The Matchmaker's Marriage

by Meg Alexander

  Amy coloured slightly. ‘You are generous, Mr Skelmersdale. I had thought that perhaps you would think me ungrateful and puffed up with pride.’

  He understood her perfectly. ‘Because you refused our Fred? Nonsense! If you’d taken him I’d have thought you empty in your upper story.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Short on sense, miss, which I see that you are not. Yon laddie fancies himself a gentleman. He don’t see that there’s more to it than strutting about like the cock of the walk and chucking his brass around.’ George Skelmersdale looked his disgust. ‘I’d think better of him if he’d taken an interest in the mills, but that won’t do. He wants the money, but he despises them as earns it.’

  ‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ Amy said kindly. ‘No one could possibly despise you, sir.’

  ‘No?’ His tone was ironic. ‘Well, here he comes. He ain’t given up all hope of you, I think. Don’t be persuaded, lass.’

  ‘No, I won’t!’ Amy’s smile was warm. She could guess what it had cost this proud little man to warn her against his own son, but George Skelmersdale would never be less than honest. Now his face was inscrutable as Frederick joined them.

  He nodded to his father and turned to Amy with an arch enquiry. ‘Now, what can you two good people have found to talk about, I wonder?’ he asked.

  ‘We wuz discussin t’cotton trade,’ Mr Skelmersdale said bluntly. ‘This lass wanted to ’ear ’ow I got started. She knows the old sayin’ “Where there’s muck there’s brass”!’

  Frederick stiffened and a glance at his face showed Amy that he was pale with mortification.

  ‘Miss Wentworth cannot possibly be interested in trade, Father. I am surprised that you should think it. Doubtless she was being polite, but I must hope that you have not given her the headache…’

  Amy’s temper flared, but she kept her countenance. ‘Fortunately I do not suffer from headaches, sir. Your father has been explaining matters of great interest to me.’

  Frederick gave her a patronising smile. ‘Too kind! Will you not confess it, ma’am, that before tonight you had not heard of the cotton trade?’

  Amy stared at him. ‘Of course I had. Where do you suppose our muslins and cambrics come from?’

  George Skelmersdale snorted with laughter. ‘There, lad, are you answered? You’ll not put one over on this young lady. Now stop behaving like the cock of the midden! You ain’t forgot that we once lived in a ginnel, I hope?’

  Amy noticed to her amusement that his northern accent had broadened to the point where it was almost unintelligible to her, but Frederick understood it well enough. Incapable of speech and white with fury, he turned and left them.

  Her companion’s eyes were twinkling, but Amy shook her head in reproof.

  ‘You are a wicked creature, sir! Now your son’s evening will be quite ruined.’

  ‘Serves him right! He wants taking down a peg, and you are the lass to do it, I believe.’

  Amy shook her head again, but she was laughing. ‘What is a ginnel?’ she demanded.

  ‘’Tis just a little alleyway…’ He gave her a mischievous look.

  ‘I see. And your home in the North is in this “ginnel”, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, not exactly…’ he admitted.

  ‘Sir, you are a fraud! I’m beginning to suspect that you own half of Lancashire. Is that not so?’

  ‘Only the half that ain’t owned by Lord Derby, ma’am.’

  Amy’s peal of laughter brought Charlotte to her side.

  ‘Father, are you teasing again?’ she reproached in an affectionate tone.

  ‘Oh, aye! I’m disgracing myself as usual, and in for a roasting when we get home, I expect.’

  Charlotte looked so anxious that he patted her hand. ‘Now, don’t you worry about your pa,’ he said. ‘’Tis water off a duck’s back, as well you know.’

  ‘Dear me, that sounds familiar! I suspect that you have found a kindred spirit, Mr Skelmersdale.’

  Amy turned to find that James was smiling down at her, but he addressed himself to Charlotte’s father.

  ‘Has Amy been telling you of our expedition, sir?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m well in the picture, Sir James. Charlotte speaks of little else. You and Sir William…well…I’m grateful to you two gentlemen and envious too. Such grand lasses as you’ll have to help you!’

  Charlotte was blushing furiously. ‘Papa, please! We…I mean, I know nothing of archaeology.’

