Why can’t I just have managed an ordinary debut like everyone else?
Ordinary was an elusive dream for Jane. She’d had two disastrous Seasons with mishaps, misunderstandings, and a terrible knack for ending up leaning against wallpaper and studying empty dance cards. Jane didn’t lack confidence, wit or even a fair appearance but what she did lack was luck. Getting pulled into supportive schemes by her friends to further their hearts’ goals, she’d looked like a buffoon more than once, and when the universe compounded things with slick floors and a singular incident with a tray of lemon custard-filled tarts—Jane had begun to understand the allure of a nunnery. Every fanciful longing for a romantic waltz or chance encounter with a man who would immediately fall into a swoon at the sight of her had proven to be ridiculously laughable.
Though not from a lack of effort on my part…
Jane sighed, straightened her back, set her shoulders and knocked politely on the door before entering at her mother’s calm command.
“There you are, dearest! I was beginning to fear that I would have to send Irene to find you.” Lady Weston remained at her vanity and didn’t turn from the mirror.
Irene, her mother’s lady’s maid, smiled to see Jane and set down the hairbrush.
“That will be all, Irene.”
“Very well, your ladyship.”
As the maid closed the door behind her, Jane tried to hide her envy at the young woman’s escape.
“I wish father were here.”
Agatha sighed. “Please. I am struggling with my own sentimental weaknesses with his absence but your father’s business partners have no sentimental regard for family gatherings or the calendar so we must make the best of it, Jane.”
“Yes, Mother. I know.”
“And speaking of making the best of it, I want you to make a point of being vivacious, Jane.”
“I’ll be a meadowlark in a field of boring flowers. Or a bee…whichever seems merrier.”
Her mother cleared her throat before speaking again ignoring her daughter’s odd sense of humor. “By vivacious, I naturally wish to indicate a sparkling and interested presentation of yourself, Jane. Not a verbose one.”
“Yes, mother.”
“I am mortified at the chattering noise that young women of your age mistake for wit!” Her mother sat at her vanity table as primly as a queen, catching Jane’s eye in the mirror’s reflection. It was an old trick to address her directly, all the while with her back ramrod straight to deflect any notion that they were sharing a tender moment. When Jane was in trouble, this was generally the way of it. She had a lovely view of her mother’s back and the uncompromising lectures of a woman in a mirror. “As if men are to be won over by cavorting magpies and shrill giggles!”
“I don’t think I am necessarily prone to chatter or giggling, Mother.”
“Perhaps not giggling or social chatter but your opinions are too abundant, Jane, and you are too prone to sharing them on subjects that a young lady should have not even a vague concept about…much less be able to compose a firm treatise!”
“Is it not better to be impassioned about issues that matter most to—”
“It is better if you are seen more and heard less,” her mother said, before pressing her lips into a thin line of disapproval. “You are too pretty to be so…so…”
“Educated?” Jane supplied half-heartedly, but was rewarded by her mother’s instantaneous look of relief as if at long last, they understood each other.
“I told your father it was a disaster to impose more than a smattering of French and a bit of history on his daughters,” Lady Weston sighed. “But it is an impediment that I expect you to overcome, Jane.”
“Yes, Mother,” Jane answered solemnly.
If intelligence and a good education are impediments to a good match, I am doomed.
“Thank God, you are yet sweet enough to yield to a mother’s wisdom. I have it on the authority of her aunt that Elaine Wallace had four offers last Season. Did I tell you? Four. And do you know how she did it?”
Jane shook her head solemnly. She did not know Elaine Wallace and therefore didn’t know how Elaine Wallace had four offers last Season and the strength to summon interest in the answer was almost more than she could manage.
