by Lady Broke
Lily drew back, surprised by the tactic her opponent employed. She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s true,” Mr. Faircloth insisted. “From the moment I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman at the ball. Your gown was the most flattering blue — ”
“I wore red,” Lily corrected.
Mr. Faircloth blinked. “Oh.” He rested his elbows on his knees, his head drooped between his shoulders.
He was crumbling. Time to finish him off.
“Let’s talk about why you’ve really come, shall we?” Lily’s tone was pleasant, like a governess explaining something to a young child with limited comprehension. “You’re here because of my dowry, just like the other men who have suddenly found themselves stricken with love for me.”
“A gentleman does not discuss such matters with a lady,” Mr. Faircloth informed his toes.
“A gentleman,” Lily said archly, “does not concoct fantastical tales of undying affection in the hopes of duping an unwitting female into marriage. Tell me, sir, which son are you?”
“I have two older brothers,” he said in a defeated tone.
Lily duly made note of this fact on her paper. “And sisters?”
“Two.”
“Ah.” Lily raised a finger. “Already an heir and a spare, and two dowries besides. That doesn’t leave much for you, does it?” She tutted and allowed a sympathetic smile.
Mr. Faircloth shook his head once and resumed his glum inspection of his footwear.
“I understand your predicament,” Lily said. “And how attractive the idea of marrying money must be to a man in your situation.” She tilted her head and took on a thoughtful expression. “Have you considered a different approach?”
The gentleman raised his face, his features guarded. “What do you mean?”
She furrowed her brows together. “What I mean is this: Have you considered, perhaps, a profession?”
Mr. Faircloth’s mouth hung agape. He looked from Lily to Mr. Bachman, who sat back, passively observing the interview.
“It must rankle,” Lily pressed, “to see your eldest brother’s future secured by accident of birth, to see your sisters provided for by virtue of their sex. But do consider, my dear Mr. Faircloth, that younger sons the Empire ’round have bought commissions and taken orders, studied law or medicine, accepted government appointments. The time has come,” she said, pinning him beneath her fierce gaze, “for you to accept the fact that yours is not to be a life of dissipated leisure. Instead of hoping for a fortune to fall into your lap, your days would be better spent pursuing a profession.”
Mr. Faircloth wiped his palms down his thighs. “Miss Bachman, you’ve quite convinced me.”
She blinked. “Have I?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am well and truly convinced that marriage to you would be a nightmare from which I should never awake until I die. Sir,” he turned his attention to Mr. Bachman, “I see now why you offer such a large dowry for your daughter.” He stood. “It would take an astronomical sum to make the proposition of marriage to such a controlling, unpleasant female the slightest bit appealing.”
Lily’s mouth fell open. “Why, you — ”
Her father laid a restraining hand on her arm. Lily exhaled loudly and pinched her lips together.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bachman.” Mr. Faircloth inclined his head. “Miss Bachman.” He hurried from the parlor. A moment later, the front door closed behind him.
“Well!” Lily exclaimed. “Of all the sniveling, puffed up — ”
“You wore blue,” Mr. Bachman cut in.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Shervington’s ball. You wore blue, just as Mr. Faircloth said.” He stood and crossed to his desk, where he poured himself a brandy from a decanter.
“Did I?” Lily murmured. “I could have sworn I wore red.” She tapped a finger against her lips.
“No, darling,” Mr. Bachman said with a sigh, “you wore blue. I’m quite certain, because your mother fretted that the color washed you out and no gentleman would notice you.”
“Ah, well,” Lily said. She rose and briskly rubbed her palms together. “It doesn’t signify. One more Leech gone.”
Mr. Bachman’s chest heaved and heavy, graying brows furrowed over his dark eyes. “My dear, you cannot continue in this fashion. You know I’ll not force you to marry against your will. But marry you must, and it is my desire that your marriage elevate this family’s status.”
Lily straightened a pile of papers on the desk as he spoke; her hands paused at this last remark. Indignation mingled with hurt slammed into her like a physical blow. She idly slid a paper back and forth across the polished desk and kept her eyes studiously upon it as she recovered, hiding the force of her emotions behind a casual demeanor. However, she could not fully suppress the bitterness in her voice when she spoke. “Fortunate, then, that Charles died. A mere ensign and son of a country squire would not have provided the upward mobility you crave.”
Mr. Bachman’s glass boomed against the desk. “Young lady, guard your tongue!” Her eyes snapped to his mottled face. His own dark eyes flashed rage, and his nostrils flared. “Had poor Charles returned from Spain, I would have proudly and happily given you in wedlock. Indeed, it was my fondest wish to unite our family with the Handfords.”
A humorless laugh burst from Lily’s lips. Turning, she twitched her skirts in a sharp gesture. “A fact you made sure to educate me upon from the earliest. I spent the whole of my life with the name of my groom and date of my wedding drilled into my head.”
It was an unfair accusation, she knew, even as it flew from her mouth. Yes, she had been betrothed to Charles Handford since time out of mind, but for most of her life, it was simply a fact she’d memorized, along with the color of the sky and the sum of two and two.
There’d been plenty of visits with their neighbors, the Handfords, but Charles was ten years her senior and rarely present. Her earliest memories of him were his visits home from Eton and Oxford, or later, leaves from his lancer regiment.
Their betrothal only became more relevant as her twentieth birthday neared, bringing the planned summer wedding that was to follow on its heels — an event postponed when Charles’ regiment could not spare him, and which was never to be when he died that autumn.
