"He'll soften in time. Mr. Brent is, after all, a good catch once you overlook a few small details." She paused to examine her work. "There. All done. You look like a princess, as every bride should."
Vivian grasped Penelope's hand, and held it. "Thank you. For everything."
"It's only a gown."
Vivian squeezed her hand and released it, both of them knowing that it was more than the gown that she meant.
And yet, the gown was the gift that, from Penelope, was worth more than all the treasures of the Indies. It was her court presentation gown she had given to Vivian, in which to be wed.
Vivian rose, and together they left the room and walked down the hall to the head of the stairs. Penelope stood to the side and nodded for Vivian to go first, sole focus of the eyes of those who waited below.
She felt like an angel, the heavy white silk of the gown flowing round her in crystal-shimmering waves. She knew she had been blessed, for never in her life had there been a Christmas season as this, where the dearest wishes of her heart had come true.
She descended to the earth, and to the arms of the man she loved. And her family was there to see.
Union by Claudia Dain
To Tom,
who is not only an ideal husband,
but an ideal editor.
Chapter One
London, December 1808
Clarissa Walingford came down the stairs with a step that was so firm and so determined that it came perilously close to being a childish stomp. Her brothers understood both the distinctiveness of her step and the restraint that hobbled it from becoming an all-out tantrum. This evening marked her coming-out.
Clarissa had arrived at that precise moment in a woman's life when a husband must be obtained for her. Clarissa did not want a husband at present, but Clarissa had been well brought up and understood her duty to her family and her name. Clarissa would marry.
But she did not want to marry an Englishman.
"It's not so bad, once you wade in and find your footing," Lindley said.
"Prettily put, Lindley. I can hardly wait," she said, adjusting her shawl.
"Lindley, keep your encouragement to yourself if that's the best you can do," Dalton said, smiling at her.
Dalton 's smiles were wasted. She did not want to go.
"It won't be so bad," Perry said, coming close. "You look wonderful. I'm certain that your season will be a smash."
"Kindly keep your vulgar euphemisms to yourself, Perry," Albert said, glowering. "Clarissa will have a successful season because she is a Walingford, has a fine, healthy figure, and lovely, clear eyes. All the Walingfords have done well in their seasons."
Albert, the eldest, had used similar language to describe the new hunter he had just purchased, but Clarissa refrained from making that comparison aloud. She felt that the comparison, though unintentional, was too apt for her tranquillity; she was on the block, so to speak, and would be bid upon by gentlemen who would look her over as carefully as a man purchasing a horse. What else was an offer of marriage but a bid to be rejected or accepted or even negotiated until both seller and buyer each felt himself to have made a good bargain? A woman in such an exchange was neither the seller nor the buyer; she was the horse.
"And your gown is lovely," Jane added with a gentle smile and a brief hug. Jane, sister to Albert's wife, was the soul of compassion, a rare commodity in a houseful of older brothers. Clarissa much appreciated her companionship.
"Yes, what color is that?" Russell asked. "Looks like weak tea with too much milk."
"Lovely," Dalton murmured sarcastically in an undertone just loud enough to be heard by Russell.
"It's called Ivory Bisque, if you must know," Clarissa said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And the decoration around the hem is a thistle design in russet thread. Any other questions or comments about my attire?"
"Well, now that you mention it… I don't know why you had to chop off all your hair like that. Makes you look like a boy."
"Clarissa looks nothing like a boy!" Jane protested.
"It's the fashion, you dolt," Dalton said. "Leave the club more than once a month and you'll find out what women are wearing."
"Shut up, Russell," Lindley said, scowling. "You look beautiful, Clarissa. You are beautiful."
"Very fashionable," Perry added.
"Very feminine," Jane said, sounding almost warlike for her.
"I'm quite confident that you'll have an offer of marriage before Christmas," Albert said comfortably.
It was not the sort of compliment she wanted.
She did not want to marry an Englishman.
She was solitary in that opinion and desire. Quite solitary. Even Jane did not understand her distaste for the prospect.
Though even if all understood her reasons, she supposed there was no escape. It was her time and her duty to marry. Certainly Lindley had no desire to marry, and yet he was engaged to Miss Emeline Brookdale, who had agreed to his proposal with the appropriate degree of both eagerness and submission.
She was no Miss Brookdale. She was neither eager nor submissive; in point of fact, she was the exact opposite, a situation that Albert found beyond tolerable. Her other brothers were more tolerant, but then they were not the eldest and had not his duties and responsibilities; oh, yes, she understood all dispassionately. Yet the fact remained: she did not want to marry an Englishman. Small chance of finding anything else in London.
"You'll find someone… acceptable," Perry offered.
Acceptable? Perhaps some Scotsman down looking for a wife? That would be more acceptable than having to settle into the rest of her life with an English lord as a husband. As helpful as Perry was trying to be, he was off to a fine military career while she had to tramp about London searching for a husband.
"Will I?" she asked, looking at Perry and then at them all.
"Of course you will, Clarissa; don't be absurd," Albert said. "You must stop this nonsense about not wanting to be married to an Englishman. You are as English as anyone. Whom else would you marry?"
"An Irishman," she answered, her ever-ready answer.
"An Irishman? When all the owners of land and title in Ireland are English?" Albert said gruffly. "Think logically, Clarissa, and be reasonable. You are here for your season. You will attract many admirers and from them you must choose your husband. It is all quite simple."
Yes, it was all quite simple. And there was no avoiding it. Albert, as head of the family, would always have his way in all things.
The carriage was waiting and they went in, Lindley, Perry, and Jane accompanying her on her first of many parties in London. It was a mild night and all that was needed was her shawl, which was somewhat unfortunate, as she would have liked to burrow her face into the folds of a cloak and have a private sulk. Unfortunately, all within the carriage could read her mood well enough.
"Albert is quite right, you know. There is no point in pining for Ireland when we hold all the land worth having," Lindley said.
"Explain the justice of that to me, Lindley, for how that should be so escapes me," Clarissa said.
"I can't change what is in order to suit you, Clarissa."
Lindley said stiffly. "You know the truth of the situation. You also know that there is no one in Ireland of sufficient station to marry."
"You will find someone, Clarissa," Perry said, taking hold of her hand. "You will be the girl of the season and will have your pick."
"Yes, my pick of Englishmen," she grumbled, squeezing his hand in gratitude before she released him.
"Who holds the land in Ireland, girl? How do you think to regain Ireland if you dismiss the means to grab hold?" Lindley said.
She bit back a reply, forcing herself to consider. Lindley was surly and stubborn half the time, but he had made a valid point. It was beyond question, no matter how unpleasant the prospect, that she would marry an Englishman. Perhaps an Englishman could be found who had an Irish estate. He would, of necessity, remain in England most of the year, while she could live out her life in Ireland. He could come to visit. Or he could not. She would not demand his presence if only she could reside in Ireland again.