Luckily her silence was interpreted as compliance, and her mother continued with her matronly enthusiasm unabated. “She did it by not speaking more than six words the entire time she was in company! Every man was enthralled at the mystery of her shy magic and in love with the very notion that he might have a wife who would have to be coaxed to speak above a whisper.” Her mother abandoned the ritual of mirrors and shifted on her seat to face Jane. “I think it was a strategy, Jane. A winning strategy! And one I am contemplating with earnest attention.”
“I do not know Elaine Wallace personally but I am familiar with my own character and can assure you that I am not capable of pretending to be mute in order to secure a husband. I am sorry, Mother.”
“Well, perhaps not.”
“Mother, I am as anxious as anyone to—I want nothing more than to please you and make you proud.” Jane took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “But can we not trust this to fate?”
“No, we most certainly can not!” Her mother abandoned her seat at the vanity table altogether and stood, a general inspecting her troops. “You are far prettier than Miss Wallace and I cannot speak for her hidden depths since they were invisible to me but I am vexed that my own daughter is staring over the precipice of spinsterhood and can barely stir herself to do more than trust in fate? Hear me, Jane. Providence may be many things but kind to women who fail to make a good match, I should say not!” Her mother’s stern expression faltered, her eyes taking on a sheen that betrayed her kind nature. “I cannot bear to think of you alone and…unhappy, Jane.”
“I won’t be! I am not unhappy and I—I will make every effort to make a good impression next year when we go back to London.”
The pressure of it made her want to scream but Jane forced herself to smile. Next year would be her third year in the arena of social crossfire and she was no fool. One mediocre Season as a debutante without a single offer might be seen as a fluke or a touch of poor luck. Two proposal-less Seasons and a young woman’s eligibility was in serious jeopardy but still a thin thread of hope might be allowed that her mother’s heart might yet be unbroken. But three?
Three left no room for Providence. If next spring followed the same pattern as her first two Seasons, she would be irrevocably doomed to start scanning widowers, fortune hunters, and the lackluster leftovers of her peers.
Jane let out a slow breath and tried to sound more convincing. “Next year, I will not fail.”
The Countess nodded, her self-control returning. “Don’t wait for next Season. This house party is a good chance for you, Jane. Though you are not the only eligible young lady in the gathering, I expect you to keep an eye on your future. Do not be so quick to stand aside for your friends, Jane.”
Jane said nothing. She adored her friends and their alliance had been forged through years of shared experiences, outings, and the closeness of all their families. They’d supported each other’s struggles to carve out what freedoms they could with the restrictions of overprotective mothers and the rules of society that made the turn of a parasol a matter of life and death. Jane simply wasn’t going to promise to put her happiness before Pru, Letitia or Winnie. She loved them like sisters and failed to believe that they had to treat each other like rivals and enemies just because they were “out”.
Besides, her problem hadn’t been not shining amidst her peers and holding her own.
It had been Jane’s personal failure to spot a single man worth the fuss. The most handsome or debonair in society had all seemed already preoccupied or taken, and the vapid suitors fishing for her substantial dowry had left her wishing she’d left off reading so many novels. Apparently her standards were a little unrealistic when it came to men.
Drooping eyelids and bad breat
h do not a husband make!
“Jane?” her mother prompted. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Let your friends fend for themselves. I wish you to make the most of every moment by behaving like the most perfect, well-bred young lady that has ever pulled in English air. Do you hear me? Not a wobble, Jane!”
“Not a wobble.”
“Lord Athmore arrives in two hours and then our party is nearly complete. I have never met him but your father insisted on the invitation. The others are settling in, and before dinner tonight we’ll have our first true gathering,” the countess announced calmly. “I am most impressed with my friend’s dear son, Viscount Munthorpe, and also with Mr. Chance, who are both particularly eligible. I cannot think why one of them wouldn’t do for you, dearest.”
“How in the world is one man particularly eligible?” Jane asked and immediately wished she hadn’t spoken. “I meant it’s rather…like saying one is particularly alive or particularly dead? Or…” Jane’s speech trailed into an awkward silence. “Not a wobble,” she whispered. “I apologize.”
