Page 20 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

The mention of his lordship succeeded in distracting Ambrosia somewhat, for the whole palaver had been deeply embarrassing.

Lord Charles Heysten had been most put out when Louisa had, in a moment of enthusiasm whilst conversing with Lady Falshaw’s daughter, flung her arm down upon her periwinkle bowl which resulted in Mrs Denby’s excellent hazelnut and parsnip soup slopping onto the gentleman’s new embroidered waistcoat.

The incident had quite ruined the evening, for Lord Heysten left early, leaving said waistcoat in the care of Martha’s daughter, Loveday (Ambrosia smiled a moment).

The waistcoat was cleaned as well as could be, and had since been returned to Heysten Park, but the damage was done and what a shame it was too – the note of apology Ambrosia included was ignored, and she had not heard from his lordship since.

Which in truth really was rather ungracious of him.

In the corner where she sat embroidering a handkerchief for Juliette’s trousseau, Maria uttered a little huff .

‘I cannot see why you should wish him here,’ said she, pulling a piece of fine gold thread through the muslin to add a tiny flick to the arm of her sister’s initial. ‘I have never met a man so boorish.’

‘Dearest,’ scolded Ambrosia, ‘Lord Heysten is not boorish. He is merely a man of reserve and good sense. I daresay it was very gracious of him to accommodate your ill-mannered questions. Your father and I were deeply mortified you carried on so.’

Maria rested her embroidery. ‘All I did was suggest he build some ornamental gardens in the grounds of Heysten Park, like the Chinese Pavilions in Vauxhall or the Rotunda in Ranelagh. Think of the parties he could have! He would be the catch of the county if only he allowed it. To be sure, the depth of his pocketbook certainly makes up for his lack of good looks.’

‘Maria …’

‘ Well! ’ Ambrosia’s second daughter sniffed at her mother’s warning tone as Louisa tittered into her almonds.

‘I only speak the truth. He would be far more appealing if he put his money to some entertaining use. He does not even squander it, just sits on it like a mother hen. I tell you, Maman , ’tis a waste.

Heysten Park has been going to rack and ruin for years – now the old Lord Heysten is dead, the new one should really do something about it. ’

‘Sir Robert,’ mused Rosalie dreamily, ‘says that if Heysten Park were his, he would install a lake in the grounds and build a Grecian temple on its bank, with roses growing up its pillars.’ Ambrosia’s youngest sighed wistfully.

‘Can you think of anything more romantic? It would make a fine backdrop for a wedding ceremony … do you not think, Maman ?’

Ambrosia frowned. The question had been leading, and there could be no doubt as to why Rosalie should ask such a thing. But before she could answer there came a groan from the figure upon the windowseat.

‘For goodness’ sake, Rosalie,’ said Charlotte, turning a page of her Snelgrave. ‘Do you truly have no ambition in life other than to marry?’

Rosalie, who sat cross-legged on the floor playing with the family cat, sent her sister a despairing look.

‘Just because you have no desire for a life of matrimony does not mean the rest of us are at fault for wanting it.’

Charlotte regarded her sister balefully.

‘Do you honestly wish to be shackled to a man who would think of you merely as a chattel, a body to produce offspring year after year, and afterward have not one single word to say to you beyond Good morning and Goodnight ?’

‘Oh,’ cried Rosalie, ‘Sir Robert would not treat a lady in such a way, I am quite sure.’

‘Then you are a bigger simpleton than I thought.’

‘Charlotte,’ scolded Ambrosia, ‘do not be cruel,’ to which the young lady rolled her eyes, and Rosalie bestowed upon her mother a smile.

Ambrosia did not like that smile, however – it was altogether too bright, too blithe, and caused in her a profound sense of unease. What, pray, had the Duke of Morley been saying to her youngest child that should put such thoughts into her innocent head?

‘I think Sir Robert would make a fine husband,’ said Louisa in wistful tones.

‘He’s unquestionably rich enough,’ added Maria, needle bobbing. ‘There can be no supposing he is stingy with his pocketbook. He could keep me in silks and satins for years. Have you not seen, after all, how finely he dresses?’

‘I have,’ breathed Rosalie, still with that silly smile upon her lips. ‘I have never known a man so handsome. Indeed, I think him quite the handsomest man in the county!’

‘ I think you a silly little fool.’

To this Rosalie stuck out her tongue at Charlotte and chucked Mr Palamedes under his ginger chin.

Louisa thoughtfully crunched on an almond.

