Prejudice in Regency Society: An Impulsive Debutante / A Question of Impropriety

Chapter Four

‘Not the watercolours, Lottie. And only one satchel, you heard Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie’s mother hurried into the room where Lottie sat packing. ‘You will need a complete new wardrobe now that you are married. I dare say that he plans to buy it. It is the best way.’

Lottie tucked the watercolours and brushes into her bag. The first words her mother had said to her were a complaint. ‘I heard Mr Dyvelston the first time, Mama, and I intend to paint on my wedding trip. I am being practical.’

‘You have dashed all my hopes and plans for your future.’ Her mother gave a loud sniff. ‘And now all you can talk of is painting. Have you no consideration for my nerves? For what you have done to your brother? To me? You were supposed to wed a titled man. It was to be the culmination of everything.’

‘I am getting married, Mama. He is connected to a title.’

‘Yes, but will anyone know? I should never have let Sir Geoffrey sway me. I should have insisted on a proper marriage.’ Her mother buried her face in a handkerchief. ‘Lucy warned me that you would come to a bad end with your tricks and you have. You are a lucky woman that Mr Dyvelston turned out to be a gentleman. Goodness knows what you were thinking…Sir Geoffrey had made an offer for you. How could you do this to me?’

Lottie slammed another pair of stockings into the satchel. She refused to dignify her mother’s remark with a reply.

‘Well, Carlotta, what do you have to say for yourself? How can you explain away what you did? The man has no title, nothing to recommend him. Why did you kiss him?’

‘You were quite prepared to marry me off to Jack Stanton.’

‘Lottie, you ungrateful child!’ Her mother gave a sharp intake of breath, went white and she waved her hand in front of her face, choking. ‘My medicine, Lottie.’

Lottie rushed to the washstand, picked up the small vial, pulled off the stopper and held the smelling salts under her mother’s nose. Her mother inhaled deeply; gradually, her colour returned to normal. Lottie breathed again. ‘Are you better, Mama? I did not intend to give you another attack. You should take more care.’

‘Me? You are the one who should have been cautious. I had everything arranged.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You threw it all away, you ungrateful spoilt child. Well, young lady—’

‘I am marrying Mr Dyvelston, Mama.’ Lottie fastened the satchel. She adjusted her pelisse and bonnet. It made a charming picture over her paisley silk afternoon dress. The cut was fashionable and Lottie had made sure the corset was laced extra tight in order to show off her waist. She wanted Tristan to look again at her with those smouldering eyes. ‘Neither of us planned it, but it will save me and the family from ruin. I cannot undo the past. And Tristan does have connections, Mama. He is Lord Thorngrafton’s cousin.’

‘Lottie, Lottie. I cannot help but worry. Though Sir Geoffrey says that this is the best way and I must trust him.’

‘And it saves the expense of a London Season. You might remind Henry of that, if he intends on huffing and puffing.’

Her mother gave a loud sniff. ‘Yes, I suppose Dyvelston is doing the decent thing. But I care about my daughter’s future. You were given every advantage.’

‘I believe in my case, if I fail to marry, the advantages will mean nothing. I will be ruined, Mama. And won’t I spend my life repenting that as well?’

‘Oh, you young creatures are all the same. You think you know everything.’ Her mother threw up her hands and Lottie wondered if she was going to have to retrieve the smelling salts again. She shifted uneasily, hating the disloyal thought, but she had seen how her mother had used the attacks before. ‘A man should respect his wife. If you keep giving in to your passion, it will be the road to ruin. Your poor papa and I had a good marriage based on mutual respect and duty.’

And what about love? Or desire? Lottie stopped the words and allowed the remainder of her mother’s diatribe to flow over her. She did not love Tristan, but she knew that there had to be more to a marriage than respectability. And she certainly did not want a title if Sir Geoffrey Lea was offering it. She was not a pawn to be sacrificed for her mother and brother’s social ambition. She would lead her own life.

‘You are not attending, Carlotta.’

‘Mama, it is time to go.’ Lottie leant forward and kissed her mother’s cold cheek. ‘I am getting married today to a good man. I can sense it in him.’

‘Lottie, Lottie. There is more to being a good man than a pair of broad shoulders and a smooth dancing step.’ Her mother’s hands grasped Lottie’s upper arms and she made a clucking noise at the back of her throat. ‘You are such a child, Lottie. I blame myself. There is so much I should tell you, warn you about. Men do not like wanton creatures. They use them and discard them. When I think of your poor dear departed papa…’

‘Papa would have wanted me to be happy.’ Lottie stared at her mother, seeing for the first time the attempts to hold age back, the slightly over-garish jewellery, the petulant expression. Then she shook herself, hating the disloyal thoughts. Here was her mother, the woman she should revere above all others, but who had wanted to sell her for a title and reflected status. ‘It was all he ever wanted. It is why he worked so hard. He wanted to give us everything we wanted.’

‘Happiness is a fleeting thing. Security and connections are all.’ Her mother shook her head and buried her face once again in a handkerchief.

‘It just happened, Mama.’ Lottie touched her lips, remembering the sensation of Tristan’s lips against hers and knew that she would yield again.

