peace, and tranquility! How I long for the early morning rumble of market carts beneath my window. How I long for the filthy oaths the hawkers fling at one another at indecently early hours. Where is the ragged cough, the scrape and clatter of the lamplighter’s ladder as he makes his rounds, snuffing out the gas lamps he set flaring the night before? I tell you, these sounds, so annoying to the average countryman, would be as a lullaby to me. I know what it is to reside in the dark reaches of hell, for hell is seated here, in Kent. I tell you, at last I understand why the preachers bid us all be good and not wicked, for this place I name hell is a place beyond hope, a place we should all strive mightily to avoid.

There is happy news that is laced with sorrow: Georgette was safely delivered of a healthy, pink and lustily wailing child--another girl, of course. My mother was heard to cry that it defies the laws of nature to have yet another female born to us, but whatever else she may have said, I missed, for I was weeping into my cravat. (Though, truth be told, I am not sure I am quite wicked enough to wish that a poor boy-child should have to be raised in such a bevy of females as was I--nay, even more of them than I had. It seems a cruelty. Perhaps Nature knows this, and therefore gave unto us Baby Jessica, to spare any poor lad such a fate.)

Work is progressing on the farmlands. We had to dig a new pond, to which we have drained several fields. I never knew these fields to flood when I was younger, and so that tells you how extraordinary the amount of rain we have had truly is. It has been better of late here--I have hopes that some year the rain will stop entirely. My steward was all but ill unto death when he saw the prime land we had to give over to making the pond, but nothing is truly ‘prime’ under water, now is it? and so I told him. It is clear we shall have to rebuild the stone fence about the north edge of the property. Its footings were all but washed away, so it is broken and uneven and almost beyond repairing. We may have to tear it down entirely, and start anew.

The crops are, as feared, drowned and rotting. I have some land in southern Scotland that I have been assured will produce some income this year, but it is painful to bring the profits from one merely to repair the lost ones of the other. Nothing for it though. At least there has not been disease (I shall now knock on some wood) in either the animals nor the people.

You would not believe what my sisters have been doing to me lately… No, I cannot say. It is too gruesome.

Please write to me again. I admit I thoroughly enjoyed envisioning you there at four in the morning, dressed in naught but a flimsy nightrail, your long, lovely brown hair loose about your shoulders and catching light from the grate, that frown of concentration across your forehead, your sweet lips pursed in thought. To think of such a vision was as a balmy breeze, a cool draft sent to me, your captive friend in Hades.

With hopes of a homecoming soon,

John.

She sat blushing over her plate, for he was not here and could not chide her for the crimson in her cheeks. A little flash of something that threatened to take away her breath came into her head, but it was firmly and rigidly pushed outside the scope of her interior vision. It was his way to make every situation into a provocative one, and she would only be a fool to do anything but laugh along with him, even in absentia.

When she went up to her room, she burned the now memorized letter. She told herself she did it so no one would ever come across it and misinterpret the harmless jests he made, but in truth she did so because she was silently afraid that she might be the one to do so.

***

Several evenings later, Mary turned to see the Baronet Stephens coming her way. She immediately turned and slipped between two couples, heading randomly in any direction opposite his own. Lord Stephens was not a man to be denied, however, for within fifteen minutes she found herself cornered.

“Lady Mary, how pleasant to see you tonight. I was hoping to beg a dance from you,” he said, a trifle breathlessly.

She gave him a weak smile before she murmured, “Of course.”

“Are you committed now?”

Alas, she was not. He beamed at her murmured reply. “Then it shall be mine. And the first after the midnight repast--?”

“We shall see.” She hoped her demurral sounded like flirtation, rather than putting off making a commitment to him.

“I will find you then,” he assured her.

He had the dance she’d been unable to deny him, and she kept her conversation shallow. She did not care for Lord Stephens. He was often overbearing, with a doggedness that he only sometimes bothered to cloak in seemliness. Next to John’s freshness, Lord Stephens suffered. He was the epitome of all that was stuffy yet imprudent, pompous yet lowering in their society. And even though it was quite true he was very plump of pocket, Mary knew for a certainty that this was one field from which she did not care to reap.

She liked him so little, in fact, that when the music began for the set after the late night meal, she tried to remain hidden behind the punch bowl and its attendant fronds and flowers, but his eye was too sharp for that. As he claimed her hand, she pretended to have forgotten. Just as the set was forming, she sent up a little prayer of gratitude that it was to be a country dance and not the too-intimate waltz.