The silence stretched while her father regained his composure. Gradually, the angry red drained from his face. “Now, Lily,” he said in a more moderate tone, “I’ll not be portrayed as some chattel dealer, looking to hoist you off without a care for your feelings. Since last year was your first Season — and you just out of mourning — I did not push the issue. I still wish you to make your own match. The only stipulation I have placed is that the gentleman be titled — either in his own right or set to inherit. Surely that is not too onerous? There are scores of eligible gentlemen to choose from.”
“I don’t wish to marry an aristocrat.” She dripped disdain all over the word. “They’re a lot of lazy social parasites, with a collective sense of entitlement, just like that last one — ”
Mr. Bachman’s brows shot up his forehead. “Lily!”
She ducked her head. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, abashed. “My mouth does run ahead of me — ”
“And it’s going to run you right into spinsterhood, if you don’t mind yourself.”
Heat crept up Lily’s neck and over her cheeks.
“Now, dear,” Mr. Bachman continued, “poor Mr. Faircloth certainly was here because of your dowry. It’s big on purpose, and no doubt about it. But he also knew what color gown you wore to a ball last week. Do you know the last time I noticed a woman’s gown?”
Lily shrugged.
“Thirty years or more,” Mr. Bachman proclaimed, “if, in fact, I ever noticed to begin with.” He lifted her chin with a finger. Lily raised her eyes to meet her father’s softened expression. “You are an exceedingly pretty girl — ”
“Oh, Papa … ”
Lily nodded hastily.
She happened to disagree with her father on the issue of her dowry. To Lily’s mind, the “right kind of man” would want to be with her, fortune or no. She thought of her dearest friend, Isabelle, Duchess of Monthwaite. Even though she and her husband, Marshall, went through a horrible divorce — reducing Isabelle to the lowest possible social status — they still found their way back together. Marshall didn’t allow Isabelle’s reduced circumstances to keep them apart, once they came to terms with their past.
For the thousandth time, Lily wished Isabelle was here. But she and His Grace were in South America on a botanical expedition-cum-honeymoon. They’d be home in a couple months, but oh, how time dragged when Lily so needed her friend’s advice.
Fortunately, Isabelle’s sister-in-law, Lady Naomi Lockwood, would soon be in town. She’d written to Lily that her mother, Caro, would be sitting out the Season to remain in the country — a singularly odd choice, Lily thought, considering the dowager duchess’ responsibility to see Naomi wed. Instead of her mother, Naomi would be chaperoned by her spinster aunt, Lady Janine.
Lily would be glad to see their friendly faces. She didn’t get on well with tonnish young women, and there was always the suspicion that men were only interested in her money. Lily often found herself lonely in the middle of a glittering crush.
“Are you attending?” Mr. Bachman said.
Lily blinked. “I’m sorry, Papa, what was that?”
“I asked,” he repeated patiently, “if you’ve decided on a project.”
Lily’s mood brightened. This was something she would enjoy discussing. “I have.”
“Excellent!” Mr. Bachman sat in the large armchair behind his desk, the throne from which he ruled his ever-expanding empire of industry. He moved the chair opposite the desk around to his side. “Have a seat, dear.”
Despite the tempest that had just flared between them, Lily felt a rush of affection for her dear father. Since she was a girl, he’d shared his desk with her. When she was young, he’d held her on his lap while he spoke to her about things she didn’t understand then — coal veins and shipping ventures; members of Parliament and government contracts.
At the time, it all blurred together into Papa’s Work. As she grew, she began to make sense of it all.
She understood now that all her life, he’d treated her as the son he never had, heir apparent to the name and fortune he’d made for himself. Never had he indicated any doubt in her capability or intelligence on account of her sex. He took pride in his daughter’s education, and emphasized mathematics and politics, in addition to feminine accomplishments such as drawing and dancing.
Just before they’d come to town this Season, Mr. Bachman presented Lily with a unique opportunity. He desired she develop a sizable charity project. He would fund her endeavor, but Lily had to do the work to bring her plans to fruition. She jumped on the proposal, glad for an occupation beside the ton’s vapid entertainments.
Mr. Bachman rummaged through a drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper covered with Lily’s neat writing.
“So, here is the list of ideas you began with. What have you settled upon?”
Lily pointed to an item halfway down the page. “The school for disadvantaged young women,” she said. “I should like to keep it small for now. Girls would receive a sound education, plus some accomplishments that would enable them to take positions as governesses, ladies’ maids, companions, things of that nature.”
Mr. Bachman cupped his chin in his hand and listened with a thoughtful expression while Lily enumerated her ideas for the school. When she finished, he slapped his fingers on the desk. “Marvelous, my dear.”
Lily swelled with pride at her father’s approval.
He took a fresh sheet of paper and jotted a note. “I’m putting my solicitor at your disposal. The two of you can select an appropriate property for purchase. Meanwhile, you also need to secure a headmistress, who can, in turn, hire the staff. You’ll need tutors, a cook, maids … ”
As the plan came together, Lily’s confidence in the project soared. There was nothing she could not accomplish once she knew how to approach a problem.
She kissed her father’s cheek at the conclusion of their meeting.
“Just think, m’dear,” he said on their parting.
“What’s that?”
“When you marry one of those lazy aristocrats, he’ll have scads of free time to help with your work.” He winked and patted her arm.
Lily scowled at his back. He seemed to think a man in need of her dowry would also, in turn, look kindly upon her efforts to care for those less fortunate than themselves. She snorted. Such a man did not exist.
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