Cecilia looked at her and blinked. “Ah, it is not his fortune and not his face that have caught you. He is a singularly talented gentleman, I collect? A scholar, who distinguished himself at Oxford? Does he translate the works of Ovid and Virgil into English in clever, polished couplets?” Martha only stared in confusion. “Or is he artistically inclined? Does he collect artworks and make his small estate a cultural oasis in the desert of Sussex?”
“Oh no, indeed! He did not go to university. He is not an intellectual sort of man at all. He rides a great deal, and—and he dances well,” she finished weakly.
“But one does not marry a dancing master,” Cecilia exclaimed, and looked on in feigned astonishment. Hoping to have given her cousin the notion that she was much too good for Mr. Dallan, she then turned and pulled the same stunt on Alice. It was clear that the ladies had much too high an opinion of their young men and much too low an opinion of themselves. She must buck up their confidence a little.
As a clincher, she asked, “How long do you plan to keep your beaux dangling at your apron strings before you accept them, ladies? You, Martha, must be nearly nineteen,” she said cunningly, knowing she was older. “You must be eager to be settled. Why do you not accept Mr. Dallan, as you have decided to have him in spite of... that is ... since you have decided he will suit you?”
“She’s twenty!” Alice crowed, and laughed.
“Oh, I am sorry!” Cecilia exclaimed, as though shocked that such antiquity should still be unattached. “Then I collect the match will be rushed forward immediately? A pity your papa’s passing away delayed it.”
“It is not settled,” Miss Meacham admitted, with terrible embarrassment.
“You have not quite decided to have him,” Cecilia said. “Truth to tell, I am relieved to hear it, for I am sure you could do better for yourself.”
“It’s not that, exactly,” Martha said, turning redder by the moment.
Miss Cummings felt very sorry for her predicament, but she was ruthless in her tactics. “Oh fie, Mrs. Meacham,” she said, turning to the mother. “You are the dragon in the case. You must have pity on the poor fellow. I daresay he is pining his nights away in regret.”
Mrs. Meacham was beginning to understand Cecilia’s scheme and said, “Lord bless me, I would not forbid the match if he offered.”
“ ‘If he offered!’ ” Cecilia asked, in a stunned voice. “Good God! Am I to understand... Oh I
do
beg your pardon, Cousin Martha. I had no notion. Indeed, I am sorry.”
Mrs. Meacham bit back a reluctant smile. This young lady ought to be starring at Drury Lane. She acted as sweet as sugar water, but there was a squirt of lemon in her. Wouldn’t she love to see Miss Cummings land Dallan a facer! Into the heavy silence, a little feeling of anger crept. One could almost feel it, and certainly anyone could see it glinting in Martha’s blue eyes. Cecilia hoped it would find its rightful target and not settle on herself.
“I did not say I would have him if he
did
offer,” Martha said suddenly. Such a view of the matter as her cousin outlined had never entered her humble head before. She felt stupid and cheap to have been pining after Henley Dallan for so long. For four years she had been mooning after him, grateful for any crumb in the way of dalliance. Her spine stiffened, and some semblance of pride could be traced on her face. “In fact, I do not care for him as much as I used to. Since Lord Wickham came to the Abbey, Henley is acting quite stupid. And so is George,” she added to her sister, to dissipate the blame.
Here was getting the thing off on the right foot! Cecilia gave every encouragement to their anger and laughed aloud at every folly the gentlemen (whom she decided to call boys) had committed. Alice joined fully in the disparagement, and before the ladies climbed the stairs to bed, there was a fine new flow of spirits in the air. There was no despondency, no sense of helplessness that they would never receive an offer, but rather a question as to whether they would bother to say yes when the offer came.
To be sure, the feeling dissipated somewhat when the sisters were alone in their beds, without the sparkling eyes of Cousin Cecilia laughing and making them feel very special. But still, a seed had been planted. They were roused to resentment at least at being made to look a fool in front of her. Oddly, neither sister noticed that Cecilia had reached the ripe old age of two and twenty herself without having attached a beau.
