Chapter Six
Gwen
“Hold still, Gwennie, honestly,” Mrs. Stelm mutters as Gwen stares at her reflection, bouncing her leg.
“I’m bored,” Gwen admits.
Mrs. Gilpe snorts behind her, finishing off Gwen’s ridiculous braided updo for tonight’s ball. Mrs. Stelm pats a last bit of blush on Gwen’s cheek and smiles encouragingly.
“You’ll have fun tonight,” Mrs. Stelm says.
Mrs. Gilpe nudges Gwen to stand and step into the hoop cage.
“What if Beth’s not there?” Gwen asks, aware she’s whining and unable to help it.
“Then you’ll—God forbid—have to dance with a young gentleman. Or talk to the other girls,” Mrs. Gilpe says, tying off Gwen’s hoop.
“Mr. Mason will dance with you,” Mrs. Stelm says. She motions for Gwen to lift her arms so they can guide her petticoat over her head.
“Albie’s danced with Meredith all this week. I don’t see that changing,” Gwen mumbles.
“The other Mr. Mason then,” Mrs. Gilpe says, rolling her eyes. She turns away to prepare Gwen’s skirt.
“Hardly,” Gwen says. Bobby steps on her toes.
“Then make another friend,” Mrs. Gilpe says sternly.
“A boy friend,” Mrs. Stelm adds with a wink.
Gwen watches herself wrinkle her nose before they lower her skirt over her head. “Please.”
“Just like your father,” Mrs. Gilpe mutters as the world briefly disappears in a flash of deep green fabric.
“What does that mean?” Gwen asks, looking between them once her skirt is settled.
“Oh, your father was a right pill his first season,” Mrs. Stelm says, ignoring Mrs. Gilpe’s look. “You started it.”
Gwen pounces. “Father wasn’t charming?”
“Oh, he was. Had all sorts of interest, but he was picky, like you,” Mrs. Gilpe admits.
“Discerning,” Gwen says, turning her nose up to make Mrs. Stelm laugh.
“He was all about the drink and dancing and playing rugby. Drove his father up the twist. Wouldn’t make calls, wouldn’t do anything he didn’t think was fun.”
Gwen can’t fight her smile. Sounds like Father, and sounds like much more fun than being trussed up on show. “So he didn’t court at all?”
“Well,” Mrs. Stelm says, glancing at Mrs. Gilpe as she does up the buttons of Gwen’s bodice.
“Please, I am so bored. I’ll take twenty-year-old gossip,” Gwen needles.
Mrs. Gilpe shrugs. “He didn’t court, but he had a lady friend.”
“A lady of the night kind of friend?” Gwen asks, squinching her face at the thought.
“Not then,” Mrs. Stelm says, laughing as Mrs. Gilpe swats at her.
“Just a friend. They ran around like little hellions, not unlike you and your friend Beth, it seems,” Mrs. Gilpe says.
That makes Gwen smile. “But they didn’t court?”
Mrs. Stelm walks around Gwen, fussing with her skirt. “Not exactly, no.”
“He didn’t . . . they didn’t get in trouble, did they?” Gwen asks as the thought passes through.
“No,” Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm say immediately.
“No, she broke his heart,” Mrs. Gilpe admits.
Gwen stares at her. Father, heartbroken? “But you said they didn’t court.”
“No, they didn’t,” Mrs. Stelm agrees. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t want to.”
“But why not?”
“Your father wasn’t the heir to this title,” Mrs. Gilpe says with another shrug. She reaches out and settles the vee of Gwen’s bodice across her shoulders.
“Who was she?” Gwen asks, trying to keep her tone casual despite the pickup of her pulse.
“Oh, who can remember all the names,” Mrs. Stelm says blithely.
“You know. Of course you know,” Gwen insists. “Was it—”
“We’re going to be late,” Father says, pushing into Gwen’s room without so much as a knock.
All three of them look over at him, caught out. Gwen frowns. He’s well dressed, but there’s still exhaustion on his face. He’s been out drinking every night this week, and God knows what else.
“Ready?” he prompts.
Gwen nods, glancing back at Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe even as she lets Father lead her away. One minute longer and she’d have known. If Lady Demeroven broke his heart, no wonder they can barely speak to each other.