‘That is no excuse. I trust you will remember where your duty lies. A woman must take responsibility for a family’s status. Remember that and behave accordingly, if nothing else. Try to grow up, Lottie…before it is too late.’

‘Mama, I will be a good wife.’ Lottie curled her fingers around her satchel. ‘I will make sure the marriage prospers.’

She marched out of the room, head high and shoulders back. She would show her mother that her dire predictions were wrong. She would make this marriage a success.

Lottie sat opposite Tristan in his borrowed carriage and watched the sunrise begin to appear on the horizon. Her bonnet had slipped over her nose and the wild exhilaration she had felt as she’d waved goodbye to the assembled throng of people had vanished. Her back ached and her feet were numb.

What had she done? Had she done the appropriate thing? She had done the only thing.

Each turn of the carriage wheel took her farther away from her mother, her family, her former life and closer to Gretna Green and marriage, marriage to Tristan. She would snatch a sip from the cup of happiness. Somehow. She refused to believe her mother’s dire predictions about marrying for passion.

The carriage hit a rut, and her shoulder met the side of the carriage with a thump. Lottie winced at the pain, stifled the gasp behind her gloved hand.

‘Careful.’ Tristan, from where he sat, put out a hand to steady her. The touch of his hand burnt through the thin material of her dress. ‘You don’t want to injure yourself.’

‘I will be fine.’ She sat up straighter. Her hands curled around the edge of her seat, holding her there. ‘I was unprepared. The road to Gretna Green is heavily rutted.’

‘It is a well-travelled route.’

‘Yes.’ Lottie agreed. Well travelled. As if she needed reminding how many people went there to get married because they had to or because their families objected. Some might call it wildly romantic, but the doubts had started to circle around the edges of her brain. The Tristan Dyvelston who sat opposite with his top hat, black frock coat, cream-coloured trousers and hands lightly resting on a cane was very different from the excitingly attractive man who had kissed her earlier. No less handsome, but somehow more reserved, as if he were waiting and watching for something. Self-contained.

Lottie searched her mind. What did one say politely to the man who was about to become one’s husband, but appeared now more than ever to be a stranger? And in such a fashion? How could she explain that she was terrified of what the future might hold?

She had no wish to appear a ninny or a brainless fool. She thought of topics like the weather or music, only to reject them. Some were too impersonal. Others far too personal. It was difficult, particularly as she simply wanted to curl up next to him and feel his arms about her. The silence seemed to hang between them, growing with each turn of the wheel until it was a palpable living thing that threatened to crush her.

‘Wasn’t it kind of your cousin to lend us his carriage?’ she said, finally, in desperation.

‘Mycousin?’ He raised an eyebrow and his face did not invite further enquiries. ‘What does my cousin have to do with this carriage?’

‘His arms are on the carriage door,’ Lottie said, sitting up. Her hands adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet and tension appeared to ease from her shoulder. Finally a subject they could discuss—social niceties. ‘I noticed it when we got in. Little details make the world go round. It eases social tensions, if one does not have to explain everything. It is something one learns rapidly when you are required to do as much visiting as Mama and I.’

‘I had not considered that.’

‘It was obvious to any who had eyes. Why else would someone paint their arms on a carriage unless they wanted to be noticed? Unless they were proud of the title?’

‘Why indeed?’

Tristan’s hand tightened around his cane and his mouth became a thin white line. Was he ashamed of borrowing his cousin’s carriage? Was he worried that others would mistake him for his cousin and cause embarrassment? How awful would that be—to be mistaken for a peer when one wasn’t.

Lottie folded her hands on her lap and crossed her ankles. Considered the possibility and decided against it.

Anyone who had met the two would know they were different. Tristan could never be Lord Thorngrafton. They had similar looks, but their temperaments were not at alike.

She never would have allowed Lord Thorngrafton to take her in his arms or even escort her outside into the darkness for a breath of fresh air. The air of a snake hung about him. He had presumed much last November and acted as if she was a naive miss who had no idea of what going to see etchings entailed, as if his title and status was all the reassurance a woman needed.

Lottie concentrated on taking a deep breath, and not letting her fury at the memory overwhelm her. But he was to be family now and she needed to be charitable. She might have mistaken him, but in any case, when they next encountered each other, she would be married and related to him. Family was different.

But she could not expect Lord Thorngrafton to apologise. It was up to women to mend bridges. And at the same time she would make Tristan see that there was nothing to be ashamed about when it came to using family connections. It was positively de rigueur, according to Mama.

‘When did your cousin inherit the title?’ she asked, assuming the voice she used for the more important At Homes when she wanted to make a suitably genteel appearance. She would find a way to build the bridges without revealing her distaste for the man.

‘I doubt we will be seeing my cousin often.’ Tristan’s tone was less than encouraging. ‘The present Lord Thorngrafton inherited the title within the last year. I was travelling on the Continent at the time.’

‘But he is family.’

‘Yes, of a sort. The old lord was my uncle.’ The merest hint of a smile touched Tristan’s lips. ‘One cannot pick and choose one’s family as easily as one’s friends.’