Maria continued to sew. Ambrosia, who wished to warn her daughters of the grievous disadvantages of their suit but could not – at that present moment – find the words or the vigour for such a task, turned instead to Charlotte.

‘Do you not think, dearest, that you are being a little too harsh in your opinions? Not all gentlemen are as you describe. Your father is not.’

Charlotte lowered her book, and looked upon her mother with what could only be described as an air of sympathy.

‘But so many are. I concede that Père is an exception, a rarity among men. But even so –’ and here Charlotte looked about the room at her sisters, her point as clear as crystal from the way she lingered upon each of them – ‘five of us. Six if …’ She trailed off, little Edmond an unspoken memory.

‘You were very lucky, Maman ,’ said Charlotte softly.

‘But still, I should hate to be producing so often, with scarce time to breathe between one child and the next, and that’s even if I survived the birthings.

Would you not have preferred to see the world?

To make some change in it for the better? ’

Ambrosia opened her mouth to speak, but Maria – who had uttered a most unladylike snort – intervened.

‘I do not think marriage can be so onerous as you make it out to be, sister. Look at Juliette and Nicolas! What a fine pairing they make, and they were friends first before they embarked upon a match. And while I do not suppose I could make a match as superior as theirs in terms of affection –’ and at this she gave a rather pointed sniff in the direction of her other sisters – ‘I intend to marry very well indeed.’

‘Though you might be pretty, Maria,’ muttered Louisa, scowling into her golds and silvers, ‘you are hardly fit to be the wife of a duke.’

It was a rather uncharitable thing for her to say, but Ambrosia did concede that owing to Maria’s often unladylike behaviour the statement was correct. At Louisa’s comment, however, Maria merely shrugged, laid aside the handkerchief and pushed her needle into the arm of her chair.

‘I am the eldest out of all of you. Sir Robert almost certainly thinks of you , Louisa, as a child.’

‘At least I am well behaved at social gatherings.’

‘ You are an inelegant brat. Consider what happened at dinner last week.’

‘ Maman! ’ cried Louisa in affront. ‘Can you believe—’

‘No wonder Lord Heysten has not come back to Wakely,’ continued Maria, ignoring her sister’s ire with an upward turn of her pert nose. ‘Who would wish to be seated beside such a clumsy creature as you?’

‘Girls!’ interjected Ambrosia. ‘I will not have you lashing out at each other. ’Tis Christmas, a time for us to be merry. I shall not—’

‘I do not see why either one of you should marry Sir Robert when it was I who caught Juliette’s bouquet.’

Such a declaration succeeded in silencing all three ladies, and in surprise Ambrosia, Maria and Louisa turned to face a pouting Rosalie.

‘At least I would have, if Miss Brown had not got in my way. Truly, Maman ,’ said her youngest, ‘I should think it most unfair if Maria or Louisa were to get engaged before I did. The bouquet was meant for me. Fate put the bouquet in my path, fate shall see to it that I am the sister to marry next, and I am certain fate has deemed me to be the next Duchess of Morley!’

At this Ambrosia was quite unable to summon a response. It was Charlotte who interceded – having for some minutes neglected her book to witness the ridiculousness of the conversation – and she proceeded to huff and roll her eyes.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Rosalie, listen to yourself.

However can you be so cork-brained? If such a thing as fate existed, then logic dictates that fate does not work in almosts .

’Twas Miss Brown, not you, who caught Juliette’s flowers.

You truly are a fool, sister, and no man wants a silly wife. Especially not a duke.’

‘No man wants a wife who reads all day either,’ came the tart reply.

‘Just as well I have no wish to take a husband then, isn’t it?’

‘Girls,’ groaned Ambrosia, pressing a finger to her left temple, where the beginnings of an ache had started to pulse. ‘Please. It has been a tiring few days, and I am in no mood for your bickering.’

Louisa – who through all her faults was at least sensitive to her mother’s moods – held out the bowl of almonds. ‘Oh, Maman . Sit. We are sorry, are we not?’

The girls looked between themselves, and in due course nodded. With a small sigh of relief Ambrosia crossed the room and took a silver-coated nut between forefinger and thumb.

‘I shall sit, but at my desk. I will pen a letter, I think.’

Maria’s fair brows shot up. ‘To whom?’

‘Lord Heysten,’ Ambrosia replied, seating herself, and said nothing more.

The girls did not venture another word either, and for this the viscountess was glad for her head had begun then to pound in earnest. Still, such alarming talk – most especially on Rosalie’s part – about securing the hand of Sir Robert Grey, and Louisa’s mention of Lord Heysten, had presented in Ambrosia a spark of an idea.