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“Of course, of course, both sisters,” Tibbs said hastily. “And fine dowries.Veryfine dowries, is it not the case, Fletch?”
“Rosie will have fifty thousand, but only if she snags a title,” Will said firmly, not worrying too greatly about accuracy. “Angie not so much, but she is expected to marry well, too.”
“Aaahhh,” the others said in unison, getting the point.
“Pass the port, will you, Hartnell?” Will said, feeling he had done his duty as a brother and steered three very unsuitable admirers away from Rosie and Angie. It was natural they would be admired, so lovely as they were, but such men as these, undoubtedly worthy but with the aura of industry still hovering about them, were not for the Fletcher sisters. Greater things were expected of them, or of Rosie, at least.
~~~~~
The next day saw steady rain. Pa took the carriage to visit the warehouses of one of his friends, and Will went with Hartnell and another fellow from the marchioness’s party to view the horseflesh on offer at Tattersall’s. There was little of interest there, and few men of style or fashion, so after a damp and dispiriting hour, they separated and returned home.
He found the girls delighted to see him, the drawing room strewn with abandoned projects — unfinished sketches, a bonnet in pieces, journals scattered everywhere.
“We are so bored, Will, you cannot imagine,” Angie cried. “We went to Marford House but Lady Carrbridge was not at home, and apart from that we have not left the house all day, not even to walk in the gardens, and no one will call, not in this weather. If Rosie plays, will you practice the cotillion with me? Or the minuet? I feel like a duchess when I dance the minuet — so graceful and charming. Will you? Please?”
“There is a carriage outside,” Rosie said, for she had been sitting on the window seat.
“Here?” Stepmother said, startled.
“Yes. It has stopped outside our door… the window is let down… a lady’s glove… the footman is bringing a card to the door.”
“Is there an escutcheon on the carriage door?”
“Escutcheon? Oh, the coat of arms? No, the door is plain.”
They sat in silence, waiting. The knocker sounded below them, and after a short time they heard Keeble open the door. Male voices drifted upwards.
“Is the carriage waiting?” Stepmother asked anxiously.
“I believe so. The footman has not climbed back up. He must be waiting for a reply.”
It seemed an age before Keeble knocked, was bade to enter and brought the precious square of card, sitting in state on a massive silver salver, to Stepmother.
“Oh! Do pray ask her to step inside, Keeble. Goodness, girls, it is one of our neighbours at last. Three weeks we have been here, and only now does one of them call.”
“Which neighbour, Mama?” Angie said.
“Mrs Iverson, from one of the houses directly across the square. But goodness, look at this muddle. Quick, quick, tidy, tidy!”
For a brief time, the girls ran about stuffing all the morning’s detritus into sideboard cupboards or behind cushions, before arranging themselves in the prescribed ladylike attitudes side by side on a sofa. Stepmother for her part moved her work bag out of sight, but her delicate piece of embroidery was an acceptable occupation, so it remained in view. Will straightened the glasses and decanters on their tray.
“Mrs Iverson, madam,” Keeble said. They all jumped to their feet.
It was impossible to tell Mrs Iverson’s age beneath the artfully applied powder and rouge on her face. Perhaps fifty, Will guessed. Her high-waisted gown, tight spencer and flowing skirts of some near-diaphanous muslin were not kind to a lady of ample proportions, but the hat was flattering, at least, with feathers softly framing her face. He supposed that she had been an accredited beauty in her day, and had never quite relinquished the distinction in her own mind. She looked searchingly at Rose, then at the others, and then, lingeringly, at Rose again, her expression not hostile but not precisely friendly, either.
“How kind of you to call, Mrs Iverson,” Stepmother said, with her society smile. “I am Mrs—”
“Fletcher. Yes.”
“May I present my daughters to you? This is my eldest, Rose. And this is Angela. My son William.”
Mrs Iverson inclined her head, her gaze already drifting away to look about the drawing room. “Well, it is a long time since I was inthisroom, but it is much as I remembered it. Mrs Bravington liked to entertain, but after she died, Bravington kept to himself. Barely left the house. Such a lovely room! Delightful for entertaining, and such a good size.”
“We are to hold a ball here,” Angie burst out.
“A very small sort of ball,” Stepmother said, laughing.
Mrs Iverson laughed too, and suddenly the atmosphere was friendly. “We hold that sort of ball, too. These houses are not quite large enough, sadly. But we make do, we make do. Are there more of you, or is this the full extent of your family?”
