‘Hobbies?’ her mother prompted.
She could not, for the life of her, remember. In such cases, it was safe to guess, ‘Horses.’
‘Horticulture,’ her mother said with a frown of disapproval.
‘I always mix those two up,’ she said with a sigh.
‘They have nothing in common other than the first letter,’ her mother said. ‘It is not confusion. It is evidence that you have not been studying the information I have gathered for you. Honestly, my dear, we shall never get you a husband if you are not willing to put in the effort necessary to catch one.
Though it was possible she was wrong, Emma doubted that other young ladies who sought husbands were forced to memorise the names and descriptions of eligible men. ‘Can I not just meet them naturally, as strangers, and find out the details later in an organic development of our acquaintance?’
‘You could if your father had a title to match theirs,’ her mother replied. ‘Of course, then you would already know them. You would have vouchers for Almack’s and arranged introductions. But your father has a stocking factory. Since you have money rather than breeding, we expect you to work harder to overcome the artificial distance that society has placed between you and the husband you deserve.’ Mother always spoke as if being rich somehow entitled the family to the privileges normally afforded to people of rank.
‘I could always marry a man in trade,’ Emma said, trying not to sound too hopeful. In truth, she did not particularly want to marry at all. The last thing she needed was some strange man correcting her many flaws in a way that might be even more critical than her mother’s. But her mother seemed dead set on a match this year and on yoking her to a man with a pedigree.
‘We did not raise you to marry a cit,’ her mother said, as if it had been possible to breed her for matrimonial success. ‘If we had, we would not have wasted money on educating you. We wish for you to better yourself.’
That made no sense. If she married, she would not be better. She could be the same, overly tall, clumsy, daughter of a stocking maker that she had always been. But if the right husband could be caught, she would be Lady something instead of plain Emma. And according to her father, when one wished to sell a product, having the right label mattered even more than the contents of the box.
At least, that was all that mattered to her mother, who was referring to her list again, then looking back to Emma with a raised eyebrow. ‘You will have no husband at all if you do not do the work necessary to know who is available and who is not, so that you might cultivate the right people when you meet them. Now, tell me about Lord Braxton.’
This one was easy. ‘Engaged,’ she said with triumph. ‘The announcement was in The Times this week.’
Her mother said an unladylike word under her breath and reached for a pen to cross the name from her list. ‘I had such hopes for him.’
Emma had felt nothing but dread at the idea. The man was over sixty and had buried three wives already. ‘It is unfortunate,’ she said, hoping to mollify her mother.
‘Worse than that,’ she countered. ‘That is the third loss this month.’ She spoke as if the men belonged to her, like a flock of unruly chickens that kept escaping before they could be butchered and brought to table.
‘There will be other years,’ Emma said, crossing her fingers.
‘For you?’ Her mother gave her a dubious look that was most disheartening. ‘Your major advantage is that you are young. You are also...robust.’ It was a most unfeminine word to describe her, but her mother probably thought she had found a charitable term to describe a girl who was nearly six foot tall. ‘Not every man is willing to have a wife taller than himself.’ Then, she spoiled what little compliment she had offered. ‘You are young, but youth is a fleeting thing, my dear.’
‘Mama, I am only one and twenty.’
‘And next year, you shall be twenty-two.’ She said it in a dire tone that implied her death was imminent. ‘There are still a few names left. Tell me about Sir Robert Gascoyne.’
‘Thirty-two and widowed. A baronet. Brother of Jack Gascoyne, the war hero. Possessor of an estate not two miles from here.’
‘And...’ her mother said significantly.
‘There is little more to tell. The man is practically a hermit.’
‘He has the nicest house in the county,’ her mother prompted. ‘Twenty acres and nearly as many rooms in the manor. Just think of the parties you will have there, should you marry him.’
‘Should he offer for me,’ Emma corrected. ‘Which I doubt he shall, since we have yet to meet him in person at any of the gatherings in the public assembly halls we have been to. He does not go to the balls in London, nor does he entertain in his own home. And I have yet to meet a single person who can claim his acquaintance.’
‘That will change, once he is married,’ her mother insisted. ‘You will have a ball and invite titled ladies and gentlemen. In return, they shall invite you to their homes. He might stay at home as much as he wishes, but you, my dear, will be a success. And when you are, I hope that you will remember your poor mother and make introductions.’
‘Of course,’ Emma said weakly. As the months of the season had passed, her
