A melia stared at the note in her hand. The stationery was familiar, as was the handwriting, but the contents weren’t exactly what she had been looking forward to hearing from her dear cousin.
My Dearest Amy,
Forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings.
My mother's ailments make it impossible for me to host you and Thea at Cavendish Square at present.
I shall be fully engaged for the next fortnight in sorting out her affairs, so our plan must be postponed.
I will write again when I am able, but in the meantime, you must get on as best you can at home.
With affection,
Jem
It was a little disappointing to have one’s dreams dashed so soon after having just formed them, but the hope of being able to leave Mother’s endless nagging behind had always been a trifle too good to be true.
For some reason she could not fathom, Papa, after a passionate romance on the other side of the world, had decided to spend the rest of his life tethered to a petty, mercurial English widow who only ever saw opportunities for her own advancement rather than what was truly good for her husband’s household.
If Jem or Thea were here, they might explain to Amelia that such practical marriages were common—that Papa likely needed someone experienced to keep his home while he whiled away his days in reminiscence and fantasies.
But people who said that were often the people who did not have to live through the consequences of such practicality.
Amelia sighed as she tucked her cousin’s note away.
It was never fun to face the realities of life.
Why did people’s happiness have to be limited by geography or money or class?
It would all be so much easier if young ladies were allowed to be as frivolous or serious or different as they could be, and if reputations and money didn’t matter as much as they did.
Her eyes caught on her mother’s jewelry box as she turned, and she eased herself onto the wooden stool to study it.
The soft lines were not as free as the ones on Papa’s painting yesterday—a painting that he was determined to have evaluated by his fellow embassy friends as soon as he could contrive it to be—but they were just as delicate and precise.
The painted women on the porcelain sported elaborate hairstyles that would impress even the most highly-trained lady’s maid, their black tresses twisted elegantly with pearls and jewels.
Amelia’s own hair was not quite as dark, more chestnut than ebony, but it did flow straight and heavy, traits that could only have come from her mother, what with Papa’s wispy light hair being almost an exact opposite.
The dinner gong sounded, and Amelia reluctantly tucked away the box once more.
Had her mother been as dainty and refined as the ladies painted on the box, or had she been free-spirited and excitable, a true muse for Papa’s artistic tendencies?
“Amelia!” Mother shrieked.
There were some things that Amelia might simply have to content herself with never knowing.
Dinner proceeded as it always did, with Mother sneering at Amelia’s supposedly foreign manners, with her stepsisters sniggering, and with Papa remaining largely unperturbed.
Her two younger half-brothers were still safely in the nursery, tucked away from the comings and goings of adulthood, and Amelia rather envied them half the time.
Mother complained about the rising bills, the neighbor’s dog, and the difficulty of securing a proper companion for her daughters. She complained about Amelia’s dress, Papa’s cravat, and the way a maid had not replied to her immediately that morning.
She complained so much that Amelia stopped listening—and was only roused back to attention when Mother repeated, loudly, “Isn’t that right, Martin?”
Papa started at Mother’s suggestion, as if it was the first rather than the twentieth time she’s solicited his agreement during tonight’s dinner alone.
If it weren’t so very commonplace an occurrence, Amelia might have laughed.
As things were, she exerted her effort into not rolling her eyes too far instead.
Papa might be thoughtful when it came to Amelia, or all things remotely tied to the Far East he loved, but he really was rather absent-minded when it came to everything else.
Amelia hid a sigh as she glanced at Mother across the table. Papa might be the one the church and society recognized as the head of the family, but Mother ran the household for all intents and purposes.
And if Amelia needed anything—be it permission for a drive, a proper new traveling dress, or the concession to live away from home—it would be Mother she had to convince.
In fact, one could consider the fact that she thought to ask Papa at all to be a bit of a joke.
It was not as if Papa ever contradicted her.
But then Mother said, “It is high time we do so. She will be on the shelf before we know it if we do not take matters properly in hand.”
“Not quite,” answered Papa, “but it is to be considered.”
“Considered?” Mother snorted. “Don’t tell me you are changing your mind now, Martin. The solicitor has already drafted the settlements according to your specifications.”
Amelia’s breath caught. Was this talk of marriage—and if it was, whose?
