She knotted her hands into the blanket she perched on to keep from shaking her fists at the ducks paddling in the pond down the rise. The mallards were hunting watercress, minding their own business. Her mother could take a lesson from them.
It was high time that woman developed a hobby. Archery, perhaps? Or the delicate art of watercolor? Possibly the solace of a well-chosen book, preferably a scandalous one? Anything to draw attention away from the subject of her daughter’s matrimonial prospects, or, rather, the lack thereof.
Her cousin Georgie was the lucky one. Though she’d buried her husband, she’d grown her freedom. Here in Hallow’s Gate, she lived the independent life of a merry widow—a shining example of all that was possible. The previous evening, during another of Georgie’s legendary dinner parties, a revelation had struck Lizzy during the fish course. A fact so painfully obvious she had inclined her head toward her friend Jane and murmured, “It’s a quietly acknowledged truth that a single man in possession of a good fortune would be welcome to make any sensible woman a widow.”
Jane had choked on a bite of capered trout, kicking her under the table with the pointed toe of her shoe: a silent order to behave.
But where was the lie? While mourning wear wouldn’t be her first choice—black was most assuredlynother color—a quick review of the facts determined that the advantages of widowhood were many.
One: financial independence. Fortunate widows could inherit property and income and then control their own affairs. No more begging her brother or mother or—worse—a future husband for pin money.
Two: respectability. Widows might travel and socialize with less scrutiny and restrictions.
Three: freedom. Widows made decisions about their households, finances, and social lives. They were not subject to the authority of a husband or any tedious marital obligations and had the power to henceforth remain forever single.
Of course, if one allowed emotion to get tangled up in it, the experience of widowhood could be tainted by grief, or fear, like for her own mother after Father’s sudden death ten years ago. But Mamma, uncertain how to manage without a husband, had remarried, to a wealthy if self-important businessman, Rufus Alby, thus squandering any opportunity for independence.
It must also be acknowledged that if one married a man of lesser means, a future widow would be put at a disadvantage. That’s why the only real solution was to marry someone with a respectable fortune and then...
What? Wait for them to die?
Lizzy worried at her lower lip. Well, she certainly wasn’t a murderess. Far from it—she couldn’t even bring herself to kill spiders.
Could she ask her brother to confine his search to men who were known to be sickly? Thatwould bequitethe conversation.
Henry, please find me a wealthy husband, but could you be a dear and ensure he has advanced consumption?
She settled back on her elbows, ignoring the tendrils of hair coming loose from the artless knot at the nape of her neck, and took a bite out of the apple she’d pinched from the cellar.
Involving Henry would be a dreadful mistake. He’d undoubtedly run straight to Mamma with the information and she would persist in discussing it ad nauseam.
Lizzy took another bite, grimacing as she swallowed. The apple’s flesh had a mealy texture, tasting more like a distant memory of the fruit, but chewing gave her something to do with the clenched feeling inside her—the one that wanted to break the rules that kept her as nothing more than a canary in an ornate cage.
It was unjust that she was compelled to return to London and feign interest in dull men who couldn’t engage in conversation beyond the topics of weather, hunting, or the evening’s dinner menu. And that was if she was lucky. If not, she’d be stuck listening to pontifications on horse breeding or, the worst of the worst, the gentleman’s ailments, a gouty toe or watery bowels.
Talk about mental rot.
Georgie raised dogs and held female-only parties where women weren’t encouraged to take dainty nibbles off their plates. No, they indulged with gusto. She had recently hosted a luncheon entirely composed of desserts! The table was piled high with trifles, jellies, macarons, cakes of all sizes, blancmange, syllabubs, and crème brûlée. They washed it all down with Irish whiskey, Madeira, and rum until one of the ladies retrieveda violin and played a lively tune that sent them into an unrestrained dance, devoid of any proper steps. They ended up collapsing against the walls or sprawling on the floor, laughter and panting echoing through the spinning room.
And in another South Hampshire village, their friend Jane not only wrote books, but had even published one:Sense and Sensibility. It might have been officially printed with the nom de plume “By A Lady” to protect her privacy, but she had done it. And because she was lovely, Jane had given her recent main character the same name as Lizzy.
Elizabeth Bennet.
Last Christmas, Jane had read one of Lizzy’s little scribbles from one of her many vellum notebooks. InThe Enchanted Garden, a certain Lady Genevieve Devereux, a young woman of remarkable intelligence, arrived at an estate to spend the summer. She carried with her the weight of societal expectations from her family, who pressured her to make an advantageous match. One fateful evening, as Lady Genevieve strolled through the moonlit gardens, she stumbled upon a hidden gate that led to an enchanted garden. There, she discovered a sparkling fountain said to grant wishes. As Lady Genevieve pondered the nature of her wish, she encountered a mysterious man who was no lord or gentleman of fortune, only a humble but strapping gardener...
Jane had said her scribblings “showed promise,” and Lizzy concealed the compliment in a pocket of her heart.
Promise.
She would make good on that promise, if she didn’t end up tucked away in some dusty house to warm a man’s bed. Unfortunately, it appeared as if the very fabric of the universe was conspiring to make this outcome inevitable.
With a frustrated shriek, she threw her apple core into thebulrushes and then froze, cocking her head. There had been a strange sound. What was that? A duck? A dying duck?
A very large, very dying duck?
Visions of a wretched, thrashing waterfowl flooded her mind, making her skin crawl.
How she loathed ducks.
