A Lady's Choice

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “But she cannot go riding alone,” their mother pointed out, straightening and glaring at his lounging pose. She was not a tall woman, but her posture was erect and her mien forbidding. She was always perfectly dressed and coifed, and she expected no less from her children. “We are all going to Lady Marrowby’s, I assure you. There is no sense in riding in London anyway, until she has some acquaintance to meet at the park, some eligible acquaintance!”

  “But, Mother,” Haven began, sitting up straighter.

  “No!” The woman held up her hand, her word final. “Pamela must meet eligible beaux if she is ever to contract a desirable marriage. It is all very well for you, Haven; you are betrothed, and to the young lady I picked out, may I remind you. But your sisters are not getting any younger. Would you have them alone and unhappy after I am gone? What are you thinking?”

  “Rachel and Pamela will never be alone, Mother; they will always have me,” he said, his voice hard.

  “Do you truly want your sisters to grow old and ridiculous like Andromeda Varens?”

  It was a final blow and Pamela could see in her brother’s eyes that it was a telling one. Andromeda Varens, Colin’s older sister, was a spinster of what was politely referred to as “a certain age,” meaning she was over thirty. Where Pamela saw Andromeda’s distinct quirks as interesting and amusing, others just saw her as an aging spinster, firmly on the shelf and pitiful. Haven had become increasingly uncomfortable in Andromeda’s presence before his recent engagement, since the woman had fixated on him as her only possible beau and had made a couple of clumsy attempts to entrap him into a marriage proposal.

  “Pamela,” he said with a gusty sigh. “Perhaps it is best if you go to Lady Marlby—”

  “Marrowby,” his mother corrected. She went back to her vase, pushing it a fraction of an inch closer to the center of the table, than standing back to see the affect of the alteration.

  “—Marrowby’s this afternoon. You can go riding tomorrow.” He shook out his newspaper, threw himself back in the chair and was lost in the agricultural news.

  “But . . .” Pamela looked from her brother to her mother, but there was no aid in any quarter.

  “No ‘buts,’ Pamela,” Lady Haven said, crossing the room and looking her daughter over. “Get dressed for an afternoon out. That new light green, I think. I wish your grandmother had not interfered. I thought the pink was much more becoming, and in the design I favored, but she would have her say.”

  • • •

  Lady Marrowby’s townhome was everything Haven House was not; it was gracious and airy, bright and beautifully furnished. Light streamed in floor-to-ceiling windows, and white paneling expanded the sunshine throughout the room. And the woman had excellent taste in company. The cream of society was there, well-fed, well-feted, most of them happily regarding each other in self-congratulatory bliss.

  The dowager renewed very old acquaintances, while Jane renewed a few not-so-very-old ones from her previous Seasons. Rachel, in her element, made conquests, and their mother made connections. Pamela just made faces.

  The reading was poetry, and she loathed poetry. But she would have gone through the afternoon much better if she didn’t keep looking at the mantel clock, counting the hours as they chimed and knowing that Strongwycke and Belinda were just arriving at Hyde Park . . . had waited for her . . . had given her up . . . were riding . . . and now were likely on their way home, exchanging bitter views on the flighty and irresponsible Miss Pamela Neville.

  “Is something wrong, Pammy?” Jane, elegant in pale blue silk cut low, displaying her plump bosom and shoulders, put her arm around Pamela and squeezed.

  “Nothing that anyone can help me with,” she replied, sighing. She shifted awkwardly, finding even the light stays considered appropriate for her uncomfortable. The lively green color of her dress, trimmed with an embroidered pattern of ivy leaves, was well enough, she supposed, compared to the gaudy pink fright her mother had wanted made for her. It was one of the very rare occasions when Lady Haven did not prevail, and Pamela was grateful for her grandmother’s exquisite taste. Her mother, for some reason, though she had impeccable taste for her own clothing, had no idea how to dress her youngest child. Gloomily, she said, “Why must Mother control everything so?”