It would explain how a woman so beautiful and accomplished ended up married to such a lout. Gwen can’t imagine exchanging her father for Beth’s. She should hate Lady Demeroven for hurting her father, but even with a broken heart, Father surely got the better end of their exchange.
“You look lovely,” Father tells her, and Gwen forces herself to smile as he hands her into the carriage.
“Thanks. You look nice too,” she says. He settles on the opposite bench and they head off toward the Smith house. “Did you have fun last night?”
Father meets her eyes with a sardonic smile. “I did.”
“Too much fun.”
He laughs. “I’ll be well-behaved tonight. A man needs his freedoms.”
“Be nice if a lady could have the same,” Gwen grumbles.
“You will never, ever, have those freedoms,” Father says quickly.
Gwen blinks. “I—”
“I meant,” he starts, taking in what must be the outrage blooming on her face. “You are an honorable, civilized young woman. I would not want you to know the worlds I have passed through, and certainly would never want you to look for solace in them.”
Gwen stares at him, insulted and touched at the same time. “I can take care of myself.”
“I pray that you never have to,” he says firmly. “Which is why we’re here, isn’t it?” he adds, trying on a smile. “To find you a fabulous husband.”
Gwen laughs despite herself. “Couldn’t we find you one instead?”
Father snorts and Gwen relaxes, letting her discomfort go.
“You don’t think it would further tarnish my reputation?”
“If he was a nice husband, why should I care?” Gwen returns. “Lord Bletchle is quite handsome.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a beautiful man, but far too much of a snob for my liking,” Father says lightly. “And I’d like someone more strapping.”
Gwen can’t fight her giggle, imagining her tall broad-shouldered father as the little man, held in the arms of a goliath. “We’ll find you a kind giant, then.”
Father smiles and then looks out the window, their strange tension finally passed. It’s not that he’s been unkind to her since the croquet match, but it hasn’t been . . . this. It wasn’t her fault that Lady Demeroven can’t swing a croquet mallet to save her life, but it was also entirely her fault. Orchestrated by her own hand.
She hasn’t come up with a good second plan to force Father and Lady Demeroven together without them coming to fisticuffs. But she hopes she and Beth can steal away tonight. It’s been a long, unpleasant week without her friend, and she’s desperate to get some good time in with her tonight.
As soon as they’re in the respectably sized Smith ballroom, Gwen cranes her neck, looking for Beth. It’s really annoying how she disappears into a crowd, so petite.
“They’re over there,” Father says, nudging Gwen so she turns to spot Lady Demeroven and Beth waiting just to the side of the foyer, near the curved entrance staircase. She missed them on the way in.
“Will you come say hello?” Gwen asks.
Father shakes his head. “No, no, you go. I’ve business to attend to this evening. The Matrimonial Causes Act has to pass, and I’ve palms to grease.”
Gwen just nods, letting him step away. He looks practically gleeful, heading for whatever statesman he thinks he can fell to his will.
But Gwen’s not interested in the rights of divorce tonight. Tonight, she’s going to sweep Beth away and they’ll plot their next attack, and hopefully get gloriously drunk in the meantime. It’s been such a long week.
Gwen scurries over to Beth and Lady Demeroven. Beth spots her and taps her mother’s arm where their elbows are linked. Both women look beautiful. Beth’s in a gorgeous blue gown, her dark hair piled atop her head with stylized curls falling to frame her face. There’s lace all over her dress and she’s wearing higher heels, her forehead almost at Gwen’s cheek for the first time.
Lady Demeroven looks equally stunning in a darker navy gown, a black sash still around her waist and accented in her gloves. But she hardly looks the brooding widow. In fact, she looks a bit . . . crazed, watching every entrance to the hall in turn. Gwen’s rather afraid her neck might snap.
“Hello,” Beth says as Gwen finally muscles her way up to them.
“You look beautiful,” Gwen tells her, laughing as Beth flushes. “As do you, Lady Demeroven.”
“Thank you, dear,” Lady Demeroven says. “You look lovely as well. Green becomes you far more than those pastels. Such gorgeous hair.”
Gwen blinks, surprised. “Thank you, my lady.”
Lady Demeroven gives her a quick smile and then continues craning her neck. Gwen takes that as a dismissal and steps to Beth’s side, leaning in so they can talk more quietly as the party bustles around them.
“Who is she looking for?”
“Lord Montson,” Beth says, edging away from Lady Demeroven as much as she can with their arms still linked.
