And Amelia fled the room before she could drown the silverware in her tears. There were very few things she wouldn’t do for her dear Papa. It seemed that the family had finally found one of them.
It took a long night of tossing and turning before Amelia decided that something had to be done concerning this ridiculous scheme of Mother’s.
While there was no doubt that the current Mrs. Fitzwater would have signed away her guardianship at the slightest provocation, it was unlike Papa to be so cavalier about it.
Raised without a proper English mother, Amelia might not be considered anything close to a diamond amidst polite society, but she was respectable—and it made little sense to dispose of her to the first tradesman’s son to offer.
What did her parents even know of this prospective bridegroom?
Their family might not be close to being as wealthy as her titled relatives, but they hardly needed to barter her away for funds.
Papa had always talked about Amelia carrying on her mother’s legacy.
And what could that legacy be if not money?
Freshly determined to take control of her fate, Amelia tapped softly at the library door. This was certainly not an encounter she wanted Mother privy to.
“Come in!” came Papa’s familiar voice.
Amelia smiled as she slipped inside, wholly unsurprised to see her father bent over yet another pamphlet by Sir George Staunton and his friends. The baronet was determined to establish some sort of Asiatic society, and Papa had always loved being swept up at the idea of it all.
“Papa,” she called out, softer than usual.
He looked up, and a sad sort of shadow shifted over his face, visible despite his spectacles, before he removed them from his face. “Amelia, darling.”
She stepped closer. “I wish to talk to you, Papa.”
He sighed, an unusual gesture when it came to Amelia. But he set aside his spectacles and nodded at her. “Of course.”
“Must I truly marry this tradesman’s son?”
He did not look particularly pleased to be asked so bluntly, but he showed no surprise. Amelia never did have much of the gift of artifice.
“It is best for everyone involved,” Papa said gruffly.
“But why?” Amelia rushed forward until she stood right before his desk. “I am only nineteen, hardly a spinster, and I don’t require so much upkeep, surely.”
“No, you do not. Not beyond the usual.”
“I know I haven’t managed to make much of an impression on the marriage mart these last two Seasons, but if I had known you wished for me to be wed sooner, I could always make the effort.”
“An admirable thought, Amy.”
“But not a good one?” She was fast losing the collected calm she’d garnered this morning.
“Please, Papa. My dowry is decent, isn’t it?
You’ve always talked of my mother’s legacy.
I do not know if money from China counts much by the way of things, but it must be worth something .
And if it is money the household needs, then you can use that money. There is no need to sell me.”
“I would never sell my child.” Papa sounded gravely offended, and Amelia regretted her words instantly.
“Well, not sell, perhaps.” She sighed. “But don’t barter me away, at least.”
“That has never been and will never be my intention.” Papa spoke with so much conviction that Amelia felt almost guilty for her ever having suggested it.
“Then we can find another way then? I don’t know how the law works in these things, but I can sign anything I need to to give you my dowry. You can use that, and we shan’t have to marry me off to get money.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is?” Amelia pleaded. “You cannot think it necessary for me to marry so young.”
Papa cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the confrontation. It was no doubt the very trait that allowed Mother to always have her way around the house. “If a good candidate presents himself, then there is no reason to decline.”
“They probably only want me because they think the niece of an earl comes with boundless wealth!”
“Is that so very bad?”
“Well, to be thought of as only that—” Amelia felt her eyes sting. “Can we not tell people something else then? I know I am not nearly ladylike enough or proper enough or—or even English enough for some people, but to be robbed of my choice this way is unbearable.”
“It is best if?—”
“Can I not just sign my dowry over to you, Papa?”
“You cannot?—”
“Why can’t?—”
“Because there is no dowry, Amelia.”
She stared at Papa, his words making little sense to her. The ticking of the clock echoed loudly in her ears.
“No dowry?” she whispered hollowly. “But my mother?—”
“Whatever it was she brought to the marriage is not something of monetary value in the eyes of the ton .”
Amelia let the idea settle. “And Grandpa Aldbury?—”
“That was not much, not at all when one chips away at it over the years.”
Amelia’s chest tightened slowly, choking away the confidence she’d had all these years over who she was. Who was she now? What was she apart from the novelty of being a foreign-born distant relation of an earl? Her mother was a princess! That had to count for something, didn’t it?
“We wish you no harm, my Amy,” Papa said softly, his voice blurred against the humming in her ears.
“But I possess no illusions when it comes to our own standing in society. If a good enough match presents itself, then it is best that we take the opportunity while we can. It could be arranged for you to meet the fellow, if you must, but I do not see how it might change the outcome very much.”
Every protest Amelia had died on her tongue, crushed by the weight of her recent revelations.
“I need to go,” she said .
Papa did not challenge her.
It was the slightest of comforts—barely any, truly—that Mother did not overly protest when Amelia refrained from joining for dinner. It was unlikely that there had been no protest at all, but Amelia was at least not around to hear it.
Instead, she spent the whole afternoon and evening alternating between moping in her bed, fuming at her dressing table, and fretting in front of the fire that looked as sad and troubled as she felt.
Every so often, she’d think of sending a note to Thea or Jem.
But Jem had sounded distracted enough in her message yesterday morning, and Thea was not always home even if Amelia could contrive a way to call on her.
As she didn’t drive her own high-perch phaeton like her cousin, or have any sort of carriage at her beck and call at all, a physical visit was not easily contrived.
And any missive would surely be intercepted by Mother before it could get out the door.
There truly seemed to be little recourse at all.
Amelia huffed as she fell back against the ratty, old chair relegated her.
All these years, she’d tried her best to act the part of a lady. She’d tried to please her prickly stepmother and emulate her perfectly poised titled cousins.
But what good had it all done?
She was different. She’d always been.
And Papa’s words this morning, both spoken and unspoken, clearly communicated that fact. Her mother might be a foreign princess. She might even be a queen of a distant land herself. But it all still wouldn’t matter.
Mother still wanted to be rid of her, in any dignified way she could manage. And Papa?—
Amelia swallowed, her eyes pricking. She had thought herself safe—safe in Papa’s love, safe in her home, safe in the potential provision of her cousins.
Now it seemed as if all her plans, best-laid or otherwise, were falling apart one by one—and there was nothing to stem the rapid unraveling of her future apart from removing herself from her house altogether.
Amelia caught her breath, her heart roaring in her ears.
She licked her lips. Was this what had driven Princess Charlotte to flee her royal apartments?
If the future queen of England herself had no other means of thwarting an unwanted marriage apart from running away, then Amelia’s prospects looked very grim indeed.
A glimmer of porcelain caught the corner of her eye.
Amelia glanced at the jewelry box on her dressing table, the gold trim untarnished after all these years.
Her breath quickened as she inched over.
She picked up the box, inspecting the hand-painted ladies on the pristine white surface with a lump in her throat.
This was her mother’s. This was her true mother’s legacy.
Had her mother lived—or, perhaps, if her parents had chosen to continue staying on in China—Amelia herself might have been raised to be one of these painted women, genteel and accomplished in all the Asian arts.
Papa liked to speak of so many things he and his travel companions had witnessed—delicate paintings, exotic instruments, elaborate embroidery, and the fascinating foreign tongue of the Mandarin court.
Papa had even invited a few of those friends over once, when Amelia had been a mere child, and all the lords and gentlemen had seemed entranced by her mixed features even then.
Amelia steeled herself with a deep, stabilizing breath. If this family did not want her, then she would simply have to find one who did.
She closed her fingers around her mother’s jewelry box, her mind already cataloguing the coins and clothes she would have to bring along. If England held no proper home for her, then she would simply have to head for China.