  Jane followed Pamela’s gaze to Lady Haven, who was monopolizing their hostess; Lady Marrowby, a sweet, motherly woman, had no idea how to escape the older woman’s clutches.

  “I think it is likely,” Jane said, “that she has always felt second best to Grand.”

  Pamela, startled, met her future sister-in-law’s gaze. “Do you think so?”

  “It has occurred to me.” Jane threaded her arm through Pamela’s. They stood at the back of a few rows of chairs facing the fireplace, while a young man, pacing back and forth by the mantel, nervously shook out a long sheet of paper, clearing his throat preparatory to his oration. “Your grandmother is a formidable force of nature. I can only imagine what it must have been like when your mother married your father and moved into Haven Court.”

  Pamela chewed her lip. “I’ve never thought of it that way. You’ve only known them a few weeks. How did you figure that out?”

  “I didn’t; I am just guessing. But I don’t have a lifetime of being accustomed to their quarrels to blind me.” Jane smiled and squeezed the younger girl’s arm again, then released her. “I love Grand, but she would be hard to take on as a mother-in-law. I would be terrified. In a way, I admire your mother for always being willing to confront her. It can’t have been easy.”

  Pamela thought about it for a moment. “You’re right. No one opposes Grand except Mother.” She watched her mother for a moment, how she held Lady Marrowby’s arm in an iron grip while that lady desperately looked around the company for a savior.

  “That doesn’t solve your problem though, does it, whatever it is?” Jane said.

  Hesitantly, Pamela confided her dilemma; she confessed her early morning ride, in breeches, and her memorable encounter with the gentleman, Strongwycke, and his niece. “And they will have gone home now, and think I am a complete flibbertigibbet.”

  “And that matters to you?” Jane’s soft voice was barely audible over the droning tones of the reader, who was torturing an epic poem of his own creation, entitled Ode to a Prince. It appeared that the long sheet was only the first stanza, for a young woman seated nearby handed him a second page.

  “Yes, it does. If you could have seen that poor girl’s face, how it lit up at the idea of an afternoon ride, and how her uncle shouted at her so.” Pamela shook her head. “And I promised! I never break my word.”

  Jane examined her face, and then said, “And what was the gentleman’s name again?”

  “He introduced himself as Strongwycke,” Pamela said, all the misery of her forced abandonment of her new friends suffocating her again, as she thought of Belinda and her uncle and what they must now think of her. “I don’t know what else he is called.”

  Jane elicited a description, and then parted from her young sister-in-law-to-be. Pamela was her favorite, as she was Haven’s. And just as Grand did, Jane worried that Pamela’s unrequited love for Sir Colin Varens would blind her to any other man who might show an interest in her. But here was a man in whom Pamela seemed, even if she didn’t know it herself, to be interested.

  Crossing the room to where the elegantly gowned Grand sat in state, in the most comfortable chair available, Jane bent over her and asked a question. The old woman frowned and thought for a moment. Then her blue eyes, so like her grandson’s, blazed with interest.

  “Strongwycke? Let me think.” She tapped one crooked finger against the chair arm. “There is a Lord Bercombe, the sixth Earl of Strongwycke, a Cumbrian title, I believe. There cannot be more than one Strongwycke, can there?”

  “I don’t imagine. Can you mine your acquaintances and find out?” Jane glanced across the room at Pamela; the girl looked so alone and bereft. “There was something in her tone of voice that
I found revealing. I can’t say for certain, and I am sure she is not aware of it herself yet, but I think she was attracted by Lord Strongwycke. If he should be of the right age and eligible . . .” She didn’t need to finish her statement.

  The dowager nodded. “Good work, child. Let me do some gossiping and I shall find out more.”

  “Good. Now I suppose I must go forth and socialize.”

