Down the Rabbit Hole

It was his turn to look surprised.

“I am not saying that I will welcome her with open arms,” the dowager added. “She will have to prove herself worthy. But I will do nothing to hinder the proposal.”

Weston took her hand and kissed it. She pulled it from him as quickly. “There, you see! You are being obsequious again! It is your right! I am nothing more than an old lady sitting among the tulips waiting to die.”

“Nonsense, madam.” He stood up and bowed to her. “You are the keeper of an old and ancient title and I value your willingness to pass it on to the woman I have chosen.”

Her smile grew to almost a grin. “Now that is well said, nephew.”

They parted on such good terms that Weston was convinced that the coin had more influence than even Mr. Arbuckle knew.

The conversation with his sister was next. He found her in the small music room, playing Bach. He was relieved. Bach meant that her world was ordered and as happy as it ever could be. If she had been playing Beethoven he would have left the room and waited for another day.

He took a seat, knowing full well that interrupting her would not be in his best interests. Less than a minute later, she played the final notes and looked over her shoulder at him.

“I doubt you have come for music appreciation, Weston. And I can go further and guess that you have come to plead for me to reconsider Martha Stepp’s dismissal. I will not.”

She turned back to the pianoforte and began shifting the music sheets. Dreading Beethoven, Weston came over and sat on the bench beside her, facing the opposite direction.

“Anne, I respect your decision to dismiss your maid. I know it must have been difficult for you.”

“No, it was not,” his sister said, raising her chin a little. “And I do not regret it.”

Anne never made anything easy. He could not imagine how she would ever find someone who would be able to bear her moods. “Yes, be that as it may, I trust you will allow Miss Kemp to help you find a new dresser.”

“Yes.” Anne drew breath. “She certainly is an improvement over that person she sent as a substitute when she was delayed. At least she had a reasonable explanation for her delay.”

Anne began to fiddle with the sheets of music in front of her again, and a thought occurred to him.

“Sister, dear, do you even want a Season? Do you even want to go to London; and if you do, then why?”

“Of course I want to go. And finding a husband is what the Season is for.”

Hmm, he thought, not exactly enthusiastic about finding a spouse. He thought about the women he had seen in the twenty-first century and wondered if there was a way for Anne to have what she truly wanted.

“I do believe there could be more to the Season than husband hunting. If that were just a side interest, then what would you really like to do with your time?”

He looked at her as she furrowed her brow and stared into the middle distance as if trying to find an answer.

“Music. I would spend all my time attending musicales and operas and meeting composers.” She spoke with a kind of defiance that made him realize how rarely anyone took her seriously.

He smiled at her and nodded. “Then that, my girl, is what you shall have. You do not have to go to Almack’s once if you would rather not, and, I would think, one ball a week would satisfy your more traditional relatives.”

This next sigh was more like a huff. “You are not serious.”

“I truly am. I have had a recent experience that convinces me that living the life we want is more important than bowing to the conventions.”

“I suppose this is what comes when one unexpectedly inherits a title,” Anne said. “My father would never have even considered such an idea.”