A Sisterly Regard

by Judith B. Glad

  "George, say it, straight out!" There was an unusual sharpness to Mama's voice.

  "Very well. Ahem. Reginald Farwell has asked for your hand. Told him it was up to you, but gave him my permission to ask you." His words came out in a rush and he scowled as he spoke.

  Phaedra gaped.

  "Say something, girl. Don't just sit there with your eyes boggling out of your face."

  "Hush, George. Give her time to take it in."

  Her mind spun. She could not move. Finally her thoughts stopped tumbling over and over and sorted themselves into a fantastical sort of sense. Reginald Farwell has asked for your hand. Reginald Farwell has asked for your hand. Reginald Farwell has asked for your hand. Reginald Farwell...

  No!

  She burst into tears. Mama came to kneel on the floor beside the chair and embraced her.

  "Hush, my dear, hush," her mother crooned. "If the notion makes you so unhappy, you need only refuse him. Hush, now. Calm yourself." She continued in this vein for some minutes until Phaedra gained a measure of control over her wayward emotions.

  "George, please ask Edgemont to fetch some tea."

  Papa snorted. "Tea! Nothing restorative about that. She needs stronger medicine."

  Phaedra heard the sound of glass clinking on glass. In a moment, Mama held a fragile snifter to her lips.

  "Sip this, my dear, slowly. It will make you feel better. No," she said as Phaedra tried to pull away from the strong fumes, "take it. Just a few sips. There. Now sit quietly until you feel more calm." She moved back onto the sofa and accepted a glass for herself.

  Phaedra was aware of a warm sensation in her midriff within a few moments of drinking the brandy. She took several deep, shuddering breaths. Her thoughts were no longer going 'round in circles, but instead seemed to be mired in something sticky, for they would not move through her mind.

  "Mama," she said in a croaky voice. She cleared her throat. "Mama, did Papa really say that Reggie--that Mr. Farwell..."

  "Yes, love, he wants to marry you. Is the thought so repugnant to you?"

  "I was sure no one would ever offer for me. They were all hanging after Chloe. Are you sure he asked for me?"

  "He did, by name," Papa said. "Happened on the way to find Chloe. Told me that he'd been thinkin' on it for a couple of weeks."

  "There must be some mistake."

  "No mistake. He wants you."

  "Why are you so convinced it is a mistake?" Mama said. "Mr. Farwell always seemed to prefer your company to that of Chloe's,"

  "We forever argue when we are together. Or he lectures me about my 'intellectual pretensions'. I was sure he held me in dislike."

  "Likes you well enough to want to marry you," Papa said.

  She knotted her hands in her skirt, twisted. When Mama reached to soothe, she let go, lest she damage the fragile muslin. "Mama, I cannot marry him. I do not love him. He is nothing but a fashionable fribble, a fop. How I could live as he does, going from one fete to another, spending most of the year at house or hunting parties or in London?" Again Mama caught her hand, to the benefit of her gown. "We would not suit, not at all. We have nothing in common. Nothing."

  "He told your father that he had come to care for you, because of your kind heart and your sensible outlook." Mama tilted her head up with one finger under her chin. "Phaedra, are you sure? He seems a nice enough young man, and he says he cares for you."

  She shook her head. The reason for Mr. Farwell's offer had just occurred to her, but she did not wish to speak of it to her parents. They were upset enough over Chloe's recent escapades. "Quite sure. I am sorry, Papa, for I know you wish me to marry, but I do not love him." She would never admit that her words had engendered a sinking sensation in her middle.

  "Balderdash, girl. You would learn to."

  "I doubt it. But even if I thought there was a possibility that I might, I would not wish to take the chance. I want a marriage like yours and Mama's, and will not settle for less, even if it means I shall never marry."

  "Well if you won't have him, you won't, and that's that," Papa said, with regret thick in his tone. "Too bad. Got to like him while we were looking for Chloe. Competent young man, even if he dresses like a fop."

  "You must be mistaken, Papa. Reginald Farwell is a useless, hedonistic, snobbish clothes horse. His only competence is in being a decorative addition to a ballroom or a drawing room." Phaedra could not understand how her father could have received such a misleading impression of Reg...of Mr. Farwell..