  “Do not make it sound like it is such a chore, child.” The old lady’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement. She had revivified with the energizing London atmosphere of afternoon visits and balls and company. The city had changed in the many years since she had last graced its drawing rooms and parlors, but people, for all the different fashion of clothing they now wore, were still people. She was finding endless amusement in their vanities and scandals.

  Jane sighed as she straightened, patting out the wrinkles in her blue silk. “It is a chore.” She didn’t share the dowager’s enjoyment of human intrigue and frailty. Perhaps it was just that she had spent far too much of her life in drawing rooms, listening to gossip. From London to Brighton to Bath, she knew this life only too well. Life in Yorkshire had all the novelty of newness, as well as suiting her temperament better. She had always longed to live a simpler life in a cottage in the country, and Haven had promised her a cottage of her own as a wedding present. All of her eager anticipation was dwindling, though, in the unhealthy London atmosphere, to a suspicious doubt of it ever actually happening. Or at least in the way she so fervently desired, marriage in the Lesleydale chapel and a fortnight in their private cottage, shut away from his interfering family.

  London was no fit place for humans, Jane thought. But while she was immured in the awful old town, she would do what she could for others. She made her way across the room to their hostess, intent on rescuing her from Lady Haven’s single-minded absorption. Delicately, skillfully, she detached the younger lady from the older, pointed Lady Haven in the direction of another acquaintance, and chatted to the grateful Lady Marrowby.

  But all the while she was mulling over her own unhappiness.

  It had all happened so quickly, and she supposed that was the problem. There was a brief, delirious happiness when she and Haven had become engaged, and then suddenly, before she had time to come to terms with her new status as a bride-to-be, she was thrust back into a milieu she knew too well and detested, the artificial world of “society,” with all that implied. Idle chitchat, poseurs, frauds and gossip.

  If only she could summon up even a modicum of enthusiasm for the Season. But all Jane knew was that only three weeks after coming to an understanding with her intended husband, a man she had thought to despise on sight, and finding that not only was he the perfect husband for her, they were also in agreement on so many things, including their preference for country life over city, she was plumped back down in the middle of everything she disdained.

  And she was so very lonely.

  Even as she chatted with her hostess, smiled and greeted others, listened with what she hoped was an intelligent look on her face, she was lonely. Now that they were in London, Gerry was busy all the time, having decided to make the most of the London trip with meetings and purchasing trips and a thousand other incomprehensible business ventures. She was still deeply in love with him, but wondered if he was ever going to defy his mother and put his wife-to-be first. Was this a portent of their life together? Would she always come second?

  She braced herself with a stern inner resolve. She was a fortunate woman, and somehow, everything would turn out for the best. She would find a way to manage her fiancé, would return to Yorkshire to get married and be happy. In the meantime, if she could act as a cupid for her favorite sister-in-law-to-be, Pamela, then at least the weeks in London would be put to good use.

  But first, there was this recitation to be gotten through, and then an evening’s entertainment at the theater. One more long London day.

  • • •

  Evening was closing in. As his valet pulled the curtains of his bedchamber closed against the deep purple of twilight, Strongwycke straightened his cravat and gazed at himself in the mirror, not to admire his valet’s work, but to make sure he was correct in every way, not a fold out of place, nor a stray hair. One’s position in society very much depended on presenting to the world a correct face, it seemed to him, emotionless and proper. He had been young and carefree once—was that only a couple of years ago?—but now knew that life was a grim and sober affair. The only pleasure lay in doing one’s duty and doing it well.

  This evening’s theater engagement did not promise to give any pleasure, but the gentleman who had given the invitation was a valuable government ally, so Strongwycke knew he must present his best face. He must be charming but not too forward, agreeable but not obsequious, relaxed but not informal. He well knew the drill.

  And yet . . . even as he asked his valet to fetch his greatcoat and hat and stick, his mind kept wandering back to the afternoon ride with his niece. The disappointment on Belinda’s face when she realized that her new friend was going to disappoint them was heartbreaking. He could have told her Miss Neville wouldn’t remember their engagement. The girl was clearly flighty at best, wild at worst; totally unsuitable for any kind of acquaintance, especially with his impressionable niece.

