“‘I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;” and though she immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced to sit down again.
“‘Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.’” The young woman looked up and smiled at her audience. “And now, on to chapter nine . . .”
A sigh of anticipation rippled through the room. Lily caught Rose’s eye and smiled. What a delightful way to spend a few hours. To think she’d been nervous about attending a literary society.
Lady Beatrice’s niece Abby read beautifully, in a well-modulated voice that made the story come alive, but as Lily sat and listened, she was back in a carriage, listening to the same story read in a deep, entrancingly masculine voice . . .
What if she, like poor Anne Elliot, had been persuaded into refusing Edward’s offer? Would she now be feeling as awkward, as unwanted and miserable, as Anne?
No, her case was different. Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth had once been in love. Lily’s situation was vastly different. If she’d been Anne, loved by a fine man and with a vain and selfish father and a sister who disdained her, nothing could have persuaded her to refuse Captain Wentworth, or whatever rank he’d been then.
Even with a man who had made it quite clear that he didn’t love her, Lily had gone against the advice of her family—and they loved her and cared about her happiness.
Was it foolishness or faith? She wished she knew.
At the end of the chapter, there was a short break while another young woman took Abby’s place. A hum of conversation rose as people discussed the story so far. Lily barely noticed; she was still thinking about Edward.
Miss Chance leaned across to her and murmured, “Don’t take no notice of them, Lady Lily.”
Startled from her reverie, Lily turned an inquiring face toward her. “Who?”
“Them—those two behind you.” Miss Chance jerked her chin. “Don’t listen to a thing they’re saying.”
Naturally that made Lily focus all her attention on the low but vehement exchange occurring in the seats behind her. Sentence fragments drifted to her over the hum of general conversation.
“. . . such a fine man . . . a plump little dab of a girl. If it had been her sister, now I might understand it . . .”
“But my dear, didn’t you know? Galbraith was trapped into offering for her . . .”
Lily stiffened.
“No other explanation for it—you must have heard the rumors.”
“As if a man like Galbraith would be interested in a plump little ingenue with no conversation . . .”
“A shame . . .”
“Don’t listen to ’em.” Miss Chance tugged Lily’s arm and explained in a low voice. “Mrs. Plunkett—she’s the one with the hat like an upside-down coal scuttle— No, don’t look, you don’t want her to know she’s upset you—”
“She hasn’t.” Lily squared her shoulders. What did the opinion of strangers matter when even her own sisters opposed her marriage? In any case, she ought to be inured to gossip and hard words by now. At school some of the girls had called her “the dummy” because she couldn’t read. She’d learned to hide the hurt their words had caused. She’d do the same now.
Besides, if the price of marriage to Edward was to be ritually humiliated, it was a price she’d gladly pay.
“Oh? Right, then, good for you. Anyway it’s all sour grapes. Mrs. Plunkett has been wanting your Mr. Galbraith for her daughter for ages.”
Lily liked the sound of “your Mr. Galbraith.” Not that he was yet.
“And the other one—well, you know what they say: ‘Hell hath no fury’—and no, don’t turn around! Look at them later when the tea comes around.”
It took all of Lily’s willpower not to turn and stare at the woman who’d tried to seduce Galbraith and been rejected. The reading recommenced but Lily barely heard a word.
The incident, brief as it was, had brought one fact home to her: She was marrying a rake. How many other women would she come across in society who knew Edward better than she did?
Chapter Thirteen
Told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Wednesday evening came, and Edward presented himself at Ashendon House, immaculately attired in a black coat, black knee breeches, and white silk stockings, a chapeau bras tucked under his arm.
He looked, Lily thought, magnificent. “Did you get a voucher?” she blurted. She’d worried about it all night. It would be mortifying if he was turned away.
He smiled. “Of course. Did you doubt me?”
She heaved a sigh of relief.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, and she flushed with pleasure.
“So do you.”
He laughed. “Men, my dear, are never beautiful.”
Lily disagreed, but she wasn’t going to argue. “Thank you for the flowers, and the book of poetry.”
“Did you like it? I’m told that young ladies cannot get enough of Lord Byron.”
“Oh, yes, he’s wonderful.” Lily had learned a couple of verses by heart—she might not be able to read, but she had a good memory—in case she needed to have a conversation about the book, but just then Rose and George came downstairs followed almost immediately afterward by Emm and Cal.
There were two carriages to transport them to King Street; Cal and Emm and George rode in the first, and Edward, Lily and Rose in the second. “Playing gooseberry,” Rose murmured to her sister with a grin.
But nothing could dim Lily’s pleasure in the evening. They were admitted without hesitation and the gasps, the small silence and then the buzz of conversation that
