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He stops before me, with his mouth fallen open. “On the contrary, Olivia. Affection can grow.” He starts to walk at me, and I turn my face away.
“Well put, sir. Grow. Things take time to grow, don’t they? You can’t force a flower to grow out of the ground.” I gesture toward the roses on the small table with curved legs in the back.
He bends before me. “So, you’re saying I should give you time?” he asks with a smile, and I jump up from my seat, creating distance between us. My palms have grown damp and my nerves, unsettled.
“I never said that, Lord Everton. Affection must also have a foundation. You must at least like the person,” I say too quickly before I can stop myself.
His mouth falls open even wider before he shuts it so hard, his teeth smash together. If he ever broke those teeth, his whole world would shatter. What would he do if every reflective surface didn’t mirror his perceived perfection back at him?
“Are you saying you don’t like me, Miss Primrose?” he asks.
“Lord Everton…” I start, trying to deny my words, but I can’t.
“What is it about me that you don’t like, Miss Primrose? Is it my dashingly handsome face or my hefty pocket? Need I remind you that every woman in town, young or old, ugly or handsome, swoons over me,” he says.
“Well, perhaps one of them will be happy to be called your wife,” I remind him.
“But it’s you I want, Miss Primrose,” he says with great conviction.
“Why would you want affection from someone who doesn’t want to give it?” I ask.
“Perhaps it’s the challenge I like. The promise of success and satiated pl…” he starts.
“Lord Everton!” I admonish.
“My apologies, Miss Primrose. It’s just, I want you to know how strongly I feel for you,” he says.
A look toward the window informs me that dusk is settling in. Pretending to stifle a yawn, I make my way toward the door. “I’m afraid I must get ready for bed. It’s getting late,” I say, ushering him out.
“Ah,” he says. “I suppose the night has come upon us swiftly, indeed and around these parts might be dangerous at night,” he says with a turn of his nose.
These parts? My home isn’t too far away from town, just a turn down off from the streets of the grand mansions. How much more unsafe are these streets than his own? Still, I find satisfaction in his attempted insult.
“Ah.” I nod. “Then you’ll need to hurry,” I say with a smile.
“Yes. But be promised, Miss Primrose, I’ll return here twice a week, every week for as long as is necessary to secure your hand,” he says before leaving.
My insides turn as I swallow. Heaven forbid.
Secure my hand.
He’s still not done away with the idea of marrying me. It’s not entirely his fault, I suppose, although he’s obnoxious. But my father’s entertained his charms, inviting him over for tea, telling him he’s welcome to stop by anytime. Papa has laid it on thick with me, saying he’s seen far worse matches.
Ugh! That intolerable man. Lord Everton, I mean. Not my father. My father’s just trying to ensure our future.
It’s never been my intention to marry, except when I was a child and dreamed of fairy tales. To be fair, when I was a child, I might have dreamed of a man who had as striking a face as Lord Everton. I don’t deny that he is dashing, and he’s impressively built. Shamefully, that’s the only thing he has going for him. That and his ability to ensure that we would never go broke again. The reality never often lives up to dreams. And as we get older, and wiser, we dream of other things.
But if I were to marry, I suppose I’d like to have a connection with someone. Someone kind and not so pompous. It would be nice if he had an agreeable face, but if not, an agreeable heart would be perfect. Perhaps I’d like to feel what is felt through the poems of love. Though poetry sometimes makes love appear to be disastrous and filled with anguish. In that case, love doesn’t seem so tempting.
I could be content with an agreeable match, pleasant. But locked away in here, only allowed out when necessary, and when I can be accompanied by my father, the only suitor I’ve managed to attract is that buffoon. A buffoon is certainly what he is. I grin to myself. A young lady would never be allowed to call a gentleman a buffoon in public, but I would give all the coins in my reticule to see the look on his face if I could. His mouth would hang open, just as it did today, as if he were catching flies, and his lordship’s eyes would quite possibly dislodge themselves from his body.
Oh, but for my father, I would. I would marry that irritating man and force myself to not give into the dismal life promised. I’d do my best to be as happy or as content as I am capable. Papa will need to be tended to when he’s older than he is now. He is only fifty-two, but soon, he’ll be much older. And though I’d give up my life to take care of him in his older years, there’s not much I can do if we’re drowning in poverty.
Unfortunately, for a woman, there are few opportunities to build wealth on her own, the type of wealth that can support two people. And so, if my father’s inventions don’t provide sustainable income, then it will leave me no choice but to marry to secure our future. To allow him the luxury of servants to care for him when he can no longer care for himself. To afford for himself, doctors, the best medicines, and the healthiest food.
Needing a moment, I pause at the bottom of the stairs before retiring to my bedroom. I need to catch my breath as behind my ribs, there’s a wave building. Selfishly, I wish for my father’s inventions to be profitable enough to sustain us both. But, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I might consider growing up and taking responsibility. It’s time I become less selfish.
I may not be able to tolerate the man now, but maybe there’ll be an opportunity to grow to appreciate him with time. I’ll at least be able to show him gratitude for rescuing our family from financial misfortune. If there were another option, I’d take it. If only there were a sign to light a different path forward.
