“Don’t quote Greek at me!” Moderation in all things-that was exactly what Nev was trying to do. He was trying to curb the excess that had led his father to ruin. “And anyway, Miss Brown asked me to be faithful. What was I to say? ‘Thank you for your money and your future, but I’ll do as I please’?”
Percy’s jaw set. “How dare she? Trying to get you under the cat’s paw already and not even married! What business is it of hers if you keep a mistress? She’ll be Lady Bedlow, isn’t that what she wants? That’s the problem with Cits, they think everything can be bought, even affection-”
Nev snatched the glass of brandy out of Percy’s hand and splashed the liquor into the fire, aware that it had been expensive and feeling guilty and furious. Moderation had never been his forte. “Stop it. That’s not fair. She’s-” He stopped. He did not know how to explain Miss Brown.
Besides, part of him was touched by Percy’s anger on his behalf. And, worse still, there was a small shameful part of him that agreed with Percy. He had looked at Miss Brown’s neat little list and thought, Merchant. In a minute he would give in; in a minute he would apologize and let Percy pour another glass.
Nev looked at his two oldest friends and hated his father. But that wasn’t fair either. It was his own fault, his fault for being too weak. His fault for wanting that glass of brandy and a night at the theater with Amy more than anything else in the world.
He had lived like this for the past six years: drinking the night away with Percy and Thirkell at a never-ending stream of gaming hells and Cyprian’s Balls, curricle-racing, attending the theater, spending as little time as possible at Loweston except when the three of them had a mind to do a little fishing. Just like his father. He could scarcely imagine any other way of living. That was why he had to do this. “I think that you two need to leave.”
Percy threw up his hands. “Fine. We’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe by then you’ll have come to your senses and begged Amy to take you back.”
“No. I-oh, Christ.” Nev ’s voice was still firm, but on the inside he could feel himself cracking. He was weak and miserable and nothing could ever make this right, but he had to do it. “Percy, Thirkell, you can’t come back. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
“What-ever?” Thirkell asked.
Nev couldn’t look at his round, hurt face. Instead he thought about Miss Brown, clutching her list. “I’m sorry, Thirkell, but I’ve got responsibilities now. I’m going to-I’m going to have a wife. I can’t live like a bachelor anymore.”
Percy folded his arms. “So you’re going to give us up just like you’ve given up claret?”
“I don’t want to. But I can. What I can’t do is keep you and still do what I have to do.”
“ Nev -” Thirkell sounded bewildered.
“I’m not Nev anymore, Thirkell,” Nev snapped. “I’m Lord Bedlow now.”
Percy’s eyes flashed. “And shall we call you ‘my lord’ now? We’ve been calling you Nev your whole life! For God’s sake-”
“I’m sorry,” Nev said again, knowing it wasn’t enough. “But I’ve got to be respectable now, and I can’t do that with you two.”
“Fine. If we’re not good enough to associate with the Earl of Bedlow, we’ll take ourselves off.” Percy turned to go, but Thirkell just stood there, looking like a kicked puppy. “Come along, Thirkell,” Percy said gently. Thirkell hesitated, but Percy nodded his head at the door, and he went. Percy gave Nev a deep, ironical bow and slammed the door behind them.
Nev fell into a chair and stared longingly at the decanter.
“Here, put a forget-me-not there, just above her ear.” Mrs. Brown pointed.
“Mama, I’m already wearing about fifty forget-me-nots.”
“And you look lovely! Lord Bedlow won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
“Yes, because he will be staring at all the forget-me-nots in horrified fascination.”
Mrs. Brown laughed. “I don’t think so. Blue is a good color for you.”
Penelope smiled at her mother. “Oh, you think everything is a good color for me.”
“That’s because everything is,” Mrs. Brown said. Penelope felt tears pricking at her eyes, but she forced them back.
As the wedding had neared over the last three weeks, she had become more and more certain she was making a terrible mistake; she couldn’t have explained what streak of stubborn perversity kept her clinging to her bad decision. She’d even started again with the nervous fits she’d thought were left behind in the schoolroom: as the wedding approached, she woke each day with her stomach tangled and sick, and spent breakfast fighting not to vomit in the eggs.
It had been bad enough her first year at Miss Mardling’s, when Penelope had no idea what was wrong with her and feared an exotic illness. Her roommates, of course, had suspected her of a shocking illicit pregnancy, and spread the rumor all over the school. The sick feeling had faded after a few weeks, and only when it had started up again the first day of every term, regular as clockwork, had she realized it was nerves.
It was worse now. Now she had to hide it from her mother’s watchful eye, or the wedding might still be canceled.
“Let us hope Lord Bedlow agrees with you.”
Mrs. Brown tweaked one of Penelope’s silk forget-me-nots. “He will. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Penelope knew what her mother must mean, but she wanted to ask anyway, so she would know that at least one person thought she hadn’t been imagining those looks, the few times she’d seen her betrothed since that dinner with her parents-the looks that said there was hope, that he didn’t just think of her as the strip of brown paper that held together a stack of freshly minted banknotes.
Mrs. Brown placed one last flower in Penelope’s hair and stepped back with a satisfied air. “Perfect. Let me fetch my pearl earrings.” She bustled out the door.
A minute later, one of the footmen poked his head in. “This came for you, miss. We’ve opened it, but where do you want it?” He pushed the door open wider and Penelope could see the crate in his arms. On the side it read DUPRÈS ET FILS. Below, in smaller letters, was GRAVURES, AQUARELLES, DESSEINS, LITHOGRAPHIES, &C. 22 RUE DE RIVOLI, PARIS.
Paris. Her heart began to pound. Edward had sent one letter after he got the news, pleading with her to change her mind, reminding her of all their plans. Her reply had been too short-she didn’t know how to explain herself, or what to say but no, she would not be changing her mind. He hadn’t written again. “Just set it on the floor by the bed.”
The second he was out the door she was kneeling by the crate-but carefully. She didn’t want to rip her dress, even though Molly, her lady’s maid, had said it would be good luck. With hands that shook a little, she took out one of the flat packages, ripping away the careful wrapping to reveal the expected picture frame. She turned it over, saw the engraving-and froze.
It was Plate 2 of Wm. Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode series.
Penelope opened the other five packages, but she knew already what they would contain. Plate 1, of course-“The Marriage Settlement”-showed Lord Squanderfield displaying his mortgages and his ancient family tree to the stooped, myopic merchant while their two bored children sat in the corner, the young nobleman preening in the mirror and the merchant’s daughter flirting with another man. The next three plates showed in lovingly gruesome detail the young couple’s idle, unchaste life, chiefly spent apart from each other.
In the fifth plate the bride knelt beside her dying husband as her lover escaped out the window, leaving his bloody sword behind him. In Plate 6-Penelope felt sick-in Plate 6 the widow, back in her father’s house, had taken an overdose of laudanum on hearing of her lover’s execution. A nurse held her syphilitic child as the merchant himself slipped the gold ring off his dying daughter’s finger with an appraising eye.