He went to London also—of course—because he needed a wealthy bride, though the very idea was becoming more and more distasteful to him. He had not enjoyed his dealings with Miss Heyden when he had known that his only real motive for considering marriage with her was the fortune she would bring with her. He had felt … almost dirty, though there had been no deception involved. She had been the one to approach him, after all, because he needed money and she wanted someone to wed. Good God, they would have hated each other within a fortnight of marrying.
Perhaps. Though perhaps not. He remembered her with a bit of an ache …
But he shook off thoughts of her whenever they threatened to intrude and turned his mind to the future—or rather to the present of these few months in London. He did it, however, with very little enthusiasm for the mission he had set himself.
It soon became apparent that the task was going to be far easier than he had anticipated. He met numerous young ladies in the three weeks following his arrival. This was the Season, after all, and he was the Earl of Riverdale, relatively young and single. The fact that he was not also a wealthy man, that he had inherited a dilapidated heap of an ancestral estate, could be no secret, of course. But far from deterring interest, those facts actually seemed to be an encouragement to some. Wealthy families of lower estate, it turned out, were only too willing to pay handsomely for the chance to marry one of their daughters into the aristocracy in return for a boost to their own social stature. That, some people claimed, was what daughters were for.
Alexander hated to be caught up in such crass cynicism. But the Season was not called the great marriage mart for nothing. He found it difficult and a bit humiliating to attend balls and soirees and concerts and other social events when he knew that all many people saw when they looked at him was an eligible aristocrat who must be looking for an equally eligible—and rich—bride. And, dash it all, they were quite right.
Miss Hetty Littlewood was one of many. Alexander danced with her one evening—twice, in fact, though he was not quite sure how the second one happened. Sometimes one could be taken off guard when ambitious mamas were determined enough. She was eighteen years old, fresh out of the schoolroom, blond and pretty with dimples in both cheeks, and of pleasing disposition. She was happy to chatter about the weather and other people and upcoming events of the Season and fashions. She gazed at him with wide, rather blank blue eyes, however, when he tried to speak of books she said she had read, of a play currently being performed on one of the London stages she said she had attended two evenings previously, and the music performed at a recent concert she said she had enjoyed “more than anything,” and some of the galleries she claimed to have visited and “adored.”
That evening was followed the morning after by an invitation to join the Littlewoods and a select group of their friends at Vauxhall three evenings hence. And the same day Mr. Oswald Littlewood, a florid-faced, portly gentleman, had an acquaintance they had in common introduce them at White’s Club and sat down beside Alexander in the reading room and held forth for half an hour upon his credentials, to the obvious annoyance of those who were actually trying to read the papers or even a book in peace. He was the younger son of a baron, but had ended up ten times richer than his elder brother when an uncle who had amassed a king’s ransom in India—make that a nabob’s ransom, Riverdale—died and left him half of everything.
“A good half,” he added illogically. “And the other, lesser half did not go to my brother.” That fact appeared to please him enormously. He chuckled and rubbed his hands together.
The good Lord had apparently blessed him and Mrs. Littlewood, a considerable heiress in her own right, with only the one daughter, the apple of their eye, the joy of their days, the paragon of all daughters, who aimed to desert her doting parents soon, the little puss, by marrying a handsome gentleman of her own choosing.
“And so besotted with her are her mother and I,” the gentleman added after a hearty laugh at what he appeared to believe was a grand joke, “that we will allow her to have her way, Riverdale. Provided he is a gentleman and respectable, of course. And provided he treats her well. We are in the fortunate position of not having to urge her to choose someone rich to support her. Indeed, if she were to choose a poor gentleman and support him, her mother and I would have no objection, provided he recognized his good fortune. Have you met my good wife and our Hetty, Riverdale?”
Unfortunately, Alexander had already returned an acceptance of the Vauxhall invitation. Even more unfortunately, he must allow himself to be courted. He could not afford not to.
And Miss Littlewood and her fond mama and papa were not the only ones—only the most persistent so far.
Wren spent two and a half busy, happy weeks in Staffordshire. She had no social life, of course, but she did not need one there. She spent her days in the workshops and the offices. She was a familiar figure and felt no self-consciousness, though she always went veiled. She pored over sketches for new products with her manager and designers and engaged them in an often vigorous exchange of views. Those discussions were never either acrimonious or obsequious. There was mutual respect among them all. She went over plans for selling the products and costing projections with the relevant persons and looked over long columns of profits and losses so that she could participate knowledgeably in discussions about finances. She suggested when she was sure of her facts that profits were such that wages could be raised again, and her suggestion was approved.
But one day she sat alone in her office, the door closed so that she could throw back her veil—no one ever entered her room without first knocking. To anyone who did enter, she would look as busy as usual, seated behind her desk as she was, papers spread before her, quill pen in hand.
She was actually drawing up two lists, one headed “Pros,” the other headed “Cons.” The cons list was longer than the other and easier to write.
Cons:
1. Have never been there before, except with Aunt M when I was ten.
2. Do not really want to go.
3. Do not want to see him again.
4. Am sure he feels the same way.
5. Would not know where to go or what to do.
6. Lady O probably did not mean it.
7. Mrs. W almost certainly did not.
8. Am perfectly happy here.
9. Would be just as happy at Withington.
10. Lots of people there. Too many.
11. Do not know anyone there except Lady O, Mrs. W, and him.
12. Do not want to know anyone.
13. Might run into one of them there. Disaster!
14. Specifically, might run into her. Unthinkable!
15. Sleeping dogs are best left lying.
16. It might seem a bit desperate or pathetic.
17. Nothing much to put on the pro list. Means there are no real pros.
Pros:
1. Would exorcise some demons.
2. Could feel proud of myself.
3. Was invited.
4. Would actually like to see St. Paul’s and the National Gallery and other places.
5. Would be able to visit some shops that display our glassware.
6. Would prove I am not a coward. (Same as point 2?)
7. Just because. (Not a reason.)
8. Would see him again. (Contradicts cons.)
9. Just because I want to. (Another contradiction. Plus is this the same as 7?)
The idea that after all she should go to London had been gnawing at Wren since she arrived here—no, actually since the day before she left Wiltshire. Just for a few days, a week at most. She would not have to stay at Westcott House. Indeed, she would not have to let Lady Overfield or anyone else know she was coming—or even that she was there. She could stay at a hotel. She had no fear of doing so as a woman on her own. She would have Maude and other servants with her for respectability. She had been busy and happy here, though. Why give that up? She could stay here as long as she liked and then go home to Wiltshire and be busy and happy there for the rest of the summer.