  ‘You’ll learn,’ he comforted. ‘Blest if I won’t have a bluestocking on my hands in time…’

  ‘Never say so!’ Charlotte glanced nervously towards her mother, but that lady was busily engaged in making a mental inventory of everything in the salon, from the exact shade of the paint upon the walls, to Miss Langrishe’s choice of carpets and curtains.

  ‘And your furniture, ma’am?’ she gushed. ‘It is, of course, craftsman-made?’

  ‘I’m pleased that you like it,’ came the polite reply. ‘We are fortunate in this country, are we not, to have such makers as Chippendale and Hepplewhite?’

  ‘Naturally!’ Mrs Skelmersdale’s eyes were everywhere. ‘And such porcelain and the pictures! Did you employ a man for the interiors, or did you collect these things yourself?’

  ‘I inherited most of them. Some are family heirlooms—’

  ‘Oh, I see! Your own heir will be happy indeed.’

  Frederick thought it time to intervene. ‘I wonder that you have not brought a notebook, Mother,’ he hissed in an undertone. ‘For heaven’s sake, be quiet!’

  She gave him an injured look, and was about to reply when dinner was announced.

  To her horror Amy found that Frederick was seated beside her. A mute appeal to her aunt brought a look of apology, but the order of precedence dictated that Miss Langrishe should have Sir William at her right hand, with Mr Skelmersdale to her left. Sir James might have insisted upon that favoured place in view of his title, but Miss Langrishe had had a private word with him. Now, with the best grace in the world, he took a seat between Mrs Skelmersdale and Charlotte and prepared to entertain his companions.

  Amy resigned herself to an hour or two of heavy-handed compliments and sexual innuendo. She could only hope that the presence of his father on her other side would persuade Frederick into better behaviour.

  For a time she imagined that this was so. Frederick was unusually silent. Then she realised that he was watching his mother closely. He had already warned her that to comment upon the excellence of the food and the wine would be a social gaffe and in the worst possible taste.

  He could not prevent her eager examination of the fine silver, the engraved glass and the decorated porcelain.

  Charlotte was squirming with embarrassment, fully expecting that her mother might so far forget herself as to read the name of the maker upon the underside of her dinner-plate with a view to ordering a similar service for her own use.

  This disaster was avoided by the appearance of the first course, a delicately flavoured soup that the genius in the kitchen believed would appeal to the ladies. Timbales of macaroni à la Napolitaine provided more solid fare for the gentlemen in the party.

  Amy waved hers away. She had seen the menu and knew what was to follow. Even her own healthy appetite was likely to flag when faced with five or six courses. She managed a little of the fish course, but refused the sautéed pheasant that followed.

  Unwisely, Frederick felt obliged to take her to task.

  ‘Come, Miss Wentworth, this will never do!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have not eaten enough to keep a bird alive! You have no need to starve yourself, even in the cause of beauty.’

  Amy could have struck him. He had not troubled to lower his voice and now all eyes were upon her. She was about to answer him in no uncertain tones when his father leaned across her.

  ‘Let the lass alone, my boy! Miss Amy knows what she likes and she’s entitled to her choice. No need for her to worry about her looks. She’s the bonniest young
creature I’ve seen in years.’ He turned to Miss Langrishe. ‘Well, ma’am, I don’t know what you’ll give us next, but I’ll tell you now that I ain’t dined as well as this since I came down from Lancashire.’

  This forthright statement reduced his son to silent fury, but Miss Langrishe beamed at the compliment.

  ‘I count myself fortunate, sir. My chef has been with me for years. I live in dread that someone will tempt him away.’

  ‘Then pray don’t invite the Regent to your table, ma’am!’ James was twinkling at her. ‘He will stop at nothing in pursuit of the finest food and wines.’

  The mention of the heir to the throne succeeded in turning the conversation into other channels. The Prince’s debts, his extravagance, his treatment of his wife, and the generally held suspicion that he was a bigamist had made him one of the most unpopular men in England.

  ‘Is it not rumoured that he is now so fat that he needs a special hoist to lift him into the saddle?’ Mrs Skelmersdale enquired. A malicious smile played about her lips. It seemed only fair that those of royal blood should suffer like the rest of humanity.

