Page 45 of A Rational Man (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

M rs. Weatherington eyed her eldest daughter’s costume with a weary eye.

The favorite colour of the Season was Imperial Blue, and Harriet must be the one girl in all of England who did not appear to advantage in it.

All that lace around the throat and bodice and the enormous ribbon around Harriet’s waist had been mistakes, but it was too late to correct them now, and the lace around the neckline might yet be useful.

Harriet was now in her third Season, and was having no more success with this one than she had in the past two.

The poor girl was short in stature, thick around the waist (which was not at all disguised by the wide ribbon), a clumsy dancer and a worse conversationalist. Her dowry was only five thousand pounds, which was considered inadequate given her shortcomings.

She had no friends, as no one wished to align themselves with a young lady who was so clearly an antidote.

She knew her situation, and took refuge in the many dogs she loved and who loved her in return; her clothing so often showed evidence of canine adoration that, all unknown to her, she had acquired the nickname of ‘Hairy’ Harriet.

“Do you understand what you must do?” Mrs. Weatherington demanded of Harriet.

Harriet nodded. “Yes, Mama,” she replied, meekly. In point of fact, Harriet was not meek by nature, but she knew what was required of her; with three younger sisters who would not be permitted out in society until she herself was wed, she was in no position to argue with her parents.

“It is a bold plan,” her mother went on. “But if it is successful, it will be worth it.”

Harriet nodded again.

“The only difficulty, I think, is getting the man to dance with you to begin with. But I believe I have a solution for that, if luck is with us.”

***

Mrs. Weatherington had concocted the plan just three days earlier, when taking tea with Lady Arlington.

There were six ladies in the room, all of whom had daughters to marry off, and the conversation – the only conversation that could take place during the Season – was of the various eligible gentlemen in Town and the likelihood of any of their girls snaring one of them.

Lady Margaret Islington had leaned forward, teacup in hand, saying, “Have you heard aught of Viscount Middleton?”

“We all know that he is rich, titled and handsome,” Lady Arlington had said.

“Then there is more that you must know,” Lady Margaret had insisted. “For my Isabella‘s dearest friend, who I shall not name here, told Isabella said that the Viscount took her out into the shrubberies and insisted that she allow him to kiss her!”

The ladies had all gasped in horror, but of course had to know how the unnamed girl had responded.

“She allowed it, I fear, but it was just one kiss and no one saw them.”

Lady Edith had taken to fanning herself wildly. The reason for this excess of emotion had become clear when she fell back upon the couch and said, “I heard the same thing about him!”

“How does he persuade them? For surely well brought up young ladies would not permit such liberties,” Mrs. Weatherington had protested.

“Isabella said – well, no, her friend said – that he claims he cannot offer for a young lady, however much he may admire her, until he knows how it feels to kiss her!” Her slip had put paid to any belief the ladies might have entertained that it was Isabella’s friend and not Isabella herself who had suffered such an experience.

“He is a rogue, I fear,” said Lady Mary, who had been silent until now.

“But a titled, wealthy, charming rogue, and therein lies the difficulty,” Lady Arlington had sighed.

“And rumour has it that he plans to abandon his bride in the country to resume his antics in Town! But tell me, will all of you attend the Waverly’s ball tonight?

” And no more had been said about the roguish Viscount.

As her carriage had trundled home after tea, Mrs. Weatherington’s plan had taken shape. If her conscience troubled her at all, she soothed it by noting that nothing would suit Harriet better than being relegated to a country house, where she could play with her dogs all day long.

***

Mrs. Weatherington shepherded Harriet into the Waverly ballroom, scanning the attendees as quickly as she was able. She was a tall woman, Harriet having gotten her diminished stature from her father, and she soon saw the Countess of Matlock speaking with her eldest son at the side of the ballroom.

“Come, Harriet, we must strike at once!” she hissed into her daughter’s ear, and all but dragged Harriet to the Countess’ side. “Good evening, Lady Elaine,” she said, curtseying to the Countess. “May I present my daughter?”

The Countess had just finished delivering a scorching lecture to her eldest son, the subject being his expected improved behaviour at the ball tonight, and the last thing she wanted was to be forced into an introduction to yet another hopeful young lady.

However, Mrs. Weatherington was a respected matron who served on the board of no less than three of the Countess’ charities.

The Countess had no reason to snub her, so she replied, “Of course, Mrs. Weatherington.”

The introduction was made; in turn, as manners required, the Countess presented her son.

Just then, the orchestra began a quadrille. As instructed, Harriet pasted a grin onto her face and said, “Oh, how I adore the quadrille! Do you not, Lord Middleton?”

For all his faults, the Viscount knew his duty when it came to dancing with young ladies, and so he gritted his teeth, smiled, and offered Miss Weatherington his arm.

It was a long and awkward dance for both of them.

Harriet had to concentrate very hard on the steps in order to keep up with her partner.

For his part, the Viscount thought he had never before danced with so unattractive and dull a partner, and it was made all the more painful by his certainty that his friends were even now laughing and amusing themselves mightily upon seeing him dance with Hairy Harriet!

When the dance was – finally! – finished, Harriet fanned herself vigorously, saying, “It is so very hot in here that I think I shall faint! Might you bring me to a balcony, sir?”

The Viscount was delighted at the idea of bringing her to a balcony and promptly leaving her there, which would free him to seek more promising pastures. “Of course, Miss Weatherington,” he said.

He escorted her to the nearest balcony; he opened the door and allowed her to precede him.

He opened his mouth to say, “I shall leave you here to enjoy the air,” but the words were never said, as she immediately ripped her bodice and stuck a piece of the lace that had adorned the neckline into his hand.

She then screamed to the very stars in the sky.

Mrs. Weatherington, in keeping with her plan, had followed her daughter’s progress and placed herself next to those balcony doors. Upon hearing Harriet’s scream, she launched herself into the balcony and yelled, “Compromise! Oh, my poor Harriet!”

The inevitable then occurred; everyone wanted to see who had been compromised and by whom, so that they might be able to tell the tale the next day.

Those who could reach the balcony did so; those who were not so fortunate were forced to rely on the whispers that spread immediately throughout the ballroom.

“Viscount Middleton!” “Heavens!” “Harriet Weatherington!” “Hairy Harriet? Surely not!” “Yes, ripped bodice!” “I cannot believe it; what need had he –“ “And her own mother saw it!”

The Countess heard the whispers and immediately set out to see what had happened.

The crowd parted for her, of course, everyone agog to hear what Lady Matlock would have to say.

Upon reaching the balcony, she saw Mrs. Weatherington attempting to look shocked, Miss Weatherington clasping her hands to her exposed bosom and doing her very best to appear mortified, and her eldest son opening and closing his mouth like a fish, unable to speak.

It was clear to the Countess what had occurred, of course; she was no fool.

Her thoughts ran in perfect straight lines.

Her son had not compromised this young lady; she could hold no attraction for him.

No, indeed, the young lady had compromised him, and the scene laid out before her was the result of a carefully planned and faultlessly executed plot. The Countess was forced to admire it.

Her son had been hoping to do a good deal better than Miss Weatherington, certainly, but she had to admit that he richly deserved this catastrophe. And, frankly, there was no honourable way out.

“Mrs. Weatherington,” the Countess said, turning to address that worthy lady. “You would be willing to serve on a few more of my committees, would you not?”

“It would be a privilege, Lady Elaine,” was the immediate reply.

Everyone now understood that a wedding would take place very soon.