Mary was so moved by the not-quite-unexpected discovery of her friend’s depth that she could not raise her eyes, staring down at her empty plate and blinking furiously, willing away the tears she could never explain were they to fall. Gradually she became aware of the dialogue going back and forth around her, and forced her ears to listen, to concentrate on something other than the lump in her throat.
“Mama, I don’t believe this is quite the thing to discuss at the table,” she heard John say. Although he still had the sober mien about him, there was a pinched look about him now too, perhaps a sign of embarrassment or annoyance.
“John, she is the prettiest thing. She is educated, clever, well thought of in these parts. No one can fault her in the slightest. I have seen for myself that you were not indifferent to the girl. I have tried to fathom, very indirectly of course, whether or not the girl and her family are receptive, and I believe I can truly say that not only are they receptive, but possibly even eager,” Cornelia said.
Eugenia nodded sagely. “Although she has not had to run a household herself yet, I am sure her mother is the kind to train her daughter--”
“And have you seen her embroidery work? She stitches like a dream!” Hortense interrupted, her sisters nodding around her.
Mary glanced at John’s face, which seemed to be composed, but she saw the blue lightning in his eyes, and wondered that the others did not. Perhaps they chose to ignore it.
“And she can paint. Have you seen the large canvas in their front hall? The study of an urn?
She
painted that! Oh, I’ll grant it’s not a Rembrandt, but one has to admit it’s rather finely done,” Penelope called across the table.
Angela threw in, “And she plays the pianoforte quite charmingly. Recall that musical evening, oh, about two months ago? I thought to myself, well, goodness, the girl has a touch of talent--”
“That’s quite enough,” John growled, suddenly pushing back his chair. His face was finally touched with two dull spots of red as he tugged down his waistcoat in a gesture of finality. “Gentlemen,” he said to the room, but he did not wait for any response from them as he strode purposefully from the room, apparently in search of an after-dinner drink.
The ladies fell to exchanging comments, except for Hortense, who caught Mary’s eye over the table. She rose smoothly and came to Mary’s side. “Have you a shawl?” she asked quietly.
Mary nodded.
“Then let us fetch it, and go for a walk in the gardens, shall we?” Hortense said, with something in her attitude that suggested a wish to talk.
“Of course,” Mary agreed, intrigued.
They went to her room, found a shawl, took one for Hortense as well, and proceeded out the library doors into the garden.
“It is more chill than I had thought,” Hortense said, frowning up at the dark clouds over their heads.
“At least it’s not raining.”
“It shall be doing so again, soon,” Hortense sighed.
“I’m afraid you’re correct.”
“I’m sorry about the way we are,” the older woman said suddenly.
Mary shook her head, even as she asked, “You mean the enthusiasm at table? In truth, I cannot fault it. Who is there to offend? Personally I abhor stuffy dinners.”
“Mary, it is quite evident to all of us why John has taken you to his heart. You are a truly good person. There are not many who would gloss over our very countrified ways, and instead turn them into some kind of virtue,” Hortense said with gravity, though one corner of her mouth quirked upward.
“Perhaps I am not so much kind as uncouth,” Mary grinned.
“Touché!” Hortense laughed. But it was not for amusing banter that she had brought them to the gardens. She added without further preamble, “You sensed that I wanted to talk to you?”
Mary nodded.
“About John, of course. About that little scene at table.” She paused, glancing again at the clouds over their heads. “I’ll speak simply, as I expect the rain to start again any moment.”
“Please do.”
“Mama spoke of a young lady--Miss Yardley, by name--whom we have decided is the perfect wife for John.”
Mary’s heart suddenly contracted painfully. She had not thought of John marrying anytime soon, as he was ever so vehemently opposed to the idea. But, of course, he must eventually, for the sake of the estate. It was near impossible to imagine his will being overridden by anyone else’s--but it was with sharpened ears that she listened to the rest of Hortense’s statements.