Down the hall in the green guest suite, Miss Cummings sat at a desk, writing out in a businesslike manner a list of points to consider. Like a general assembling and planning the maneuvering of her forces, she laid out her plan. At the top of the list stood the name Lord Wickham, with a bold question mark after it. Details of improvement to the ladies’ toilettes followed, social functions where maneuvers could be engaged in, and at the end of the list, alone, stood the word “competition.” There was half the problem. The beaux required some competition. Whether it was available locally or had to be imported was something to be discovered.
At eleven, she went to bed, satisfied that she had the battle plan under control.
Esprit de corps
at least had improved already since Cousin Cecilia’s coming. Lord Wickham was seen as Napoleon to her Wellington at Waterloo. She looked forward to engaging him in battle.
Chapter Three
Over a hearty breakfast of gammon and eggs the next morning, the ladies discussed plans for their day. The sisters proposed a tour of the High Street, with a visit to the shops. No female visitor could be expected to delay this delightful excursion. Mrs. Meacham suggested visiting the vicar and other friends to present Miss Cummings to them. All these proposals ended with the words, “This afternoon, of course, for someone might call this morning.”
“Surely you do not receive calls every morning? Whom are you expecting to call?” Miss Cummings inquired.
“No one in particular,” Martha replied evasively.
“No, no one special,” Alice confirmed, “but there is no saying. Someone might drop in.”
When the sisters exchanged a furtive glance, Cecilia understood their meaning without being told. “Ladies, you cannot mean you sit home
every
morning on the off-chance that one or the other of your beaux might do you the honor of popping in unannounced for half an hour!” Their sheepish looks told her this was precisely the case, and their insistence told her that one lecture had not sufficed to firm their resolution.
“It is usually in the morning that they come,” Alice explained.
“Do they come every morning?”
“Oh no,” Martha said. “Usually they go riding or shooting, but if they do call, it is in the morning. About once a week they come, and last week it was on a Tuesday. Since today is Tuesday...”
“I hope they come on Tuesday this week, too,” Cecilia said firmly, “and you will neither of you be at home to receive them.”
“But we can’t leave, you see, in case they come,” Alice said simply.
Cecilia stared in dismay. “My dear goose, you might as well have a sign printed ‘DOORMAT’ and hang it over your shoulders if this is all the gumption you possess. To sit twiddling your thumbs for weeks on end in case—upon my word, it passes thinking about. Your wits have gone begging, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Meacham, who was looking foolish herself at this point. “How have you let your daughters fall into such a state as this? I was not called a moment too soon if
this
is how you all go on.”
“I don’t know what ails me,” Mrs. Meacham confessed. “I should have given Dallan a sharp word before now. I can give a lady a piece of my mind as easy as buttering toast, but with gentlemen, I feel a heat all over me and don’t know which way to look. And besides, it might very likely give Dallan a disgust of us. Henry, my late husband, wanted the match for Martha. They were his dying words. I was all in a pelter, but I kept wits enough to ask him that, and he agreed.”
“You will never do as your husband wished with these mealy-mouthed tactics, ma’am. We must fight back.”
From that point on, there was no charade about Cecilia being in the house for any purpose but to smarten the girls up and get them both a husband. To this end, she herded them off to her chamber to take them in hand. The first matter was their toilette; an improved appearance was better than a tonic for lifting the spirits. She brought out her fashion magazines and said, “We shall start at the top of your heads. A new hairdo for Martha is first on our list.” She said not a word about that dreadful frizz, but it was her intention to remove it.
After looking through the pages, Martha shyly brought her choice to Cecilia. “This one is very dashing,” she said.
Cecilia found herself looking at a convoluted mass of swirls and curls and feathers that might be suitable at court, on a sophisticated matron. The fault was her own, for she had used the phrase, “stylish.” She worded her refusal softly. “It would take years for your hair to grow long enough for that style, Martha. And in any case, that do is for London dowagers. What do you think of this one?” She indicated a much simpler and more youthful hairdo of soft curls framing the face.
“I like it very much, but my hair won’t go like that,” was Martha’s innocent reply.
