Chapter 2

Chapter Two

" M ust we truly describe the details of every single dance, Mama?" Brooke groaned loudly from her writing desk while the other two ladies occupied the once-fashionable couches. "I don't think anything remarkable comes to mind. You were watching us the whole evening, were you not? You even remarked on how gangly the Sternwells' cousin looked as he tried to tuck his arms in for the waltz."

Rose watched her sister with an amused smile. Brooke was not wrong. There really was precious little they could tell Mama, given that she had indeed spent the entirety of the Danube Ball watching her two daughters make their imaginary conquests, but Brooke truly ought to know better than to expect anything else from Mama.

It had not been anyone's intention that the two remaining single sisters share a societal debut. But with Papa's passing catching everyone by surprise mere months before Rose's intended Season—and with all the financial and logistical ramifications that followed the devastating loss—it had seemed best for the two sisters to go about Town together this year.

Brooke was already nineteen, and Rose herself a ripe one and twenty. Neither of them minded sharing the measly attention still spared for their families these days, and it was actually more economical to share a carriage, a maid, and any accessories they could still afford for their wardrobe. At least, by the time the new Lord Shallingsworth came to take over the townhouse, both sisters would have done whatever they could to maximize their matrimonial odds their last year in London.

"Well, there must be something worth noting." Mama sighed from her seat at the center of Nottingham House's famous pink drawing room. Once upon a time, the room had boasted rows upon rows of suitors—all vying for the hand of their sister Violet. The memory felt far away now, as if it were painted in faded watercolors rather than lived through by the same people occupying the room today. "If we shall be out of a house by next year, every dance counts."

"There are many sorts of dances, Mama," said Rose, her hands as occupied with her embroidery as Brooke's were with her endless scribbling. Brooke might well-nigh afford a new gown every week if she didn't order paper as often as she did, but the youngest Nottingham daughter could not be persuaded away from her writing for anything. "There is the dance of preference, when a gentleman approaches a woman he actually wishes to dance with. There is the dance of duty, when a gentleman agrees to dance with a familiar friend or perhaps a relative of the woman he is courting. And then there is the dance of pity—reserved for daughters of forgotten noble families, lest our well-trained feet fall into disrepair."

Brooke chuckled freely while Mama frowned and sighed. "Must you jest about everything, Rose? "

"You know I do not, Mama. I only observe—and state my observations."

"Your so-called observations can be so cruel."

"Life is cruel," Rose said matter-of-factly. She was not bitter about life. It had never been in her nature to be. But there was no denying that their fall from societal favor had been despondently quick upon Papa's death. "I am only a realist for acknowledging it to be exactly what it is."

Mama's voice shook slightly when she spoke again, "I wish it weren't like this—especially for the two of you."

Rose paused her needle and looked up. A melancholy look had passed over Mama's usual elegance, and Rose almost felt guilty for being too frank again. Just because she was objective enough to never let a stray observation bother her did not mean that Mama was the same. Whatever high hopes Mama might once have held following Heather and Violet's respective marriages had clearly been trampled away by the woeful realities of widowhood.

Rose leaned over to squeeze her mother's hand, smiling in as encouraging a manner as she could. "Brooke and I are getting on splendidly. We were always happy with Violet's cast-offs, weren't we? We do not feel the sting so greatly. And given that Miss Fenris did not even dance a single dance all evening, our three dances were most respectable indeed."

"I think I had to dance more than I wanted to," Brooke added a little too cheerfully to be entirely helpful. "My feet were dreadfully sore by the night's end."

"Yes, but it isn't just the dances, is it?" Mama lamented. "To have to worry about the harsh realities of life—to have to economize and share when your sisters never had to?—"

"It does not bother us a whit, I promise," Rose avowed. "We have altogether too much good sense to think we need half a dozen gowns made every month."

"And God knows how much we have benefited from your good sense these two years."

Rose met Mama's eyes, her own heart moved by the surprisingly sincere smile on her parent's face. The Mama of yesteryear might think it important only for a young lady to be pretty, elegant, and musically accomplished. But this version of Mama, touched by the pains of loss and financial constraints, was decidedly more practical. In some ways, Rose was thankful to be living with this rendition of her, even if she could never consider the cause of the alteration a desirable one.

"It is my pleasure, you must know." Rose turned back to her sampler and picked at her latest stitch. "I know you wish for us to marry, Mama, and Brooke and I are not averse to the notion. It is only that?—"

"Men have no taste for intellectuals and sensible young ladies." Brooke huffed. "And we are not about to simper like fools just to get one of them to notice us."

"My daughters are never fools," said Mama benevolently.

"Yes, because we never simper." Brooke grinned before resuming her writing.

Rose laughed.

It was easy to forget the precariousness of their situation during moments like this. The new Viscount Shallingsworth, a distant cousin, had been kind enough to extend their use of the townhouse for two years. But once the time came for the rightful heir to take his place, as he should, it would be the modest dower house at Shallingsworth Park up North rather than London that loomed for the three women's collective future.

