“We’re fine,” said Philippa. “The squab makes sitting still for three hours somewhat bearable.”
Mother’s elbow ground harder into her ribs.
“That’s…wonderful,” said Lord Dalrymple. “I always say, a fine lady should be placed in a fine perch.”
“Like a chicken?” asked Philippa.
Her mother’s elbow was definitely going to bruise her.
“You look lovely today,” Mother cooed at Dalrymple. “Is that a new hat?”
Who cared if it was new or not? Eighty-three percent of the men present wore exactly the same hat. They were all copying each other, now that Brummell had fled to France.
Philippa was half convinced these promenades were just an excuse to while away the time for people who had nothing better to do at home. She calculated the probability of connecting with another human in any meaningful way while trotting about in circles to be abysmally close to none.
“Itisa new hat,” said Lord Dalrymple with obvious pride.
“You look impossibly handsome,” Mother gushed, giving Philippa an extra jab with her elbow. “Doesn’t he, darling? What wide shoulders and a strong jaw.”
Philippa tilted her head to consider him.
She supposed he looked good. All gentlemen looked…tolerable.Theywere not the problem. Philippa was. She and her mother could agree on that much at least.
“You look like a print from a fashion repository,” Philippa said.
Perhaps it was not the fluttery, gooey singsong Mother had hoped for, but Lord Dalrymple seemed pleased.
“That is whatIsaid to my valet just this morning. I could be in a Cruikshank.” He puffed up his chest.
Was Philippa supposed to be attracted to a puffed-up chest? Was he crowing like a cockerel because he thought Philippa was his future hen? Was that the real reason for feathers in one’s bonnet? To signal which species of bird one was playing at?
“Bok-bok-bok,” said Philippa.
Lord Dalrymple blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“She said your valet is fortunate to gaze upon your visage every day, and she hopes to see you next Saturday at the Rosbotham soirée,” Mother said quickly.
This was a gross mistranslation of Philippa’s chicken noises.
“I…may attend,” said Dalrymple, backing away. “I see someone up ahead. Good day, ladies.”
“What is wrong with you?” Mother hissed. “He isunmarriedand anearl.”
Dalrymple was also not yet far enough away for this comment to go unheard. He glanced over his shoulder.
Philippa flapped one of her bonnet feathers at him.
The earl fled without a backward glance.
“You must waltz with him at the soirée,” said Mother. “And flirt properly this time.”
“I don’twantto dance with a man who aspires to look like a caricature,” said Philippa.
Her mother sighed. “I thought you were clever, darling. Is the world truly so difficult to understand?”
No. That was the problem. Philippa understood perfectly well what her role was destined to be, and the steps to take to achieve it.
Be an obedient daughter. Follow society’s rules and expectations. Be a proper young lady. Attract a suitor. Become his betrothed. Get married. Be his wife. Have his children. Send her own daughters down the same path regardless of their wishes, no deviations allowed.
