Authors: Beverley Oakley
* * * *
“What do you think of these?” Lady Brightwell waved a pair of York tan gloves at her eldest daughter from the other side of the shop. “Without waiting for a response, she said to the assistant, “We’ll have two pairs. Fanny, try them on for size…oh, and perhaps the lilac, too. They’re very fetching and will brighten up your newest muslin.”
There was no time for a new gown but Lady Brightwell was finding far greater enjoyment than Fanny in spending the money Lord Slyther had provided for a few accoutrements for his intended. It was not the August heat that made Fanny feel like a wilting dandelion. It was late afternoon on the day following the Earl of Quamby’s ball and she’d heard nothing from…
Closing her eyes and clutching her reticule as she steadied herself against the counter beneath a hanging display of shawls, she forced herself to silently finish the sentence—the man who’d stolen her heart
and
her virtue.
No! The truth, Fanny.
The man to whom you’ve
given
your heart and your virtue.
Certainly, she’d not disclosed her address but they had sufficient mutual acquaintances that it would not be difficult to locate her.
She noticed her mother looking oddly at her as she glanced up from perusing a selection of fans.
Fanny forced a smile. “I thought Antoinette and Bertram would be here by now.” Rousing herself, she looked around as if for her siblings, when in truth she was hoping beyond hope to see Lord Fenton passing by the window in the midst of Oxford Street. The busy shopping quarter was teeming but she could see no sign of anyone who bore any resemblance either from the back or from the front to the man who made her pulses race—nor anyone who could rival him in looks and presence. With a sigh, she peeled off the gloves she’d just tried, nodding to the shop assistant that she’d take them. “You must watch Antoinette, Mama,” she said. “Bertram is not a suitable chaperone, for he’ll let her go wherever she chooses. Besides, I’ve never heard Antoinette profess the desire for a long walk before. I’d wager she’s gone to meet someone and is hoping Bertram will make himself scarce.”
Fanny’s concern was hardly allayed by her normally exacting mother’s reply.
“Once you’ve wed Lord Slyther, my darling, I’ll pay more heed to Antoinette—though our troubles will be over then.”
For a moment, Fanny was afraid her mother was going to embrace her right there in the shop. At least Lady Brightwell’s anger over the postponement had abated. What was a short delay when the day after next Lady Brightwell would see her ambitions realised? Her daughter would be wed to a titled man of fortune.
Lady Brightwell tapped one of the fans, indicating to the assistant that she’d take that, too. Looking extremely satisfied, she said, “I think a treat is in order, Fanny. An ice at Gunter’s after your siblings appear, perhaps?”
A treat?
Fanny was in no mood for treating herself after the events of last night. She’d treated herself at Lord Quamby’s, treated herself to the heated kisses and the hot and humid embrace of muscled, manly flesh, and now it appeared she’d completely miscalculated.
Oh, dear Lord
…
She closed her eyes briefly and concentrated on holding back the nausea. She had only ulcerous sores and limbs of white, marbled fat flanking Lord Slyther’s all-too-enthusiastic Magnificent Member to look forward to.
“Are you all right, Fanny?”
Fanny forced a smile.
“You groaned.” Her mother took her wrist, the smile that brightened her face so at odds with her usual sour expression. “Later, after we visit Gunter’s, we must talk. You’re to be married soon and there are some things I need to tell you”—Lady Brightwell rarely spoke so kindly but she did so now, her tone low in their deserted corner of the shop—“about what to expect.”
They were near the door, the obsequious shop assistant wrapping their purchases, when Antoinette and Bertram rushed in. Their handsome faces were flushed and showed signs of barely tempered exertion or excitement, very different from the usual languor displayed by world-weary Bertram.
“Mama! Have you heard the news?” Antoinette’s eyes were like saucers; Bertram looked green around the gills. It was he who clapped his hand over his sister’s mouth, muttering, “Not here, Antoinette. Have you no sense of decorum?” before discreetly ushering his mother further from the curious looks of the assistant. Fanny followed. This was most unlike her brother.
“What news?” Fanny tugged at Bertram’s sleeve, for now he was gaping like a fish, unable to say what Antoinette had been about to say so peremptorily.
“Lord Slyther’s dead.” Antoinette’s voice shook. She looked uncertainly at her mother. “Of a stroke…around midday, I overheard it said.”
Relief was Fanny’s immediate reaction. Relief that they were in a public place so her mother could not beat her over the head with whatever object came to hand, and relief that salvation had come before it was too late.
Lady Brightwell put her hand to the wall to steady herself. The blood drained from her face while her eyes blazed like they were being stoked by the fires of Hell. Fanny’s joy at her reprieve was tempered somewhat by the observation. Her mother was never going to forgive her unless she succeeded with Lord Fenton.
By all the saints in Heaven, though, she was!
“Mama, you need to sit down.” Fanny’s tone was soothing, as if her first concern was her mother, but when she laid her hand upon her mother’s sleeve Lady Brightwell shook it off.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed. She drew a staccato breath. Fearfully, her children watched while they formed a barrier to potential interest from other shoppers. Like a spider about to strike, Lady Brightwell glared at Fanny from the shadow of her bonnet as she tossed her tippet around her neck and stepped forward. “Stupid, stupid girl, Fanny! You’d be a widow right now if you’d played your cards right and all our fortunes would be made. But no, you were too precious and too
selfish
to do what was required.”
Antoinette and Bertram looked downcast. Shuffling one foot over the flagstones, Antoinette ventured, “I saw Mr Bramley today and he was very attentive. I’m sure he’s going to make me an offer and as he
is
the Earl of Quamby’s heir—”
“Shut
up
, Antoinette!” Her mother rounded on her. “You understand nothing of the ways of men. You think because you are loose and obliging with your affections that a wedding band will secure the deal?” She shook her fist at her youngest. “They’ll be only too delighted to secure their pleasures without having to negotiate a marriage contract with ticklish family who consider there are better contenders than the Brightwells. You are, there’s no getting round the fact”—the substance appeared to drain from her and she slumped against the wall—“not every designing mama’s dream.”