  So why had he agreed to her invitation to ride? Had it only been the look on Belinda’s face as she talked with Miss Neville, the first time he had seen her eyes shine since her parents had died almost a year before in that dreadful coaching accident? Or had it also been something gallant and adorable in the young Miss Neville’s expression?

  Not that she attracted him. She was clearly too young, not looking even sixteen with her cropped locks and slender frame. And that outfit! He shuddered, hoping Belinda didn’t get any ideas about riding in breeches.

  He tapped on the door of his niece’s sitting room and opened it. Miss Linton, the governess he had hired, was sitting with Belinda by the fire and reading from a history book, but his niece was clearly not listening. She had been staring gloomily at the blaze and dully looked up, meeting his gaze with a listless apathy that tore at his heart.

  He entered and crouched by her chair. “I’m off now.”

  “To the play?”

  He nodded. “Would you like to go to the theater sometime?”

  “I suppose,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  He sighed and longed to reach out, to touch her unruly drift of dark hair, but they were not on those terms. If he could find anything she would look forward to, anything that would make her happy—but there was nothing. She spiraled daily between this dreadful apathy and bitter anger, with little ground in between. He stood and nodded to the governess.

  “I must be off, then. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow morning, Belinda. Shall we go riding again, another lesson?”

  “If you like,” she said, turning away.

  He departed without another word. There was nothing left to say.

  He stepped up into his elegant coach and rapped on the roof to signal his readiness to his driver. If this theater invitation had not been extended to him as a very great favor, he would much rather have stayed by his own fireplace in his comfortable study. But as it was, he must suffer a play he had seen before and disliked, and then consume a late dinner at his mentor’s home.

  Lord Fingal, who had offered the invitation, considered him young, Strongwycke knew. As he was just barely thirty, many of the older men thought he needed more seasoning. But the marquess was impressed by Strongwycke’s oration in the House and had hinted that the future belonged to such men as the youthful earl. If he wanted that future. He leaned his head back against the cushions, longing suddenly for the green valleys and tumbling gills of his Cumbrian home, Shadow Manor.

  When had he left behind the love of his home, the devotion to his people and his land? Was it when Euphemia and her husband died, leaving him the caretaker of their headstrong daughter? Or was it even befor
e that, when Dorothea, the love of his life and his fiancée, had abandoned him for a better catch? And was he making the grave error of staying in the very place that could never soothe the pain of all that tragedy?

  He straightened as the coach slowed. They were close to the entrance of the theater, and he must assume the correct attitude and demeanor of a gentleman worthy of Lord Fingal’s regard, which meant none of his turbulent emotions must show on his face. He must put aside all his worry and deny his grief. He had become proficient at that, at the very least. He entered the theater and made his way to Lord Fingal’s box.

  “Ah, here is the last of our party,” Fingal said, greeting him with a smile and an outstretched hand.

  Strongwycke moved into the box and greeted the other gentlemen, all selected for their promise as the next wave of power in the Whig party. As the favored son of the moment, he sat by Lord Fingal, an elderly man with an irascible temper and declining mental powers.

  The play was a comedy, but Strongwycke found nothing new to laugh at in the antics of the lovers, as sorry a pair as he thought he had ever seen. It hadn’t been amusing the first time he had seen it; a second viewing couldn’t improve it. And so his attention wandered to the other boxes, lit individually by lamps that glowed softly, shining on the beautiful fabrics of the ladies’ garb and swallowed by the dark clothing of the gentlemen. In the not-so-distant past gentlemen had been as gorgeously arrayed as the ladies, but in a relatively short period styles had changed so much, and now proper men’s wear was mostly a sober color like dark green or blue, or the most elegant of all, black. Thank the good Lord above, he thought. He couldn’t see himself in blue embroidered silk and holding a fan, his face painted and patched.