“Whatever for?”
Beth frowns, looking up at her. “You don’t like him?”
Gwen hesitates. There’s nothing wrong with Lord Montson. Not much great about him either. He’s entirely . . . neutral as a person. “He’s fine,” she hedges.
Beth seems to relax. “Good. He’s asked for my first dance after hitting me in the back with a rugby ball.”
“He hit you?” Gwen asks, grabbing Beth’s hand.
“With a rugby ball,” Beth repeats, loud enough that this time Gwen catches the whole thing. “Terrible shot, apparently.”
Gwen snorts. “And your mother’s letting you dance with him?”
“He asked, and invited us for dinner. Mother thinks it’s a chance at a match,” Beth explains, shifting to rearrange her hoop so they’re closer together.
“I see,” Gwen says, looking out at the overpacked room. “That’s . . . good.”
“Yes,” Beth agrees, though Gwen hears little enthusiasm there. “So we’re waiting for him to arrive. I think Mother’s worried if I wander off they won’t ever find me.”
“You are tiny,” Gwen agrees, laughing as Beth drops her hand to whack at her arm. “Adorably so.” Beth purses her lips, but Gwen can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Montson’s tall.”
“I know,” Beth says, her smile falling. “I might actually have to dance on his shoes.”
Gwen laughs and takes back Beth’s hand.
“Do you think she’d release you just long enough to get some wine?” Gwen asks, watching as the hall continues to fill, more than enough people to get lost in.
Beth shrugs and leans back into her mother. Gwen can barely hear their conversation but meets Lady Demeroven’s gaze as she looks Gwen over.
“. . . right back as soon as Lord Montson arrives.”
“Yes, Mother,” Beth says, nodding seriously before turning and hustling Gwen away, dragging her across the room for a change. “Never thought she’d let go,” Beth admits as they snake their way along the wall, edging around clusters of parents and debutantes alike.
Gwen watches Beth move confidently through the crowds. It’s like something new has come over her, a confidence she didn’t have before. Gwen hopes it’s not just because Montson asked her to dance.
“Was it awful?”
Gwen startles. They’ve made it to the refreshments already. Beth passes a glass of wine into her hand; it’s her favorite, from the back of the table. She didn’t even have to ask.
“What?” Gwen asks inelegantly.
She swigs back a large sip.
Beth is here to get a husband. That’s the point. It shouldn’t be anything but good that she’s found a dancing partner. Though it does mean now Gwen will have to relinquish her, for most of the night if Lady Demeroven has her way.
“Was your father badly hurt?”
“Oh,” Gwen says, laughing a little. “He’s recovered. Your mother?”
“Only wounded pride on her end,” Beth says, taking Gwen’s elbow to lead them to the opposite side of the hall. They can clearly see Lady Demeroven still standing by the steps, now roped into conversation with Lord and Lady Barthelmis. Poor woman, they’re sinfully dull.
“Was he very angry?” Beth asks, and Gwen’s thoughts slow as she catches the concern on Beth’s face.
“No,” Gwen says quickly, watching as Beth’s shoulders relax. “No, he wasn’t pleased, and he was pissy, but not mad at me, not really.”
“Good,” Beth says. “I had wanted to call, but Mother wouldn’t hear of it, and then you weren’t at any of our teas or garden parties.”
“I spent most of the week trailing after Albie,” Gwen admits. “Father wasn’t angry, but I think he was a bit put off the social events. Meredith’s fun to talk to, at least.”
“She is,” Beth agrees. “And Mr. Mason?”
“Absolutely smitten,” Gwen says, smiling at the thought. “Bumblingly so, actually. It’s very funny.”
“That’s sweet,” Beth says, nudging Gwen as she laughs. “He deserves it.”
“He does,” Gwen agrees. “And you? Exhausted by all the merriment?”
Beth nods seriously. “It’s been like she’s possessed,” Beth says, glancing over at Lady Demeroven, who looks ever so bored. “But I did find out that she had a suitor, I think, in her first season.”
Gwen hesitates. “Oh?”
“A friend, she called him. But the way she looked when speaking about him—I think she fancied him. But her father forbade her from marrying him. I don’t know if he ever proposed.”
Gwen sighs as the whole terrible portrait settles into place. She can’t hate the woman then, can she? She could hate Beth’s grandfather, she supposes, for forbidding the match.
