Penelope looked up, meeting first Pippa’s gaze across the table, wide blue eyes blinking behind her spectacles, then Olivia’s, filled with . . . relief?
At Penelope’s questioning glance, Olivia said, “I confess I did not like the idea of a sister who had failed at the marriage mart. It’s much better this way for me.”
“I’m happy someone can be satisfied with the events of the day,” Penelope said.
“Well, really, Penny,” Olivia pressed on, “you have to admit, your marrying will help us all. You were a significant reason for Victoria’s and Valerie’s settling for their boring old husbands.”
It was not as though she’d planned it that way.
“Olivia!” Pippa said quietly, “that’s not very nice.”
“Oh, tosh. Penny knows it’s true.”
Did she?
She looked to Pippa. “Have I made it difficult for you?”
Pippa hedged. “Not at all. Castleton sent news to Father just last week that he was planning to court me in earnest, and it’s not as though I’m the most ordinary of debutantes.”
It was an understatement. Pippa was something of a bluestocking, very focused on the sciences and fascinated by the insides of living things, from plants to people. She’d once stolen a goose from the kitchens and dissected it in her bedchamber. All had been well until a maid had entered, discovered Pippa up to her elbows in fowl entrails, and screamed as though she’d stumbled upon a Seven Dials murder scene.
Pippa had been scolded profusely, and the maid had been reassigned to the lower floors of the manor house.
“He should be named Lord Simpleton,” Olivia said, frankly.
Pippa chuckled. “Stop. He’s nice enough. He likes dogs.” She looked to Penelope. “As does Tommy.”
“This is what we’ve come to? Choosing our potential husbands because they like dogs?” Olivia asked.
Pippa lifted one shoulder simply. “This is how it’s done. Liking dogs is more than most husbands and wives of the ton have in common.”
She was right.
But it was not as it should be. Young women with the looks and breeding of her sisters should be choosing their husbands based on more than canine companionship. They should be darlings of the ton, with all of society in their hands, waiting to be molded.
But they weren’t, because of Penelope, who, ironically, had been considered the most darling of darlings of the ton when she’d first been out—the chosen bride of the impeccably behaved, impeccably pedigreed Duke of Leighton. After their match had dissolved in a perfect storm of ruined young women, illegitimate children, and a love match for the ages, Penelope—tragically, for her sisters—had lost darling status. Instead, she’d been relegated to good friend of the ton, then welcome acquaintance and, more recently, guest, complete with long-overstayed welcome.
She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t clever. She wasn’t very much of anything except the eldest daughter of a very rich, very titled aristocrat. Born and bred to be the wife of an equally rich, equally titled aristocrat.
And she’d almost been just that.
Until everything had changed.
Including her expectations.
Sadly, expectations did not make for good marriages. Not for her, and not for her sisters, either. And, just as it was not fair for her to suffer because of a near-decade-old broken engagement, it was not fair for her sisters to suffer for it either.
“I never intended to make it difficult for you to marry,” she said, quietly.
“You are lucky, then, that you are able to rectify the situation,” Olivia offered, obviously disinterested in her eldest sister’s feelings. “After all, your chances of finding a quality husband may be slim, but mine are very good indeed. Even better if you’re married to a future viscount.”
Guilt flared, and Penelope turned to Pippa, who was watching her carefully. “Do you agree, Pippa?”
Pippa tilted her head, considering her options, finally settling on, “It can’t hurt, Penny.”
Not you, at least, Penelope thought under a wave of melancholy as she realized that she was going to accept Tommy’s suit.
For the good of her sisters.
She could do much worse, after all. Perhaps, in time, she would love him.
*
Dear M—
They burned the Guy tonight in Coldharbour, and the entire Marbury clan headed out for the impressive display. I had to write, as I was quite distressed to discover that not one young man was willing to test his skill at climbing the woodpile to steal Mr. Fawkes’s hat.
Perhaps at Christmas, you can teach them a thing or two.
Your loyal friend—P
Needham Manor, November 1813
*
Dear P—
They don’t need me to teach them—not when you’re there and perfectly capable of stealing that shabby cap yourself. Or are you too much of a lady these days?
I shall be home for Christmas. If you are very good, I shall bring you a gift.
—M
Eton College, November 1813