“Good. That’s my beautiful girl!” She reached out to gently grasp Jane’s shoulders. “I have something for you.”
She released her to open her vanity drawer and retrieve a small folded pouch of black velvet with ancient embroidered gold ribbon to hold it closed. “Here.”
Jane opened the pouch to reveal her great-grandmother’s silver filigreed amethyst hair comb. It had long been her mother’s most prized sentimental possession and had graced her mother’s head only at the best functions or at private family celebrations. Jane’s breath caught in her throat as it gleamed in her palm. “Mother!”
“I’d meant to hold it back until your wedding day but now I think it will bring you luck, dearest.” Lady Weston held it up to let the light bring every faceted lavender gemstone to life. “I want you to wear it and know that I have faith in you, Jane.”
It was all she could do to nod.
“See how lovely it will look in your hair?” Lady Weston sighed as she held it up to Jane’s dark gold curls. “You are irresistible!”
Jane caught sight of her reflection in the vanity mirror and did her best to smile.
If by irresistible she means tidy, I think it’s a lovely compliment. A little too tall but good lines. No freckles despite a terrible habit of forgetting parasols. Nice eyes. Not ‘particularly’ anything despite Mother and Father’s high opinions of the length of my nose.
Jane turned back to her mother. “It means the world to have it—the comb and your faith.”
“Go change for tea and see if you cannot play hostess in my stead and keep the bachelors entertained. I will await the earl and ensure that he is greeted and settled properly, and then tonight at dinner, our strategy unfurls!” Lady Weston clasped her hands together. “You will be vivacious and say as little as possible!”
Jane blinked, managing a nod. Arguing against the odds of being silently witty seemed a doomed choice. Her mother’s happiness was too precious to risk the application of logic. Better to make an escape before the smiles faded. “I will see you at dinner tonight then.”
She left before her mother could say anything else.
One thing was certain.
Unless we are playing a good amount of charades this Christmas, I am in terrible trouble.
Snow began to fall in powder-light swirls that dusted the landscape in a gentle veil of crystal. It would have been a pretty display if Nick had managed to look out the carriage windows. But as the wheels slowed on the approach to the great country house, the bravado that had carried him this far was fading fast and the Earl of Athmore was wishing himself a thousand miles away.
The carriage stopped and his valet alighted first, immediately directing the footmen regarding his luggage and positioning himself to give his employer and friend a familiar face to focus on as he climbed down.
Thank God for Sanders.
Like a man stepping into battle, Nick ignored fear and moved numb legs forward to survey the field.
“Lord Athmore,” the Countess of Weston greeted him as she stood in the doorway of the house shielded from the snowfall. She held out her hands to guide him inside, her butler stepping forward along with the footmen for the rituals of a gentleman’s arrival. “What a delight to have you here!”
He touched the rim of his hat and meant to say something about the delight being mutual but nothing made it past his lips. The failure made his anxiety rocket into a nauseating icy spiral. Hell, if I can’t greet one stranger how in God’s name will I get through this?
“Was your journey tolerable? I was so worried about the roads in this wintry weather,” she said cheerfully as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in his awkward silence. “But what is Christmas without snow?”
Nick took a deep breath, wincing at how dry his mouth was, his throat closing, and noted the change in Lady Weston’s expression as confusion entered the fray.
Her butler emerged to oversee a guest’s arrival. “I am Teller, the butler. May I take your coat, your lordship?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare but Nick seized on it as a demonstration that he could still talk.
All he could taste was fear. The butler’s neutral expression only amplified Nick’s internal misery, aware that he was being weighed and measured—and found wanting.
The countess’s look of worry began to border on pity. “Is everything all right?”
Sounds of conversation and laughter drifted out from the library, and Nick’s chest tightened at the threat of being politely pushed into a room full of unknown souls. The eminent disaster when he mutely nodded through introductions, forgot every name and bungled his chances at normal was unmanning. Constance’s taunt came back to him and his self-control fractured into a sickening twist of ice and heat under his skin.
