“I’ve just come from Lady Cranberry’s house,” Mama declared. “She has confirmed that Sir Reginald Francis will be attending the Claytons’ country house party next week.”
Frances exchanged a look with her younger sister who sat across from her. Abigail was only sixteen years old and had not yet come out, while Frances was eighteen and had just made her debut this Season. Her mother had set her sights on Sir Reginald Francis for her. Frances had no idea why. The man might be a knight, but he was also a loud, pompous ass. Not to mention his surname was Francis. She couldn’t imagine a life in which she was named Frances Francis. It presented so many issues.
“I’m not feeling particularly well, Mama. I’m not certain I can attend the Claytons’ house party.” Frances pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in as dramatic a gesture as she could manage. She’d never been much for dramatics, but usually Mama seemed to appreciate them.
“Nonsense,” Mama replied, clearly unmoved this time. “You are healthy as a horse, but even if you’d come down with the plague, I’d have the servants carry you to the house party.”
Frances gave her mother a side-wise glance paired with a frown.
“I wish I could attend,” Abigail said with a long, dramatic sigh. She too placed the back of her hand against her forehead. Now, her sister always had a flare for the dramatic. Somehow Abigail’s dramatics seemed so much more believable than her own. Frances made a mental note to ask her sister how to be both more dramatic and more believable at it.
“You’ve yet to make your debut,” Mother replied to Abigail.
“I know,” Abigail moaned, emphasizing her woe.
Another mental note. Moan more.
“But I would so love to attend a country house party filled with handsome gentlemen,” Abigail continued.
“Filled with handsome gentlemen and Sir Reginald Francis,” Frances mumbled.
Mama shot Frances a look that clearly indicated she did not find her daughter’s jest amusing in the least. “I fail to comprehend your objection to Sir Reginald,” Mama said, pointing her nose in the air.
Frances crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her fingertips against the opposite elbows. “Let’s see. He’s twice my age.”
“Forty is hardly ancient.” Mama’s nose remained aloft.
“He’s pompous,” Frances continued, still drumming her fingers.
Mama waived her handkerchief in the air. “All men with titles are pompous. Your father was when I met him.”
“He’s entirely uninteresting,” Frances continued, scratching her cheek.
“I don’t know why you say that. He’s perfectly interesting to me,” Mama insisted.
Frances arched a brow. “He spent the better part of an hour telling me about a game of whist he played four years ago. A hand he lost, by the by. And not a particularly compelling hand.”
“Oh, Frances, you’re so particular.” Mama gave a long-suffering sigh and pressed her handkerchief to her throat. “You must remember,” her voice dropped to a whisper as if they were not alone in their own drawing room, shabby though it might be. “You don’t have much of a dowry and while I love you, you’re hardly a diamond of the first water.”
“Thank you for the encouragement, Mama,” Frances replied, stifling her urge to laugh at her mother’s egregiousness.
“I’m quite serious,” Mama continued, “Sir Reginald has shown interest. His may be the best marriage offer you get.”
“If reciting a four-year-old tale about a card game is showing interest, I suppose you’re right, Mama, but I already told you, I’m perfectly happy for you to give my dowry to Abigail to ensure she makes a good match.”
Papa’s penchant for gambling paired with his proclivity for losing had caused the family great financial distress of late, but Frances couldn’t understand why her mother wouldn’t be practical and double Abigail’s dowry instead. It only made sense. Apparently, her mother didn’t appreciate sense.
Mama waived her handkerchief in the air again. “That is madness.”
“It is not,” Frances replied. “Abigail is actually interested in finding a husband. With both of our dowries together, she might make a decent match. I don’t want a husband.” They’d had this argument at least a half dozen times, and her mother always dismissed it. It drove Frances mad. Mama had no concept that a young woman might actually sincerely have no desire to marry.
Mama shook her head. “Stop saying such ludicrous things. I would have the doctor pay you a visit if we had the money for such extravagances.”
Frances sighed. She would not win this argument. As far as Mama was concerned, making a decent match was the only thing in the world worth thinking about. Sonless, Lady Winfield spent far too much of her time worrying over her two daughters’ futures and their choices of husbands. It wasn’t news to Frances that she was not exactly the most highly sought-after debutante of the Season. In addition to her father merely being a baron, and her lack of a decent dowry, she’d spent far too much time this past Season sitting with the other wallflowers. When a potential suitor did ask her to dance, she quickly frightened him off by talking at length about her plans to work with the magistrates to convince Parliament to change the poor laws. At present, she had her cap set firmly against the awful Employment Bill that would be up for vote as soon as Parliament reconvened in the autumn.
Frances had been barely more than a decade old when her father had taken her for a walk in Hyde Park and they’d seen a group of poor people protesting outside a politician’s house. The small crowd had been angry and sweaty and carrying pitchforks. They were yelling about their treatment under the law. Her father had tried to hurry her past the scene, but she’d insisted upon stopping and listening.
She’d been horrified by what she’d heard. None of the crowd’s complaints seemed to be outrageous demands. She’d vowed that day that when she came of age, she’d do anything and
