The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
But you stayed up all night to help me finish my own dress for the wedding.’
‘I think my fingers are still reluctant to pick up a needle again to this day!’ Beatrice laughed.
Claire added her hand on top of the pile. ‘And you were there when I refused Sheriden. And other times, too.’ Her voice broke a little. Claire cleared her throat. ‘Bea, you’ve always been there, for all of us, our glue holding us together in our time of need. We wouldn’t dream of losing you now.’
It wasn’t just a rescued birthday, or a stitch in time on a dress. They’d been there for each other when no one else had. They understood how much it hurt to be left behind by their families, no matter how unintentional, and how much it hurt to face the reality that this was a foreshadowing of their future. They’d been left behind by the dashing gentlemen of the ton.
There would be no gallant matches. Those gentlemen had looked right through them for years in London’s ballrooms either purposely or accidentally choosing not to see them in lieu of seeing some other dewy-eyed, innocent miss. The world they knew had moved on, leaving them behind because they were too smart or too mousy, too anonymous or too outspoken for the ton’s tastes.
May pulled her hand out of the pile and broke the silence that had descended on the room. ‘Beatrice is going to have a baby! We should be celebrating. This is a joyous occasion.’ May reached beneath her chair and pulled out the basket she’d brought. ‘I know just what to celebrate with. Cider and Cook’s chocolate cake squares.’
Claire felt a smile of gratitude for May overtake her face. Leave it to May to know exactly what they needed, what Beatrice needed; not the chocolate, although chocolate helped quite a lot—the celebration. This baby might be a bit unorthodox in its beginnings but it was clear Beatrice was prepared to love the baby, that she already loved it. May passed around chipped cups and the cider jug. She passed around the cake squares, too, until there was only one coveted square left on the plate.
‘Hmm.’ May tapped a long finger on her chin. ‘How shall we decide who gets the last square? How about a game of misery?’
Beatrice laughed, already reaching for the cake. ‘That’s easy. I’m the most miserable. I’m pregnant and the father has disappeared.’
‘Not good enough.’ May lifted the plate out of reach, acting as judge. ‘You may not have a father for the baby, but you have three aunties just waiting to spoil the little dear. Now, on the other hand, I think I should get the square because my parents have threatened to marry me to squint-eyed Vicar Ely this time next year if I don’t succeed in the interim.’ May pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and sighed in exaggerated distress but Claire knew it was no laughing matter. She’d seen the vicar. Vicar Ely was forty-five, squinty, stooped and forever preaching chastisement for sin from the Sunday pulpit. A more inappropriate mate for the outspoken May was not imaginable. Nor was it imaginable that May would actually succumb to such a fate. May would find a way out. May always did.
Evie jumped in, apparently not willing to lose the cake square or to let May feel sorry for herself. All of them were admirable that way, Claire thought; each of them unwilling to let any one of them suffer. ‘May, that’s a year off. Anything could happen. A duke could come on the market and you could snatch him up—’ Evie snapped her fingers ‘—just like that. You have time and I don’t. Andrew is home and declaring to everyone he means to marry. Immediately.’
‘But that’s good news,’ Claire placated Evie with a kind smile, taking her turn. ‘He is home, after two years away, and he’s ready to settle down.’
‘He has to notice me. He hasn’t noticed me in years. Why would now be any different?’ Evie said forlornly. They were all aware of her long-held and unrequited secret crush on her childhood friend, Andrew Adair. ‘At least when he was gone, I knew he wasn’t unavailable. I don’t think I can bear it once he marries and there’s no hope.’ Evie shuddered and Claire could imagine all too well what her friend was envisioning: a lifetime of encountering Andrew and his bride at social functions in Little Westbury and watching Andrew’s children grow up in his ancestral home. That particular horror too closely mirrored the fear she had grappled with lately.
It was the bane of living in a tight-knit community. It was impossible to get away from it unless Evie married and moved. Which wasn’t a bad option. In Claire’s opinion, Andrew Adair was a little less worthy of Evie’s regard than Evie realised. He would only disappoint her in the end.
‘He’s just starting to look for a bride. Men say they want to marry and then they look for ever,’ May put in cheerfully. ‘Remember Viscount Banning? He looked for over three years before deciding on a wife. Sorry, no cake for you. You, like me, have time, too.’ She cast a sly glance in Claire’s direction and Claire froze. No. Not here. Not today. This was her private hell. She wasn’t ready to air it to the others. She regretted even telling May. She tried to signal May with her eyes. Either May didn’t take the hint or chose to ignore it. ‘Tell them, dear. At the very least, you could win the cake square.’
That had all of Beatrice’s attention. ‘What is it, Claire?’ She was not going to tell them, but she was very likely going to kill May. They should be focused on Beatrice now. ‘It’s nothing.’ Claire shot a quelling look at May. ‘There are far bigger concerns for us to deal with. We should focus our attentions on Beatrice.’
‘No, we shouldn’t,’ Beatrice put in firmly. ‘We have seven more months to worry about me. Besides, I could do with a little less self-focus these days. Tell us, May.’
May obliged. ‘It’s Lashley. I have it on excellent rumour from the Foreign Office that he’s to go abroad in a plum diplomatic post in Vienna and Cecilia Northam is angling to go with him as his wife.’
Claire wanted to groan. ‘Excellent rumour’ meant May had heard it from her brother, Preston, who was friends with Sir Owen Danvers, head of the Central European Diplomatic Corps. If Preston said it, it was infallibly true. She wished it wasn’t. She wished there was a margin of error that allowed her to dismiss the news as heresy. Aside from Beatrice’s news, this was the single worse thing that could happen in her world: Jonathon Lashley, set to marry without having even laid eyes on her, without her even having had a chance to win him.
She supposed it was no less than she deserved. What had she ever done to draw Jonathon’s regard? Unlike Evie, who was naturally retiring, Claire had deliberately chosen to retreat from society after a disastrous first Season. She was being served her just desserts for that choice.
‘It was never anything more than a fool’s dream.’ Claire shrugged, valiantly acting as if it were indeed nothing of import. Compared to an unwed pregnancy, it wasn’t of any significance, but from the pitying expressions on their faces, she was not succeeding. They all knew she’d longed after the dashing Jonathon Lashley for years. As open secrets went, it didn’t get any more open. She’d been sweet on Jonathon since the summers they’d all run together in Sussex, four nine-year-old girls relentlessly chasing after May’s older brother and his visiting friend. Back then, Jonathon had gone out of his way to be kind to four nine-year-old girls. She’d fallen hard for those kindnesses. She was falling still and about to hit bottom. ‘Lashley hasn’t even looked twice at me in all the years I’ve been out.’ And now he never would. According to Preston’s rumour, any day, Jonathon would choose Cecilia Northam.
‘Maybe he should. Look twice, that is,’ Beatrice said staunchly. ‘You don’t give yourself a chance, Claire. You are lovely. Women would die for your hair, all those soft brown waves like a rich cup of coffee. You should let me do your hair one evening and Evie could fix up a dress or two for you.’
Claire shook her head at the compliment. ‘Yes, lovely brown hair. Too bad current fashion prefers blondes to brunettes and blue eyes to amber.’ But it was a preference that ran to more than just looks.
She was a pragmatist at heart. English society preferred not only a certain physical ideal, but a particular mental ideal as well—a blank-slated miss to one who could converse with a gentleman in four languages. Statistically speaking, four languages should