Page 41 of A Marriage is Arranged

The Dowager had been right: the period of peace and quiet for the newlyweds was over. In the next week they had invitations to a musical soirée, a select dinner party at Lady Pevensey’s and a card party. The week after, there were two balls, one at Almack’s for which the Patronesses had sent vouchers. Other routs, ridottos, picnics, parties, and more balls followed.

Louise had already made the decision to accept all the invitations. It would mean in the evenings she and her husband would be more out than in. That suited her, as she would have to spend even less time alone with him. But this plan would necessitate very many more gowns than she had anticipated.

Accordingly, she made a list of the affairs she had to attend and sent them to Véronique. She begged her to make up as a matter of urgency as many gowns as she thought she would need. She would pay extra for expedited delivery.

The Earl frowned at the stack of invitations his wife had accepted on their behalf, but didn’t say anything. Had it been up to him, he would have put most of them in the rubbish, but she was new to London and even the most hackneyed entertainment must seem exciting to her. He was disappointed she was still treating him with great distance, talking little and apparently avoiding him whenever she could. But having decided that this was part of the female condition, he shrugged and got on with his life .

He spent long days in the House where there was a great deal to do in the fortnight before the end of the session. On the rare occasion they were at home in the evening, Louise excused herself immediately after dinner and he took himself off to his club. Being married was proving to have as little impact on his life as he had hoped. Why, then, was he dissatisfied?

The first event they attended as man and wife was a musical evening. Gareth detested this form of entertainment and the invitation was one he most certainly would have consigned to the waste-bin. Nevertheless, he resigned himself to an excruciating evening in the supremely uncomfortable gold spindle-backed chairs he hated.

Louise wore the becoming purple and lace evening gown. She hadn’t worn it yet outside the home so no one had seen it, and her hair was arranged elegantly.

The Dowager had been as good as her word, and the girl Susan had arrived. There was a moment of confusion at table in the servants’ hall because Rose and she were in the same position. But Susan immediately said, “No, Rose, you’ve been with ’er ladyship longer and you should go above me.”

With that, their friendship was cemented.

Susan was as unlike Rose as could be imagined: tall and thin, her scraped back hair and high-necked black gown making her look more than her eighteen years. However, she proved to be more than equal to Louise’s unruly curls. She soon had them elegantly pinned on the top of her mistress’s head with side curls over her ears.

The soprano sang with more emotion than accuracy and her figure, which was so corseted that it looked as if her bosom were being presented on a shelf, wobbled like a blancmange on the high notes. In spite of the sorrow in her heart, Louise had to bite her lip not to smile. She glanced sideways at her husband to see if he showed any sign of amusement, but his gaze was fixed impassively ahead.

The emotional gap between them was beginning to weigh heavily on her and she longed for someone to laugh with. She had not considered how lonely she would be in her detachment. The first two weeks of her marriage now seemed like halcyon days. She sometimes wished she had not discovered the truth about her husband. Then she would have gladly accepted a change in the infamous contract and been happy in her ignorance. But, she chided herself, it was much better she know the truth. Ignorance was not bliss.

She was spending hours in her rooms adding to her collection of caricatures. She realized her unhappiness was making her images darker. She drew them with an uncompromising pencil and though they were funny, they were wickedly so.

At supper after the concert, she exchanged a few commonplaces with her husband before enacting the Perfect Countess, smiling gently and engaging in a quiet conversation with Mr. Rutherford, the somewhat older gentleman on her other side. She gave him her full attention, speaking softly and without coquetry.

“’Pon my word,” he remarked later in his club, “Gary Wandsworth has done all right for himself with that Louise Grey.”

“Bit of a plain Jane, ain’t she? Or at least so I hear.”

“Perhaps, can’t say I noticed. She’s a good kind of girl. Talked sensibly, none of that giggling they go in for. Well informed too. We talked about stuff in the newspaper.”

“I never heard old Gary going in for a woman like that. The article he used to have on his arm probably never read anything more than the label on a hatbox.”

The select dinner at Lady Pevensey’s confirmed Louise’s reputation. A new evening gown in a shimmering gold had arrived just that morning. Like her wedding dress, its apparent simplicity belied the excellent cut. Her hair, with which Susan had once more performed miracles, was this time pinned up and threaded with a gold ribbon. She wore no jewelry and looked elegant without ostentation.

On that occasion, she engaged Lord Veness, a grouchy, taciturn gentleman who was generally only invited because his wife was a leader of the ton and it was social suicide to ignore her. He addressed himself with dislike to his plate, for his grouchiness was brought on by chronic dyspepsia, and he had an abhorrence of rich food.

Louise saw immediately what the problem was and made delicate inquiries as to his health. Like most people with constant discomfort, he was only too pleased to reveal the source of his suffering. Louise commiserated with such attentiveness that, though she herself enjoyed perfect health and could eat anything she chose, her partner felt he had found an ally. Lady Veness was astonished to see him actually smile at the new Countess. He certainly did not find her plain. In fact, if asked, he would have said she was a damned fine woman.