“She seemed rather sad about it, actually,” Beth says.
“I think it was my father,” Gwen says quickly, pushing it out in a rush.
“What?”
“My father had a friend his first season too. Mrs. Gilpe thinks she broke his heart, but he said it wasn’t of any importance, just a friend.”
“My mother broke his heart?” Beth asks, eyes wide and dismayed.
“It’s not her fault. You said your grandfather said no.”
Beth nods slowly. “He wanted her to marry a fortune and title. My father—” She breaks off abruptly, tracking Lady Demeroven across the room.
“He gave her a title and a fortune,” Gwen completes, noticing her father eyeing Lady Demeroven as well from the other end of the wall. “So they couldn’t be together.”
“He used to mention Mother’s other suitor,” Beth says softly.
“Who?”
“My father. He’d tease her when she was writing letters, would ask if she was writing to her other suitor. Mother always played it off, but I think it made her sad.”
Gwen bites back the comment that wants to tear up her throat. How utterly callous. But Beth is upset enough. And here Gwen’s been thinking of this entirely for herself—that Father marrying would give her grace to forget the marriage market, at least for a while. Give her and Beth a chance to have some fun this season.
But now—now they must get them back together.
Because if their seasons were anything like Gwen’s have been, they deserve some resolution after all these years. She wants Father to be happy—to have someone. God forbid she does get married someday, what would he do all alone, rattling around their manor? He may enjoy politics, but even that can’t sustain a man forever. He deserves a chance at love too.
“We have to fix this,” Beth says firmly.
“Agreed.” Gwen loops her free arm through Beth’s. “We’ll just need to think of activities that require no coordination.”
Beth laughs and leans into her. “If you’d told me your plan, I could have told you Mother’s hopeless.”
“Yes, well, my being the only conspirator works in our favor. She won’t suspect you. Me, I’m going to have to be very cunning to get anything past Father now.”
“Hmm. We discussed Ascot,” Beth says slowly.
“That’s ages away though,” Gwen says, watching as Father moves about the room, conducting business but always oriented toward Lady Demeroven somehow. She’s never seen him like this before. It’s sweet, really.
“Riding?” Beth suggests.
“We could do that with other chaperones,” Gwen says. “Does your mother like to ride?”
“It’s our favorite thing to do at our country home,” Beth says, her voice a bit lighter at the thought. “She’s excellent. We could race?”
“Oh, I’d like to see you two try and beat us.”
“You think we can’t? We had nothing but time and land my whole childhood. I bet I could canter circles around you.”
“Father taught me to trick ride,” Gwen counters.
“That must have been fun,” Beth says, looking so genuine that Gwen can’t help but smile.
“It was. I could show you sometime. There are loads of tricks we could do together.” Beth’s eyes light up. “Maybe we convince our parents to supervise?”
Beth sighs. “I think Mother would have a heart attack if I did that in front of her.”
“So only secret trick riding lessons then?”
“Afraid so,” Beth says solemnly.
They both laugh.
“Maybe theater?” Beth suggests, pulling Gwen from thoughts of steadying Beth on the back of an enormous horse, of the two of them in breeches.
“Oh, that has promise,” Gwen agrees. “We’d have to make it seem like a coincidence though, have our seats together. I’m sure I can arrange something.”
“Excellent,” Beth says, grinning up at her, her cheeks a bit flushed. She’s had a lot of her wine already. “I love the theater, but we’ve rarely attended.”
Gwen’s about to suggest a few upcoming performances when she notices Lady Demeroven looking around wildly for them. She sees Montson and his mother descending the stairs.
“Damn, I guess I’ve got to go,” Beth says, slowly disengaging from Gwen.
Gwen pastes on a smile. “Dance pretty,” she says, trying to be supportive.
“You talk to your father—pick a play. I’ll be back,” Beth promises. “I’d much rather drink with you,” she adds as she passes over her wineglass before scurrying across the room.
Gwen watches her go and sidles back to lean against the wall, out of the fray as couples start lining up to dance. She can see Lady Demeroven and Beth bowing to Montson and his mother. Countess Ashmond’s face seems perpetually set in a frown, but Montson looks delighted to see Beth. Who wouldn’t be?
Gwen swigs the last of her wine and places it down on a side table, slouching into the wall to begin nursing the rest of Beth’s glass. So much for a fun evening.
