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She’d had both the disappointment and the thrill of a lifetime, and at that moment she wasn’t sure if she would ever recover from either.
The front door that Mary, her maid, had left unbolted by special arrangement, made little noise as she closed it behind her. All was silent and dark within. If she was lucky, her mother would never even know she’d left the house.
She was not lucky. She felt the stinging slap of her mother’s hand across her cheek as she rose from shooting the bolt.
“Little fool!” hissed Lady Brightwell, flinging her daughter into the hallway. “Where have you been? Certainly not playing cards with Miss Brownhill in that scandalous rig-out! Helen of Troy, indeed. It’s a gossamer web that leaves nothing to the imagination! Answer me, girl! Have you brought our good name into disrepute?” Lady Brightwell, her thin lips pressed into a bloodless line, hustled her daughter into the dim, candlelit drawing room, slamming the door behind her.
“I told you Mama would find out.” Appearing out of the darkness from the other side of the room, Fanny’s younger sister resembled a pale ghost in her plain nightrail, her shining, golden hair cascading over her shoulders. “But I swear I didn’t tell her.”
“Quiet, Antoinette,” Lady Brightwell snapped as Fanny shrugged out of her grasp and stalked towards the dining table.
“Courtesy of Alverley, Mama!” she said, tossing a simple silver ring set with a garnet onto the table.
In tense silence, they watched its spiralling progress across the mahogany surface. With a theatrical sigh, Fanny added, “Alas, the ring comes without security. It was merely a sop.” She didn’t care if her mother slapped her again for her attitude. Pain scoured her heart and lanced her pride. She supposed it would be even more painful if she’d loved Alverley though she’d liked him well enough. Her mother had fiercely counselled her daughters from infancy to hold onto their virtue until marriage and their hearts forever; and indeed Fanny had believed she didn’t have a heart until it had started to make all that fuss inside her chest when she’d got close to that piratical stranger. The river crossing had set the stage for more than her first experience of a proper kiss.
Tingles of excitement coursed through her just at the memory but of course, she couldn’t be thinking of that. She must relegate her pirate stranger to her past, just like Alverley if she were to carry out her mother’s orders.
What choice did she have?
So with a challenging look, she said, “Invite Lord Slyther to call, mother, but do not blame me if he does not make an offer. I’ve lost my touch, as you can see.” She nodded at the ring. “Perhaps you’ll have to look to Antoinette to fill the family coffers. Or Bertram.” Her voice broke.
She was suddenly desperately weary, though she felt she’d never sleep again—and not because of Alverley’s humiliating betrayal.
“Don’t be saucy with me, girl.” Lady Brightwell pocketed the ring. “We may be poor but we are respectable. You asked for this chance with Alverley on account of the interest he’d already shown and I had every reason to hope you would fulfil our expectations.” Her face looked haggard in the guttering candlelight as she sank into her chair. “Now let us hope Lord Slyther will be as forthcoming in his interest as he was three months ago. You know we depend on you, Fanny. Bertram is a wastrel, just like your father was.” She fixed her sharp eyes on the last of the glowing coals. “And Antoinette’s beauty won’t make up for the fact she is a pea goose. She’ll likely take her pleasure in a haystack with a footman and ruin us all.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mama, it’s only because of me we’ve been invited to the Earl of Quamby’s ball the night af
ter next.” Antoinette, warming her hands by the fire, looked up, offended.
“That was luck, not cunning, Antoinette, and I helped him as much as you,” Fanny objected, kneeling beside her sister, for the room was freezing and their breath clouded in the guttering light.
“You only returned his walking sticks. It was my screams which frightened away the footpads.”
“Girls, girls!” Lady Brightwell admonished wearily.
Antoinette giggled, pushing aside the curtain of her glorious hair as she simpered, “Lord Quamby likes me immensely. I make him laugh.”
“I’d rather you made him your husband”—Lady Brightwell’s lip curled—“though I fear Lord Quamby is not about to marry anyone. Otherwise I’d relent, Fanny, knowing the aversion you feel for Lord Slyther, and send you after the earl instead.”
“I’d infinitely prefer Lord Quamby, with his frightful red wig and his crippled legs and his brilliant wit.” Despite herself, Fanny smiled, recalling her last spirited exchange with the eccentric earl who sometimes sent for the Brightwells at the oddest times, merely so Fanny could play cribbage with him—an excuse, Fanny knew, for some lively banter—or when he was in the doldrums because he’d been required to bail out his detested nephew and heir, George Bramley, once more.
George Bramley. Fanny’s lip curled, just like her mother’s but with far more reason. Small wonder Lord Quamby detested his nephew, a boorish young man with not one redeeming quality she could think of.
Fanny was always carefully chaperoned during her visits to the earl, though never had she gained the impression he was even slightly interested in her feminine attributes. It was all quite confusing.
Her mother grunted, her shoulders slumping as if she really was preparing for the end. “If Lord Slyther declines my invitation to call, Thursday’s ball is your last chance, girls. We’ve received no further invitations.”
Both daughters looked at her. For the first time, their mother appeared weak, her usually hard, flinty tone a mere whisper as she added, “The truth is, unless one of you contracts a good marriage by the end of this season, we have not the funds to maintain the household.”
Antoinette gasped. “You mean—”
“I mean that if you girls are determined to be ape-leaders like hatchet-faced Aunt Hester, we’ll have no choice but to accept her charity—or else you will both have to seek employment.”
But Lord Slyther did accept, with alacrity. The gleam in his eye hinted at victory as he shuffled into the drawing room, puffing at the exertion expended by his bloated body. Fanny and Antoinette had watched from the window as he’d been delivered to the front portico by sedan chair. He’d then been all but manually hoisted up the steps, causing Antoinette to remark happily, “He’s unlikely to live long, Fanny. Look at him!”
Fanny did, then covered her face with her hands as she turned back from the window and sank into a chair with a groan. “Oh, Mama, what if he doesn’t? He’s so repulsive!”
“Doesn’t what? Doesn’t live long or doesn’t offer?” Antoinette asked with another giggle, prompting their mother to snap, “It’s of no account whether you find him repulsive, provided he does not find Fanny so. Now, my girl, pinch your cheeks and remember everything I’ve taught you. Hush!” For his laboured breaths could already be heard from halfway down the passage. “This is our last chance.”