“We have time to think on it still,” said Papa.
“We most certainly do not! Do you think such an opportunity comes around often? If I were any more selfish, I would have arranged a match for my own Jane or Sarah instead.”
“Papa,” Amelia said quietly.
“I understand you have exerted great effort,” said her father, ignoring her.
“Papa,” beseeched Amelia, a new urgency rising against her chest.
“Tell her, Martin. Just tell her the truth.”
“It can wait.”
“It cannot wait.”
“Mrs. Fitzwater, my dear, we?—”
“Tell me what?” Amelia blurted. Mother smirked, Jane and Sarah sniggered, and Papa looked at Amelia with a resigned, almost apologetic, look.
“Your mother and I—” Papa spoke slowly, his reluctance making the uncertainty in Amelia’s stomach churn even harder. “That is, we have arranged a match for you.”
Mother cleared her throat.
“You shall marry in two months’ time,” he said.
“Marry!” Amelia gaped, dumbstruck. “But who?”
“It is all perfectly arranged and nothing you need to worry your empty little head about.” Mother sniffed. She so often sniffed more than she spoke. “Your father has deemed him suitable, and so it shall be. The banns shall be called quite as soon as the settlement is signed.”
“You wish me to marry a perfect stranger? A man I have never ever even met?” Amelia felt her chest constricting, her breaths growing shorter by the second as the very nightmare she had believed impossible in her own life unfolded right before her eyes. “But Papa—surely, you would not?—”
But Papa averted his gaze, his usually fond smile tucked behind a hardened visage.
“Papa,” Amelia pleaded.
“Your mother is right,” he said, softly yet firmly. “It is high time you marry.”
“Am I such a burden to you, Papa?” The tears came unbidden. Amelia fought her hardest to swallow them. “There are other ways to relieve you of my care. You have always called me your treasure.”
“And you are,” he answered in clipped tones. “But I cannot keep you with me forever. And since a suitable offer has been made?—”
“To a very rich man’s son too,” Mother added grandly, as if she were the very heart of charity. She sniffed, her nose scrunching up like a wrinkled handkerchief. Her daughters snickered after her. “Many would envy you for marrying into such wealth, given your utter lack of dowry.”
“My dowry—” Amelia caught her breath. She’d always heard of people discussing dowries—bandying numbers about in ballrooms as if they were badges of honor. She’d never given much thought to her own, secure in the belief that her father would surely never let her starve.
It seemed as if that belief had been rather ill-placed .
And while it was true that marriage was hardly akin to destitution, particularly marriage to a supposedly wealthy heir, the feeling of being disposed of in such a perfunctory manner was an entirely disheartening sensation.
“Could I not find other arrangements, Papa?” Amelia pleaded. “Thea and Jem said yesterday morning that?—”
“Do you think they can secure your future as much as a father or a husband can?” Mother scoffed. “I had always thought you ungrateful, but this is beyond the pale.”
“It is not that I am refusing to marry altogether.” Amelia reined in her runaway emotions as best she possibly could—which was not very well at all. “But to be forcibly betrothed to a total stranger?—”
“Do you happen to know anyone better?” Mother’s high-handed tone oozed of self-importance. “You have not exactly been the jewel of the Season, my dear.”
Amelia’s eyes stung. Her lips trembled. She liked to think herself moderately pretty and reasonably amiable, but she couldn’t exactly boast a long line of suitors either. “But how can one be certain of one’s happiness when one’s entire life is to be entrusted to a man entirely unknown?”
“We know everything that is important. Don’t we, Martin?”
Papa grunted softly, a pitiful way of concurring.
Mother continued, “You could hardly expect to ever do better than a tradesman’s son.”
“A tradesman’s—” Amelia felt the quivering down to her bones.
She had never been the sort to concern herself overly much with titles and such superficial things.
She’d never even begrudged her cousins their titles as ladies, even as her own stepsisters liked to lament over the fact.
But to pawn her off to a tradesman’s child, especially when Mother was involved, could only be construed as an act of insult.
She turned to her father one last time. “Papa, surely, there are other ways to?—”
“It has all been decided.” Papa frowned. His jaw was set, his tone as resigned as it was resolute. “I shall sign the papers as soon as they are readied.”