  Mama spoke before Papa. "Enough, Phaedra. You are still overset. Go to your room now, and rest. We will inform Mr. Farwell tomorrow that you do not wish to consider his suit."

  "Oh, would you, please, Mama? I do not even wish to see him. Not now." She yawned. "I think I will rest, for I did not sleep well last night. I am sorry to disappoint you, Papa. I truly do not wish to be a burden upon you." She left the room hurriedly, needing solitude to contemplate this latest information.

  * * * *

  "Well, wife?" Lord Gifford said, after they were alone. "You were right. She doesn't want him."

  Isabella shook her head at him, more a gesture of disappointment than disagreement. "I knew she would not have him, not at first. He has given her no time to learn to know him, and he has managed to offend her nearly every time they have spoken. I myself am not sure that I would wish her to marry someone like Mr. Farwell. Their interests are far too divergent. I wonder what he sees in her?"

  "Told you. He likes her kind heart and her sensible outlook. At least that's what he told me."

  "That is not enough to base a marriage upon." She raised a hand when he opened his mouth to argue the point. "No George, you know it is not. There must be joy in each other's company, not merely admiration of character. You know, I do not always admire your character, my dear, but you always bring me joy."

  Lord Gifford finally ceased his pacing and sat beside her, putting his arm about her shoulder. "While I, my love, always admire yours, as well as having joy in your company." He nuzzled her neck. "Confound the girl! How many offers does she expect to receive, that she can refuse this one with hardly a thought?"

  Isabella shivered, but pushed him gently away. She had to convince him that Phaedra knew her own mind. "She will probably receive several. Phaedra is a delightful person in her own right, particularly when she does not stand in Chloe's shadow."

  "Offers from elderly widows, artists, penniless writers, more than likely," he snorted.

  "Not if I have my way. I will not allow her to forego all of Society's entertainments, no matter how she pleads. We brought her to Town to be seen by eligible gentlemen, and I will continue to ensure that she is."

  "Will she be tarred with the same brush as Chloe, do you think?"

  "No, I do not. So far she has taken well. Not spectacularly, but there is certainly interest aplenty in her. Even that dreadful lady Everingham has said she is nicely behaved."

  "Well, I don't like it, but I'll leave you to settle her then. Still think Farwell's the man for her, though."

  Satisfied she had won the concessions she needed for today, she laid her head on his shoulder. "George, I am truly in need of a nap."

  "And do you wish company, my lady?"

  "You know I do," she replied, as she pulled him to his feet. "Let us stop acting as parents and take joy in each other's company."

  * * * *

  Phaedra, upon reaching her bedchamber, found herself too overwrought to sleep. She removed her dress and curled up in bed, but her eyes remained open and her body tense.

  Mr. Farwell--Reginald Farwell, useless but decorative man about Town--had actually asked for her hand in marriage. Even if made for all the wrong reasons, she, Phaedra Estelle Hazelbourne, had received a bona fide offer.

  Chloe had been wrong, after all. She was not to receive offers only from widowers wanting mothers for their children. A member of the ton had asked for her. Never mind that he was an absurd fop and cared nothing for intellectual pursuits
, never mind that he did not love her, but only admired her kind heart and sensible outlook--he wanted to marry her. She would cherish his offer all her life, because he was at the forefront of Society, a fact that had initially made her question Society's collective wisdom.

  Phaedra had always compared herself to Chloe. How could anyone notice her beside someone so bright, so personable, so...so lovable? Particularly, how could someone so much a part of Society as Reginald Farwell consider her, a plain gray dove rather than a bright peacock, as a wife?

  She had secretly agreed with Chloe, that she would eventually marry someone older, more settled. Someone staid, for anyone exciting and interesting would not be interested in her. She had almost resigned herself to remaining unmarried, even to receiving no flattering offers.

  But someone had offered for her. Not a sober, settled older man, but a Pink of the Ton, a graceful, handsome, polished man. That he dressed in outrageous fashion...that he fell asleep whenever the conversation bored him...did either matter? He had asked for her hand, and she would always treasure the gesture. Oh, she was grateful to Mr. Farwell, even knowing she could not be the sort of wife he wanted.