She watches as Montson brings Beth out onto the floor. They’re an absurd match in height, but with his sharp jaw and her cheekbones, she supposes the children wouldn’t be terrible to look at. They’d at least have some chance at height.
The band begins to play and she follows the couple as they waltz around the room. Beth’s very graceful, and Montson’s no slouch. He’s no great talent either, though, and Gwen sighs, swallowing the last of Beth’s wine. Beth deserves so much more than mediocre Lord Montson. His fortune may be suitably vast, but she’ll be bored to tears. Beth, with her love for Shakespeare, and duets, and chess, and riding, cooped up with his dyspeptic mother up north—what a waste.
The Ashmond lands are something to behold, at least. She remembers stopping once on a trip with Father. He got along with Lord Montson’s grandfather, the late Earl of Ashmond. They hunted while Gwen and Montson roamed around the gardens. She thinks Father and the late earl used to take meals together in town, even. Of course, when Lord Montson’s father took over the seat in parliament, he completely reversed every single one of the late earl’s positions. They never visited the estate again.
It makes Gwen uncomfortable, watching Beth and Montson talking, even laughing. Beth looks for all the world like she’s having a wonderful time. God, but what if she really likes him? What if, to Beth, Lord Montson is a true catch? With only her horrible father as reference, Gwen could understand how Montson might seem more than adequate.
“That’s a shame.”
Gwen jumps as Father slips in beside her. “Announce yourself,” she grumbles. He plucks the empty wineglass from her hand. “And what’s a shame?”
“You said Miss Demeroven’s quite the conversationalist. She’d be bored to death with the Ashmonds.”
“Yes,” Gwen agrees.
“It would be a good match for her though,” he says, leaning back into the wall beside her. “She could do worse.”
“She could do better,” Gwen says tightly, unnerved by the clutch Montson has on Beth’s waist.
She knows rationally that it’s simply that Beth has a tiny figure and Montson is a broad man. But it looks like he wants to possess her—like he could squeeze the life right out of her if he wanted to.
She looks across the room and notices Lady Demeroven watching the pair with a gleam in her eye. She’s sure Beth’s mother will do everything possible to ensure a match. Gwen supposes it’s what any practical mother would do. Even still—
“She’ll be well taken care of,” Father says softly.
“She could be happy instead,” Gwen argues, glancing up to find her father looking across at Lady Demeroven. “Wouldn’t you rather I was happy than secure?”
Father blinks and then meets her gaze. “I’d rather you be both,” he says seriously.
Gwen swallows at the look on his face. “I’ll try,” she says after a moment. He nods and looks back out at the room. “Could you have been happy, with Lady Demeroven?”
Father stills at her lack of tact. She bites her lip and turns her gaze back to the floor. The waltz ends and Montson brings Beth over to their parents, his hand still on the small of her back. Beth glances over her shoulder at Gwen and Gwen takes a step forward, thinking rashly she might join their little circle.
Father’s hand snags her own and pulls her back. Gwen looks up at him and sees more on his face than she’s sure he means to show.
“Happiness is not the only thing that matters,” he says, his voice tight.
“But—” Gwen says, glancing back at Beth.
“Lady Demeroven has a solid head on her shoulders, as did her father. I was no prize at the time.”
“But you are now,” Gwen insists.
Father smiles and pulls her in to wrap his arm around her shoulders as they watch the next round of dancers pair off. “I appreciate that.”
“If she’d just had some faith,” Gwen mutters.
Father shakes his head. Both of them watch as Lady Demeroven laughs at something Lord Montson has said, every movement choreographed and practiced. “Faith doesn’t pay bills,” Father says softly.
Gwen looks up at him and watches him shutter something away. It looks a lot like heartbreak—the crease of his brow, the arc of his frown, the sheen on his eyes.
They have to fix this. They can’t let the end of their parents’ story be this heartache.
She and Father can’t both end this season heartbroken. One of them deserves a happy ending.
“Ah, Albie,” Father says, and Gwen blinks as Albie steps up to them, blocking her view of Beth and her mother, and the handsome, dull viscount who may vie for Beth’s hand. “Why don’t you and Gwen take a spin, if you think Lady Meredith won’t mind.”
“Of course,” Albie says, holding out his hand for Gwen.
She takes it, her chest still tight. Why should she be heartbroken by the end of this season? Beth getting married would be the proper outcome, after all.