‘That is why family is all the more important.’ Lottie batted her eyes and made her voice sugar sweet. It was obvious to her that there had been a quarrel between Tristan and his cousin. Perhaps she could do something to get them to make up. It was never good to quarrel with those who might be in a position to help you. ‘Friends may come and go, but families are always there.’

‘You are not encumbered with my relations.’ Tristan’s reply was crushing. He tilted his hat over his eyes and stretched out his legs as if to indicate the conversation had ended and the topic was no longer up for discussion.

Lottie looked out of the carriage window at the darkened countryside sweeping past and felt the prick of tears. This ride was not going as planned. He was not behaving how he ought. She swallowed her annoyance at Tristan’s obstinacy and tried again. She had to explain why this overture from his cousin had to be treated with respect and gratitude. Why it was the only way. Anything to keep her mind off the closeness of Tristan and how she wished he’d take her in his arms and tell her not to worry.

‘But he is your cousin, and titled,’ she said, trying again. This time she ran a hand down the horsehair seats. ‘It was very kind of him to lend us his carriage and driver. Most unexpected and done with such grace. Does he do this sort of thing often?’

‘Kindness had nothing to do with it.’ Tristan lifted his hat and peered at her. His dark eyes flashed with some barely suppressed emotion, but then he leant forward and touched her hand briefly. The tiniest of touches, but one that made her heart pound slightly faster. ‘Lottie, my cousin Peter has never done anything for the benefit of others. It is part of his creed.’

‘I suppose you are right. You have known him longer than I have.’ Lottie resisted the urge to put her glove to her cheek and savour the lingering imprint of his fingers. ‘He must have been pleased that you were finally going to settle down.’

‘I expect he was.’ There was a note of surprise in Tristan’s voice. ‘I had not considered it. He is probably pleased to see me gone from Shaw’s. I was not adding to his general state of well being. Destroying his ambiance, as he put it to me before we came down to dinner. I believe he rather wished I had stayed on the Continent.’

‘I am certain you are wrong.’

‘I know I am right.’

Lottie shifted, sliding slightly on the horsehair seats. He was not making this easy for her. All she wanted was some reassurance that he would make his peace with his cousin. And maybe, one day, when Tristan and she had children, his cousin would ease their way in society. Lottie drew in a breath. Children. Babies. Lying in Tristan’s arms. Suddenly the carriage appeared to shrink, to push her closer to his chest, his lips. This topic was supposed to keep her mind off such things, not bring it back to his kisses.

‘The carriage is very new,’ she said, searching for another topic, one which did not lead her thoughts on such dangerous paths. ‘He obviously thought enough of you to lend it. He trusts you.’

Tristan’s hands tightened on his cane. ‘You are very observant, but your conclusions are wrong. Neither of us trusts the other further than he can toss him. There is much that lies between my cousin and me. He wished me gone with all speed.’

‘I try to be observant.’ Lottie cleared her throat, pleased that she had found a subject they could converse on, a chance to show off her social skills without suddenly blurting out that she wanted to be kissed or held. Already, she could imagine introducing him to her friends: my husband—not only is he handsome but also a cousin to a lord. Martha, Caroline and the rest would forgive the elopement once they had met him. ‘It makes it easier when I go calling. Fifteen minutes is barely any time and the hostess is often tired of repeating the same story over and over again. It saves idle chit-chat or speaking about the weather. Some days it seems I never speak about anything but the weather. There is only so much one can say about the rain.’

‘Is there? I never participate in At Homes if at all possible.’ A shudder went through him. ‘On point of principle.’

A sudden pain coursed through Lottie as her future plans crumbled to dust. Not participate. But the After the Marriage calls were some of the most significant calls a woman could ever make. She might not be having the wedding of her dreams, but she thought she’d at least have the calls and the attention. She had dreamt of making such calls ever since she had first been allowed to participate in At Homes.

‘But you will have to.’ Lottie leant forward, placing her hands on her knees to keep them from trembling. ‘We will need to make calls when we get back to Newcastle. The After the Marriage calls are a necessity, or how else will anyone know that we will continue to see them socially? And all of my friends will be anxious to meet you. I dare say they will be quite green with envy. Pea green.’

‘We won’t be living in Newcastle.’ Tristan regarded the woman sitting opposite him. Her head was full of society and outward appearances. At Homes. Dances. Positions. Furthering her status at the expense of others. She had to be made to realise that there was more to life than such things. He wanted to glimpse again the woman who had berated him for not looking after his parents’ graves.

‘Where? London? Or on the Continent? Paris, maybe? I do think I would quite like Paris and its salons.’

‘Not there,’ Tristan said firmly, gritting his teeth. He would test her, and she would learn the lesson. He would reach the woman from the cemetery.

‘Where will we be living?’

‘My uncle left me an estate—Gortner Hall. I have a fancy to settle down. It is up in the North Tyne Valley, about fifteen miles from Haydon Bridge.’

‘Then I will be expected to make calls on the various ladies who live near there.’ Lottie folded her hands in her lap with maddening complacency. ‘It will be expected. You will have to go calling with me. There must be someone I know from Newcastle who could smooth our way…’