Nowhere to hide. And…nothing to say.
His eyes cut over to his valet in a subtle bid for rescue.
“Pardon me, your ladyship, your sympathetic instincts are a godsend,” Sanders said as he stepped forward, breaking protocol. “The roads were a nightmare even if my employer is too polite or proud to admit it.”
Nick sighed. “A chance to refresh before—”
“Oh, you poor man, you are done in! Teller will lead you upstairs to your rooms, and I’ll have a tea tray sent up with some lunch.”
“Thank you,” Nick said, giving in to the easiest course that would get him to a sanctuary away from the party. The butler led the men up to a large guest bedroom and Nick eyed the comfortable space with complete relief. A large paned window provided a view of the beautiful grounds in winter, and there was already a fire in the fireplace to add to the space’s warmth and charm. He headed straight for the window to turn his back on the butler and allow Sanders to manage things.
“Thank you, Teller. I’ll see to things from here.”
“Of course. Ring if the earl requires anything.”
The butler retreated and Sanders closed the door quietly behind him, then made quick work of the unpacking to give Nick time to regain his equilibrium. John Sanders’ family had been tenants of Hawkings Manor and died in an epidemic when John was sixteen. But Nick’s father had seen to his education and care and brought him into the house as a footman. The boys had become friends, breaching the barrier between class, and when Nick came of age, it was John he’d promoted to become his valet and shield from the world.
“How bad was I?” Nick asked without turning around.
“You were brilliant, your lordship.”
Nick pivoted back, a man in no mood for falsehoods. “Brilliant? The part where I forgot how to talk? Or the part where I nearly threw up on the woman’s shoes?”
“You looked brave in the face of cannon fire from where I was standing.”
“Oh, God. That was my hostess, Sanders. If that’s cannon fire, I’m not going to survive the war.”
“Your lordship, have I ever told y
ou how my grandfather won my grandmother’s hand?”
“No.” Nick pressed his lips into a thin line, unsure if he was up for a story. “I appreciate where you might be going with this but I fail to see how—”
“He won her without a single word.”
“What?” Nick folded his arms defensively. “How?”
“Deeds. My grandmother’s family lived hand to mouth but they were proud. My grandfather was just a soldier come home to work his own father’s trade as a stonemason, but he spotted her in a churchyard carrying lunch to the men working on repairs and that was it. One look and it was all my grandfather needed. He bent his every thought, his every action to winning her. Her favorite fruit in a basket by her door, her path cleared, he even put pretty carved stones and bits of shaped glass on the walls where he knew she’d pass, and learned to play her favorite song on a flute he made himself.”
“Very sweet.” Sanders continued, undeterred. “Whenever she looked up, there he would be—humble hat in hand, trying to meet her gaze, his heart in his eyes.”
Nick shook his head and smiled. “At some point, he had to have said something, Sanders. Women do not marry men who simply look at them. No matter how many gestures they make, friend.”
“You’re mistaken, your lordship. He handed her his proposal on paper, a handwritten bid for happiness with the God’s worst spelling ever scrawled by a man and she accepted. Her father consented and they never knew a day of strife between them if the family tales are true. He won her without a single word spoken.”
“Impossible.”
“Not so!” Sanders looked affronted, the very guise of innocence.
“Pardon my skepticism, but we’ve been friends since we were fifteen and this is the first time you’ve spun this yarn? I appreciate the effort in fiction but you and I both know that your grandfather was not so shy and won a wife without speaking to her.”
“He lost his tongue from an infected war wound when he was sixteen. He was mute.”
“Truly?”
“I’d have told you before but…what need you of such stories about simple country folk?” Sanders smiled. “A man with your advantages of title and fortune? Truly?”
A Very Matchmaker Christmas Page 18