  If only I could love him.

  She tried to imagine him kissing her the way she had seen Papa kissing Mama on rare occasions when they thought themselves unobserved. Long ago she had decided that she wanted that kind of loving passion for herself, even though the very thought of having a man's hands on her body sent embarrassing waves of heat through her.

  No, I simply cannot imagine doing that with Reggie Farwell.

  Yet the very thought of his lips touching hers, warm and intimate, brought a strange, fluttery sensation to her middle.

  Phaedra forced herself to stop indulging in silly, romantic fantasies. She told herself that Mr. Farwell's offer had nothing to do with her more sterling qualities. It stemmed from pity, pure and simple.

  As a long time member of the haut ton, Reggie Farwell was, probably more than most, conversant with gossip and rumor. Surely Lady Everingham's evil tongue had not confined itself to Chloe's reputation, but had attacked hers as well. Since she and her sister were so similar in appearance, they were often thought of as being just alike. Thus, if Chloe's reputation was in tatters, so must hers be. Society would not care that she was the sensible sister. She would be considered as shameless--no, have the word with no bark upon it--as wanton as her sister.

  Those three friends of Wilderlake who had seen Chloe in the inn had assumed her to be a cyprian. They would not keep silent, she was certain. Chloe had vowed that the one called Colly had been quite aware of who she was, for she had danced with him at their come out.

  So. Mr. Farwell had offered for her in order to save her reputation, knowing that no one else would care enough to do so. She did not understand why he, with whom she had ever disagreed, had done so, but she appreciated his kind gesture.

  But marry him? She could not.

  How could she ever love such a man, with his garish clothing and his mincing manners, and most of all, his sleepiness? And what did she know of him, after all? He had spoken of hobnobbing with Mr. Brummel, of attending house parties at various estates, and of hunting with the Quorn.

  Her father must have been satisfied with his prospects, or he would not have considered Mr. Farwell's suit. Papa would never allow one of his daughters to marry where she would not be comfortably situated, though he would not demand a vast fortune. No matter. Mr. Farwell's life style could never be hers, and that was the end of it.

  She forced her eyes closed and tried to sleep, but the same thoughts kept scurrying about in her head. Reginald Farwell wants to marry me.

  She did not love him. She would not marry him.

  Reginald Farwell wants me.

  She finally drifted into sleep, but her dreams were uncomfortable. She awoke with a splitting headache when Cousin Louisa tapped on her door.

  "Your mother thought you might wish to stay in your room tonight. She and your father are doing so." Cousin Louisa set the tray on a table near the window.

  "Oh, thank you. I could not have faced Papa tonight. He is so disappointed in me. Did Mama tell you?"

  "She told me this morning that your father had received an offer for you and that you would probably refuse. I take it you did?" Cousin Louisa held a dressing gown out for Phaedra to don.

  "Yes. Did she tell you from whom?"

  "She did not have to. I have been expecting Mr. Farwell to offer for you for some time."

  "How did you know? I mean, he gave me no indication that his intentions were such. Cousin Louisa, the man hardly spoke to me but to criticize what he called my intellectual pretensions. We disagreed every time we met."

  "That was why," came the answer. "When he woke enough to dispute with you, I was sure he was interested. My late husband knew Mr. Farwell when he was at Eton. He was vastly amused with the young man's predilection for napping whenever he wanted to avoid a situation." She smiled, as if she shared her husband's amusement. "I never saw Mr. Farwell show so much animation with other young ladies as he did when you and he were brangling, even though he flattered them effusively and was all that was polite."

  "But he is such a useless, fashionable person. I know we should not suit, even if I were to learn to care for him!"

  "Of course not, my dear. I was not trying to change your mind. I merely told you of my observations. Here. Come and eat. After a good, substantial supper, followed by a hot bath, you will rest very well. Tomorrow will be better."