  ‘Alas, he rides no longer, ma’am,’ James replied in sombre tones. ‘He is a sick man, and rarely appears in public as he cannot walk well and must go about in a small wheeled contrivance.’

  ‘Well, sir, you will not claim that he doesn’t deserve his fate?’ Mrs Skelmersdale returned to the attack. ‘This must be the future for those who indulge in gluttony.’

  It was unfortunate that this stern pronouncement coincided with the appearance of a splendid side of roast beef, flanked by several dishes of buttered vegetables, and an array of sauces. Everyone smiled except for Mrs Skelmersdale and her sullen son.

  ‘Ma’am, you are putting me to shame!’ Miss Langrishe said lightly. ‘Perhaps some of us are guilty of the same indulgence where our appetites are concerned.’

  ‘I was not referring to present company.’ Mrs Skelmersdale flushed. ‘I hope you will not think it.’ Clearly she was uncomfortable and Amy took pity on her.

  ‘One must feel sorry for the Prince in some degree,’ she ventured. ‘Was he not said to be the handsomest of men in his youth? He must feel sad indeed to find himself in his present state of health.’

  ‘You’ve got it to rights, Miss Amy. I saw him at Bright-helmstone in the eighties, when ’e were in ’is pomp. A finer figure of a man I never did see…tall, ’e were, and slim, wi’ a skin as fine as any lady.’ Mr Skelmersdale beamed upon the company with a mischievous wink for Amy. Both he and she had noticed Frederick’s shudder.

  Amy frowned at him, but her eyes were laughing. ‘Don’t tease, you wicked creature!’ she whispered. ‘Now, tell me, very quietly if you please, what do you mean by “in his pomp”?’

  ‘Keeping me in order, miss?’ he replied in the same low tone. ‘You’ve a job on, I can tell you! Well now, you might say that “in his pomp” translates from the Lancashire into “in his prime”.’

  ‘But you couldn’t say so? Sir, you are a terror!’

  ‘It takes one to know one, lass! Bless you, you are a tonic and that’s a fact. I’m that sorry…but there, we’ll say no more on that score. You’ll look out for my girl, I know, and that must be enough for me.’

  Amy smiled her agreement, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The large mahogany dining-table stood on a single pedestal, leaving room for the guests to sit in close proximity.

  Suddenly she became aware that Frederick had moved his chair closer to her own and that he had pressed his leg against the length of hers. Then she felt a foot caressing her ankle. Frederick had slipped off his shoe and was using his toes to grip her flesh.

  Amy felt trapped. To move her own chair would draw attention to herself. She threw him a furious look, but he bent his head close to her own.

  ‘You want it, don’t you?’ he whispered. ‘Never deny it, Amy. I won’t believe you! That mouth, those eyes belie your missish ways. When will you cease to torment me?’

  With an effort of which she had not supposed herself capable, Amy kept a smile upon her lips. Then she too bent her head.

  ‘If you continue to annoy me, sir, I shall tip my wine into your lap.’

  ‘You would not dare!’ he blustered.

  ‘Try me! It will be an accident, of course. I shall be the first to apologise.’

  He could be in no doubt that she meant it. He withdrew his foot and shuffled his chair until there was a little distance between them, but the look he gave her was not pleasant.

  Still trembling with rage, Amy glanced across the table. No one seemed to have noticed anything amiss except for James. He was half out of his chair and wearing an expression which boded ill for Frederick Skelmersdale. Amy glanced at his face and was afraid. Something had flared behind his eyes that she had not seen before. With an effort she forced a smile. Then she shook her head and James sat down again.

  The evening was turning into a disaster. Suddenly Amy longed for the meal to end. She could not touch the syllabubs, the creamy custards or the floating islands of meringue that preceded the savouries.

  It was a relief when Miss Langrishe signalled the ladies to retire, leaving the gentlemen to their port and their cigars. It was left to Charlotte to comfort her.

  ‘Papa has enjoyed himself so much this evening,’ she said shyly. ‘In the usual way we cannot persuade him to take an interest in Bath society. You like him, Amy, don’t you?’

  ‘I wondered where you had been hiding him, you naughty creature. I like him very much. He is a perfect dear. Won’t you persuade him to visit us more often?’