“You must understand something of our family to understand why it is John has not already settled down. You see, our father, as fortune would have it, was the sort of man who truly enjoyed the company of women. He was, therefore, the happiest of men to be surrounded by what he affectionately termed his ‘harem.’ I cannot overemphasize this love for the company of females. John decries the fact he was an only son, but I, for one, am glad there were no others. I believe it was only John’s singularity that made him stand out to our father at all, besides the simple fact that a man must declare an heir, and it is preferred a man’s heir be his son. Had he had them, I believe Father would have let any number of sons go willy-nilly, preferring the company of his daughters. And what kind of life would that have been? No, it was fortunate John was born the last and only male.”
“How extraordinary,” Mary said, not sure she could believe Hortense’s claims.
“It is not surprising, therefore,” that lady went on, “that John grew up in his father’s shadow, learning to enjoy, admire, cherish, and seek our feminine company by virtue of it being his only choice, and his only example. I feel safe in saying that to him we were all just a little shy of goddesses, for we were older, we were overbearing, and we were catered to in all our whims by Papa, and Mama rather followed his lead. John could have grown up full of self-importance, but I tell you true, he did not know to think himself singular or special. He had no vanity.”
Mary lifted an eyebrow. “Well, he can be vain enough now.”
Hortense gave a tight smile. “And that is what comes of going out into the larger world, of course.” She sighed. “Out there, our dear boy learned he was handsome, and erudite, and a valued commodity. Men praised his athleticism, teachers lauded his mind. Where Papa had occasionally chucked him under the chin, now men of importance and their sons heaped praise upon him. I’m sure it was all very heady.”
Mary walked quietly, trying to imagine John as a young innocent.
John? Naïve?
It was nearly impossible to imagine.
“He met females who were not like his loving, if dominating, sisters. These women loved his beauty--but not his soul. They led him astray, and they played with his heart.
“If but one had wounded him,” Hortense said sadly enough that Mary’s doubt wavered, “he might have rallied and been satisfied to keep the majority of womankind on the pedestals Papa had so effectively erected for us, but there were a series of cruelties and broken promises, and I am afraid the goddesses were proved to have feet of clay. Frankly, they broke his heart.”
“It is hard to imagine John with a broken heart,” Mary said her thought aloud, her own heart beginning to ache painfully in sympathy.
“Oh, I must speak fair and say he is recovered, in most respects. At least…well enough that we think the time has come. We think because he is who he is, and because he is not exactly a lad of tender years anymore, it is time a woman who would satisfy us all be found and a marriage arranged. We must make our John happy, even if he can never again be the largely carefree lad we sent out into the world.”
Mary pursed her lips, even as she nodded agreement.
“As you must know, our John is a clever fellow. At first, when the pain of knowledge was new, his tongue was sharp to keep people away, to not let them see his vulnerability. It earned him that atrocious nickname, ‘the Blade’, although even I must admit at the time it was not unwarranted, for he could cut you easily with that quick wit of his. But, like most of us, what had once been needed is now perhaps ready to be discarded. We think, finally, that the opportunity and the time are right. The bitterness has softened, the acid tongue now comes to the fore only to take on the occasional oaf or blackguard.”
Mary considered. She did not know John’s past as his sisters did, but she knew his strength of personality. “I daresay there is little that is frail about the John I know.”
Hortense smiled. “I don’t know how he handles himself in London, so I am pleased to hear you say as much. Tell me, do you ever find him cruel or unkind?”
The very idea surprised Mary. She hedged, “He is a terrible tease.”
“True.”
“And sometimes very cutting.” Mary considered some more. “But, as you say, only to those who have earned his reproach. Such as a cheater, or a man who uses foul language before ladies. On the other hand, I have seen him be most kind to a befuddled old woman, or engage a young lady in conversation whom everyone else has neglected.”
Am I not proof of that?