  She pushed Phaedra unresisting into the chair she had pulled to the table. Lifting the covers, she revealed a large platter of thick cream soup, a dish of spiced applesauce, and a buttered muffin. "I told Cook that you would not wish anything heavy. I will put the teapot on the hearth so it will not cool while you eat. Good night, my dear."

  Phaedra ate with relish. After she had cleaned the tray of edibles, she poured herself a cup of tea and sat musing. Perhaps she was being unfair to refuse Mr. Farwell's offer out of hand. Would he consider waiting for an answer until they were better acquainted?

  No. That would not do. She did not love him and they had nothing in common. But still... She toyed with the notion of asking him to wait for an answer.

  When her bath arrived, she was no closer to a decision. The dilemma kept her from relaxing completely in the tub of warm water. The problem was, she finally admitted to herself, that despite all the very good reasons why she should do so, she did not really want to refuse her one and only offer out of hand.

  Despite her confusion and indecision, Cousin Louisa's prescription for a good night's sleep must have worked. When she finally climbed into her warmed bed, she fell asleep immediately and slept the night through, with no bad dreams.

  * * * *

  By the time Lord Wilderlake and his new lady wife reached Claridge's Hotel, Chloe was more than a little apprehensive. She realized she knew nothing about this man who she had married, except that he was handsome, thoughtful, quiet, and moderately wealthy. On the short trip to their night's lodgings, he had been polite, excessively so, she thought.

  Perhaps he is as anxious as I. Oh, no, how could he be? He is a man.

  She dutifully explored and admired the suite that her new husband had engaged for their wedding night, until she came to its single bedchamber. Her polite smile froze on her face as she stood in the doorway of the room in which she was to share a bed with this stranger. Suddenly his dark face and lowering brows seemed threatening, and she shrank away from him as he stood behind her looking into her nuptial chamber.

  Wilderlake, too, was suddenly aware of the lack of a second bedchamber. He had not specified a larger suite. Now he wished he had. As he stood behind this stranger whom he now called wife and looked into the elegant bedchamber, with its silken white hangings and its immense bed, he became aware of Chloe's withdrawal. Feelings hurt, he said, "I have arranged for one of the hotel maids to assist you, my lady. I shall retire to the lobby until you are settled. P
lease send for me when you are ready to dine." He bowed to her and hurried to the door.

  He found a chair in a corner of the lobby and threw himself into it. Calling a footman, he requested that a bottle of brandy be brought to him. My God, what have I done? We are practically strangers, and she is afraid of me.

  Alternately regretting his chivalrous gesture and wondering how to go about bedding his wife, he sipped at the strong spirits until a footman informed him that his wife desired his escort to the dining room.

  He could think of nothing more unnerving than to sit in a public room among strangers, while he dined for the first time with his wife. He arranged for dinner to be served to them in their suite. "Oysters," he said, remembering what he had heard about their effects upon manly prowess. "And champagne, let there be champagne." He quickly listed several other dishes that were to his taste, and added, "Bring sweets too. Something a lady would choose."

  Satisfied with his own cleverness and fortified with bottled courage, he made his way carefully to the stairs. When he knocked on the door of their suite, Chloe opened it.

  Wilderlake stalked into the room with careful dignity. He looked his new wife up and down, then awkwardly enfolded her in his arms.

  Chloe, smelling brandy on his breath, drew her head away. His arms tightened, pulling her against his hard body. "My wife," he muttered. "Got a right to kiss my wife." He found her mouth and pressed his lips against it.

  Chloe had been kissed before. She considered herself quite sophisticated. But this was nothing like the gentle kisses she had hitherto experienced. His lips were open on hers and his tongue probed at her sealed lips.

  "You reek of brandy." she cried, jerking her head to one side. "No! Let me go!"

  Undaunted, he nibbled at her earlobe, sending little shivers along her spine. Confused, embarrassed at the strange, new feelings his touch engendered, she once again attempted escape. But her arms were pinioned between them and she was his captive.

  He returned to her mouth and probed her lips with his tongue.

  She sank her teeth into his lower lip.

  "Ow!" he yelled, releasing her. Blood welled from his lip. He held his hand against the wound for a moment, then pulled it away, staring at the glistening stain on his fingers. "You little vixen."