“Hair is like men. We shall persuade it,” Cecilia laughed, and put the girl into a chair, tied a towel about her shoulders, and began snipping. “I know precisely how this is done, for we had the coiffeur do it to the bride for her wedding, and I asked him to teach me. It is all the crack, I promise you.” As she talked, she snipped, till a circle of burnt ends littered the floor.
The next step was to set the curls in papers, and for this chore Miss Miser was called upon. While Martha sat saying “ouch” at frequent intervals, for Miss Miser had a hard hand and pulled till the scalp stung, Alice was taken in hand by Cecilia. Various lotions and unguents were applied to her freckles, finishing with a light coating of rice powder. The freckles did not vanish in one treatment, but they had been softened and did not look unsightly.
While Martha’s hair was setting, the sisters were led to their wardrobes to present their gowns for inspection. Some were approved, some were cast aside, and some hung up for alterations, mostly the removal of superfluous gewgaws. The conclusion—music to the girls’ ears—was that they needed three new gowns each. In Martha’s case especially, the style was to be radically altered.
“You are going on twenty-one now, Martha,” Cecilia pointed out, “and are old enough to display a little flair, a little sophistication.” The fashion magazines were brought forth again, and by dint of repetition and encouragement, Martha was made to realize she could wear something besides pastel colors, laden with ribbons and lace.
“For the next assembly, why do we not have this one made up in a deep royal blue, with that lovely white-fringed shawl you showed me earlier,” Cecilia suggested, pointing to the picture of an elegant gown.
Martha examined the picture uncertainly. “But it’s so plain on top, with no lace at the neck.”
“The better to show off your figure, my dear,” Cecilia said frankly. “No one hides her light under a bushel, nor under a clutch of lace and flowers either, if she is clever. These cleaner lines are the highest kick of fashion in London.”
Martha worried her lips and frowned. “The color is so dark. I usually wear pink or yellow...”
“I’m sure you looked charming in those colors when you were younger, but you are a
woman
now. If you wish Mr. Dallan to take note of the fact, you must look the part, for it seems Mr. Dallan can hardly see what is before his eyes, let alone being hidden from them by countrified fashion.”
Mrs. Meacham received a questioning glance from her elder daughter. The mother had put her faith in Cecilia and was in a rollicking good mood at what she had witnessed thus far. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Do as she says.”
“And you, Alice,” Cecilia continued, “shall wear a white gown with pink ribbons and a few pink rosebuds. I know, you are going to tell me you cannot wear pink with your red hair, but your hair is not red. It is strawberry blond, and pink looks very good on a young girl. And do, for goodness’ sake, Martha, take your finger out of your mouth,” she said sharply to the elder, for the finger had again found its way into that orifice. Martha withdrew the offending finger and looked apologetic.
The morning passed quickly. The gentlemen did not deign to make an appearance, Tuesday or not. The afternoon was to be spent in selecting material for the new gowns. Martha’s curls were not set as tightly as they wished, but the papers were removed anyway, for she would not miss out on the shopping, and she was happy with the result. While adding a much needed air of fashion, they also revealed the pretty contours of her cheeks and jaws.
“My head feels so light,” she said, and laughed in pleasure, as she examined herself in the mirror.
Mrs. Meacham accompanied them on the shopping trip. They spent a pleasant hour in Morrisey’s shop, the largest store in the village. It sold draperies and trimmings, gloves and shoes, and was a haberdashery besides. The ladies spent a long time mulling over the fabrics and trims, and meeting friends. Mrs. Meacham got caught up in the excitement and was coerced into buying an ell of ecru crepe for herself. “I no more need it than I need a cold in the head,” she asserted, but she smiled as the material was measured out.
It was while they were shopping that a tall, dark gentleman strolled into the store and stood, waiting impatiently to be served. With the important matter of competition for the girls’ suitors in mind, Cecilia examined him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. He must be married, was her immediate conclusion, or Mrs. Meacham would have mentioned him.
Everything about the man was of the first stare, from his stylish barbering to his blue jacket of superfine, to his fawn trousers and polished Hessians. Cecilia moved along to a box of buttons at that end of the counter that would permit her to see his face. He was a little older than she had first thought, but not too old to provide some competition.