Hortense nodded, keeping pace with Mary as they walked. “I like seeing his regard for women, though dented, still lives. Too, that his humor is returned, even if half the time I could pinch his ear, naughty lad. Still, in his homecoming this time, we all noticed he has changed, turning further from distemper and disappointment.”
“And so you think him ready for matrimony.”
“We do. But we must choose wisely, for his sake.”
“Go on,” Mary encouraged her, for now she had to hear it all. She was learning so much about the man, and there was nothing she did not want to know. John had ever been to her a sullied angel; the knowledge of his trials would only bind her affection the more to him.
“Yes, well. So you see, John has decided, although he would deny it entirely, that only a certain manner of female will do to be his wife. She need not be especially pretty,”--Mary looked away from Hortense at the words, but made herself return her gaze to the lady’s face after just a beat--“but there are many other things she
must
be.”
“Yes?” Mary said, trying to form a portrait in her mind of the proposed candidate, this Miss Yardley.
Why does my stomach hurt?
“Excuse me for being too elite in my thoughts, but John told me Miss Yardley is but a baronet’s daughter. Isn’t John’s marquessate, well, to be crude, too grand a rise for the lady?”
Hortense nodded agreement, but she shooed the thought away almost at the same moment. “We cannot care too much for such things if we are ever to find John a candidate. If she suits him, we will not argue. Besides, although the Yardleys have not risen high, his baronetcy is of long standing. Their name is old, and her dowry is rumored to be most generous.”
The latter must ever be a consideration, of course, Mary knew. Hearts and doves did not maintain estates; money did.
Hortense went on. “She must be a ‘good woman’, well respected by her community. She must carry no taint of scandal about her. And yet--and this is the dilemma--she must have her feet firmly planted on the soil. No ennobled but inflexible churchwoman for John. A good woman, but not a saint. She must be capable of not only tolerating but appreciating his faults, of knowing when to lecture and when to hold her tongue, and…” she gave a discreet little cough, but went on despite the discomfort that had crept into her voice, “…she must be able to be just a little bit ‘wayward’, if you take my meaning.”
“Wayward?” Mary echoed, though she understood well enough. One did not arrive at the age of eight-and-twenty without understanding something of men’s appetites.
“He could never have a wife who was, well,
cool
toward him. You see, he is, despite all, a romantic. He wishes to be loved…and, yes, desired. Our papa did not dote on him, but in our bossy, overriding ways, his sisters did. He knows women have as many faults as do men, but still some part of him wishes to adore us the way he did as a child.” She cleared her throat again daintily, then hastily went on, “Of course, he would deny it all. He would laugh at me for saying such things aloud, but I believe them the truth.” A smile spread to her eyes as she poked a little gentle fun at herself, “I do have the advantage of a few more years experience than he.”
Mary’s feet slowed to a stop. “This Miss Yardley…you believe she is all those things? You believe that now you have found the one John will accept? Will embrace as the individual who can best suit him?”
“Yes, I do,” Hortense said, slipping an arm through Mary’s to turn her back toward the house. A single drop of rain had hit upon the lady’s spectacles, Mary could see as they turned. She stared at it for a moment, for it seemed such a perfect reflection of an inexplicable heaviness in her chest, flowing downward toward their toes.
Hortense apparently chose to ignore the drop of rain. “Miss Yardley is quite right for the position. None of us dislikes her, and then again none of us is particularly friendly with her. That is important, you see, because John has refused the company of several candidates before, and since they were our friends, it was not always a comfortable thing, these rejections of his. But Miss Yardley is not the particular friend of anyone in the household, although she is an inoffensive creature entirely. She is very pretty, and living with her widowed mother and in the shadow of her uncle’s piety--he is a rector--she has garnered no reputation for impiety herself. She gives every sign of understanding the duties a wife performs for a household. She has the added advantage of being rather young and therefore malleable. She could be influenced easily, and how better to be influenced than by a man who only wants to make an honest and loving bargain with her?” Hortense finished with a satisfied nod of her head.