“I don’t know. I’ll find someone else.” I thought back to the flurry of guests I’d met at the party this evening. “What about that merchant who was there? Donald Crosby? I hear he’s amassed a pretty big fortune.”
“Ugh.” Grandmama rubbed her temples. “Please stop talking about the nouveau riche. You know how it gives me a headache.”
I scoffed. “What’s wrong with him? His business is booming. And he laughed at all my jokes—which is more than can be said for Lionel.”
“You know what’s wrong with Mister Crosby. He should never have been at that party. I don’t know what Lord Gilman was thinking.” She paused as a particularly large pothole in the cobblestone street caused our carriage to lurch. “How do you think your exalted ancestor Rupert would feel about you mingling his line with such common blood?”
I groaned. It seemed as though, lately, we couldn’t have a conversation without invoking Rupert’s name. “I think someone who followed his lord across the channel to carve out an empire would place a pretty big emphasis on keeping one’s self-respect. Not selling it out to a boring cousin and his tyrant grandmother. Did you count how many times she said ‘under my close supervision’ when we were talking about the future? I did. Five. Which is seven less times than Lionel scratched some body part.”
Grandmama’s expression grew weary. “Do you think you’re the first girl who’s had an arranged marriage? Do you think you’re the first girl to resent it? Stories and songs are full of tales of woeful maidens trapped in such circumstances who escape to a glorious future. But those are stories. The reality is that most girls in your situation . . . well, endure. There’s nothing else you can do. There’s nowhere else you can go. It’s the price we pay for this world we live in. For our rank.”
“My parents would have never made me endure,” I grumbled.
Her eyes hardened. “Your parents and their frivolous investments are the reason we’re in this situation. We’re out of money. Selling the Bentley estate has kept us living as we always have. But that’s going to change. And you won’t like it when it does.” When my obstinate glare continued, she added, “You’ll have people making choices for you your entire life. Get used to it.”
Our home was located in a different—but equally fashionable—district of the city from the party. Upon our arrival, servants swarmed to attend us. They helped us out of the carriage, took our wraps and shawls. I had my own flock of maidservants who accompanied me to my suite to remove my formal attire for me. I watched as they smoothed the red velvet overdress, with its trumpet sleeves and gold embroidery. They hung it up with countless other decadent frocks, and I found myself staring at the bureau after they’d left. So much of our family’s fading wealth spent on clothes that were supposed to help me achieve the opportunity to change my life for the better.
My life was certainly about to change, but for the better? That I was skeptical of.
And so, I treated it as though it wasn’t real. It was how I’d dealt with my parents’ deaths as well. I’d refused to believe they were gone, even when faced with the tangible proof of their graves. It wasn’t possible that someone you loved so much, someone who filled up so much of your heart, could no longer exist in the world. I tried convincing myself that they would walk through my door one day. And when I couldn’t make myself believe that, I simply didn’t think about it all.
That was how I dealt with Lionel. I put him out of my mind and went on with my life as though nothing at that party had ever happened.
When a letter came from Lady Dorothy one day, I finally had to acknowledge his existence again. She wanted to confirm a date for the wedding, which was to be expected. What wasn’t expected was her directive to cut our household staff in half and get rid of the majority of our possessions. You won’t need them when you get to Northshire, she wrote. The staff and items you need will be provided, under my close supervision.
“Oh, sweet Uros,” I said when I’d finished reading.
“Don’t take the god’s name in vain,” Grandmama snapped. Despite her sharp words, I could see the strain on her. Living under someone else’s thumb wasn’t going to be easy for her either. “Oh. And Lionel sent you a present.”
The “present” was a container of a proprietary barley cereal blend he ate each morning, with a note saying it would give me a taste of what was to come. I wanted to believe he’d intended the pun, but I sincerely doubted it.
Grandmama began fretting about how to split up the household as I walked out of the room. And I kept walking. I walked out of the town house, out through the front courtyard. I walked right out through the gate that sheltered our property from the main thoroughfare, earning a puzzled look from the servant who was manning it.
“My lady? Is there something I can help you with?”