Chapter Seven
Lady Brightwell was in no mood to accept the various attempts made by her offspring to paint their circumstances more rosily. In the bleak hues she had cast over their futures, ‘Fanny’s gross selfishness and disregard had ruined those who had sacrificed everything on her account’.
“Fanny will find another brilliant match, Mama,” Bertram generously predicted as Lady Brightwell directed her three children—in clipped tones and with a brow as glowering as they’d ever seen—to arrange for a conveyance to take her home.
To Fanny’s relief, she had acquiesced in allowing the rest of them to walk, provided they return directly to their dingy residence, but she was in no mood to be mollified by Bertram.
“You’re as much a foolish optimist over your sister’s prospects as you are over your fortune at the gaming tables, Bertram,” Lady Brightwell snapped, slapping away his hand as he solicitously tugged her skirt clear of the door of the hackney.
“Really, Mama, you all but forced the match upon her,” he persisted, unperturbed by the set-down.
“Did it never occur to you that your folly is as much a reason why your sisters must accept unpalatable alliances as your father’s impecuniousness?” Lady Brightwell slammed the door and glared out of the window before rapping on the roof for the jarvey to take up the reins.
Antoinette had by this stage lost a little of her usual effervescence. “I’ve never seen Mama quite so angry,” she said as the three of them set off along the pavement.
It was a lovely day and Fanny had used the excuse of needing the good air in the hopes of spying Lord Fenton. Her distracted answer obviously needled her sister who said, “Perhaps Mama has good reason to be angry with you after all, Fanny—for all that I sympathise—since you
could
have been married in the morning and a widow by noon if you’d simply done what was required.”
“I’d have been a widow before the wedding breakfast was digested,” muttered Fanny in disgust, “if Lord Slyther had tried to have his way with me. Ugh.” She shuddered. “Then I’d have had to wear widow’s weeds for a year and how do you suppose that would have advanced my chances?”
Bertram looked quizzically at her. “Surely it wouldn’t have mattered, Fanny, since you’d have inherited a fortune? Lord Slyther had no children. I can see why Mama is down in the mouth.”
“Fanny wants to marry Lord Fenton,” Antoinette said matter of factly. “She thinks he’s going to ask her in the next few days. That’s why she’s not concerned by what’s happened to Lord Slyther.”
This came as such a shock to Bertram that he dropped the monocle he was using to ogle the passing young ladies.
“Marry Lord Fenton?” He gawped at his sisters as if the idea were preposterous. “My, you’ve aimed high this time. I mean, after Alverley, surely—”
“Lord Fenton thinks Fanny”—Antoinette giggled behind her hand— “highly desirable.” Fanny rounded on her with a glare before she continued. “And, after the way they carried on at Lord Quamby’s, I’d say there’s every chance he’ll make her an offer before tomorrow is ended. Isn’t that what a gentleman
has
to do when he compromises a lady?” Antoinette tossed her pretty head, more concerned with the interest she was receiving from the passing males than her sister’s patent horror.
“What are you saying, Antoinette?” Fanny felt about to swoon on the spot.
Antoinette wrapped a ringlet around her finger as she turned her dazzling smile upon her sister. “Just that I saw you and Lord Fenton when you thought you were alone and I realised that you were tricking him into having to make you an offer. That is when I realised that I, too, could be as clever, and why I agreed to slip away with Mr Bramley this morning.” She looked smug as she took Bertram’s arm. At his look, which was more quizzical than Fanny’s scandalised horror, she added gaily, “Mr Bramley isn’t nearly as nice as Lord Fenton but he
is
Lord Quamby’s heir.”
* * * *
What Lord Fenton felt upon reflection on their incredible union, Fanny had no idea. Whether he felt tricked—as Antoinette regarded it—or whether he was at that moment pondering his obligations towards Miss Brightwell, he had not yet been galvanised into letting her know his intentions. He owed her
something
, surely—a word of reassurance at the very least? But no word came all that long evening, or even the next morning.
Just before noon, the parlour maid appeared bearing a silver salver on which lay an elegant cream wafer. Fanny cried out with relief as she snatched up the correspondence, but her desperation turned to abject misery as she turned the missive over and handed it to her sister.
“From Mr Bramley,” she whispered, feeling akin to some pathetic creature slinking into a chair with its tail between its legs.
Gaily, Antoinette scanned the few lines. “Can I go riding with Mr Bramley in his high-perch phaeton this afternoon, Mama?” she asked.
Her mother did not look up from her stitching. Wearily she said, “I see no harm in it,” adding with a sigh, “I see no harm in anything anymore. Once the lease runs out on this place, we’re all doomed.”
Fanny felt doomed already. Dazed, doomed and undecided as to what course she could take. Two days had not yet passed. She couldn’t behave like some eager strumpet and demand her beloved explain himself—not when she couldn’t very well explain her own actions.
She hadn’t even the heart to reiterate her warning to Antoinette about her suspicions that Bramley was only using her—though she did mutter, “Be wary and don’t go off with him alone.”
She felt a fool for miscalculating so badly—like a traitor to her family and, worse than that, like she carried a great hole in her heart.
So Antoinette went riding, returning full of glee owing to the admiration she’d received from all quarters. She was flushed and as pretty, Fanny reluctantly conceded, as she’d ever seen her. Antoinette, her pea goose of a sister, was either going to ruin them all or win the marriage Fanny had failed to secure, which would ensure their mother’s eternal devotion.