  ‘I wish I could.’ Charlotte’s face was wistful. ‘Things are very different when he comes down from the North, but sometimes he cannot be spared from his mills.’ She looked across to where her mother was engaged in an animated conversation with Miss Langrishe.

  Amy guessed from her aunt’s expression that the subject under discussion was not to that lady’s liking. She linked arms with Charlotte and went to join the older women.

  ‘Ruined! Quite Ruined!’ Mrs Skelmersdale was saying with evident satisfaction. ‘She will never be received again. I can only sympathise with her parents, though they can do little for her now.’

  Miss Langrishe noticed Amy’s puzzled look. ‘We are speaking of Miss Phoebe Challoner,’ she exclaimed. ‘You know the story, Amy?’

  ‘Why yes, was she not abducted by some gazetted fortune-hunter?’

  ‘She was!’ Mrs Skelmersdale hesitated. ‘Such matters are unsuitable for a young girl’s ears, but perhaps it will be a warning to both of you never to be led astray in this disgraceful way.’

  Amy stared at her. ‘If Miss Challoner was abducted, she cannot have had much choice in the matter,’ she announced. ‘She, at least, cannot be thought to be at fault.’

  ‘I fear that you do not understand, Miss Wentworth. The guilty couple were not discovered until the following day…by then, of course, the damage was done.’

  ‘Do you mean that she was raped?’ Amy asked bluntly. ‘Why should you think her guilty? The man must have forced himself on her, rather than the other way about.’ Although she was incensed by such injustice she was tempted to smile at the look of horror upon Mrs Skelmersdale’s face.

  No woman in that lady’s circle would have dared to speak so openly of what had occurred, though there was much salacious speculation among the gossips.

  Since she seemed about to clap her hands over her daughter’s ears, Miss Langrishe felt that it was time to intervene.

  ‘Will you ring for the tea-tray, Amy dear?’ she asked. ‘The gentlemen will be with us shortly…’ She was hoping against hope that Charlotte’s mother would let the matter drop, but Mrs Skelmersdale was not to be denied.

  ‘Your views are unusual, Miss Wentworth,’ she announced stiffly. ‘Yet you will not refute that for any girl this can only be described as a fate worse than death?’

  ‘I don’t think that at all,’ Amy threw caution to the winds. ‘I believ
e that many things must be worse…the death of a child, for instance, or the loss of any loved one. How does a person recover from that, or even from some dread disease?’

  Mrs Skelmersdale seemed about to faint. She flushed and then grew pale. For the moment she was robbed of speech. Miss Amy Wentworth might be a useful connection, with her entrée to the highest circles in society, but clearly she was well on the road to ruin. Had Sir William not shown some interest in her daughter she would have insisted on removing Charlotte from such free-thinking influence. Now she thanked heaven that the creature had refused her son. The girl was a monster of depravity.

  She thought of a dozen crushing replies, but by that time her quarry was out of reach. Amy had moved across the room to ring the bell for tea. Her only resort was to speak to Miss Langrishe.

  ‘Your niece is mighty outspoken, ma’am,’ she said stiffly. ‘I had not thought to hear such views expressed by a young girl.’

  ‘I expect that Amy was thinking of Sir James,’ Miss Langrishe soothed. ‘He suffered a sad loss, as you must know. It affected all of us. He found it difficult to recover, and Amy is so fond of him. She would like to see him happy again, as would we all.’

  ‘I see!’ Mrs Skelmersdale would not be mollified. The evening upon which she had based her hopes was turning into a nightmare. Her husband had disgraced her at the dinner-table, not troubling to conceal his lowly background, and commenting with enthusiasm upon the excellence of the meal. Even her beloved Frederick was sulking. She had seen the change in him as the meal progressed. The Wentworth chit must have said something to upset him. At that moment Mrs Skelmersdale longed for nothing so much as the opportunity to box Amy’s ears.

  Only the sight of Sir William making his way to Charlotte’s side restored a little of her composure. Such a dullard! These aristocrats believed that they need make no effort to be sociable, she thought scornfully. Thick-skinned as she was, she had seen his glazed expression when she’d tried to entertain him with the latest gossip. Well, it did not signify. Let him but offer for Charlotte and he might be as dull-witted as he wished. Nothing could be more comforting than the prospect of becoming the mother-in-law of one of the richest men in England.