Was it any wonder that Mama acted as if this Season was the be all and end all of their dreams? Mama, who had lived all her life in the heart of society, was teetering on the edge of a permanent retirement—unless Rose or Brooke managed to marry.

And while they could always try to stay with Heather or Violet, Rose doubted either of her older sisters would be able to tolerate even an ameliorated version of Mama in their homes for the long run. No household can serve two mothers, even if one of them was your own.

"We promise that we are on our best behavior always, Mama," Rose tried to sound comforting. "And any man truly worth his while will notice us in due time."

"And if we don't have time?"

"Then I shall be your companion in your dotage, while Brooke supports us with her bluestocking ways."

"That I shall!" Brooke agreed quickly.

"Oh, do not tease." Mama moaned.

Rose tried to rein in her grin. "Very well, then I shall wait patiently for the old reverend at Leicestershire to age so that I may marry a country curate while Brooke continues in her bluestocking ways. Is that good enough then?"

Mama was saved from having to rebuff her daughters once more by the arrival of her other daughter in London—the dazzlingly beautiful, and currently most certainly pregnant, Viscountess Rodworth.

"Violet!" Mama called out happily as the blondest of them all emerged, her hair shining perfectly against the pinkness of the room.

"Have the steps up front always been so steep?" Violet groaned as she sank into the chair nearest Mama. Even increasing, Violet managed to make her white gown look strikingly fashionable. "Eva had never felt so heavy."

"Eva is only heavy because you dress her in more lace than a French aristocrat," Brooke complained .

Rose grinned as she leaned over to peck Violet on the cheek. "Thank you for interrupting our vibrant conversation about our dwindling prospects. It is infinitely more interesting to talk about the best-dressed babe in all of England."

"One day, you shall have a daughter yourself, Rose, and you shall repent of ever having scoffed at how much I spoil Eva."

"I assure you that my fictitious future daughter shall enjoy Eva's cast-offs as much as I have always enjoyed yours."

The sisters exchanged grins, and the worries of distant heirs and looming relocation seemed to ebb just a little once more.

"At least you look the picture of health, my dear," Mama cooed at Violet. "Rodworth was beside himself with worry during Eva's time."

"Things always seem easier the second time around—ooh!" Violet gasped briefly with her hand over her belly. Rose had since learned that it meant the child had kicked its mother. "Oh, this is a mischievous one. I hope to God it's a boy, for I have no idea whatsoever how I shall manage a hoyden."

Rose and Brooke laughed while Mama fretted once more that this simply had to be the long-awaited Rodworth heir, claiming that, surely, God could not be so cruel as to curse two consecutive generations of the family with only daughters. Rose wondered if Mama had simply conveniently forgotten that she already had a grandson through her eldest child. But Mama seemed quite determined to worry herself over the progeny of each of her daughters, individually.

"Well, I suppose all this talk of heirs reminds me of the purpose of my visit." Violet fanned herself rather vigorously. She never did like the heat. "My dear husband seems to have gotten himself entangled with a new peer who needs help finding a wife, and I've promised to help. But given that I might soon begin my confinement, I was wondering if I could secure your assistance instead."

"Mine?" said Mama. "I can only hope you say this with the intent that this new friend would be tasked to marry one of your sisters."

"Mama!" Rose and Brooke protested in unison.

"I shall not be someone's task ," Brooke complained. "And I most certainly do not wish to marry some pudgy old marquess who needs a new wife after the first two died in childbirth."

Violet grinned, her golden hair framing her face as beautifully as it always did. "I have it on good authority that the new Duke of Burgess is a hale and hearty young man who has never married before. And, if I may, he has what one might consider a rather handsome countenance."

"A duke!" Mama gasped while Rose rolled her eyes. As unappetizing as it might sound, she and Brooke truly had much more of a chance at snagging the attention of a pudgy old marquess than an eligible young duke. They were not entirely ineligible, but their connections and dowries were not what they once were—and dukes could certainly look much higher.

"Yes, Mama, a duke," Violet replied as if it were the most regular thing in the world. "And while I don't think it entirely impossible for him to wish to marry either of my lovely sisters, we cannot forget that half of London is already scrambling for his attention. The poor man is entirely lost."

"Why would a duke be lost?"

"He was never much in society. Clive said His Grace came into his title only recently, by way of an unexpected family tragedy."

The allusion to loss sobered everyone, even Mama. And a quiet moment passed before anyone spoke again.

"So shall I be able to rely upon your assistance with the duke? Not just Mama, but Rose and Brooke as well? The fellow looked desperate to talk to a normal human being last night. I managed to avoid inviting any single ladies altogether, but Lady Beckham's cousin had the audacity to presume she could come in her place." Violet's face scrunched in distaste. "It would do the duke good to have some allies."

"You make the poor fellow out to be in sad condition," Rose observed. "Is he not the sort to enjoy such attention then?"

Violet tittered, until another kick from her active child cut her short. She huffed. "I shall arrange an introduction at the next event. Then you can judge for yourself. You are attending the St. John ball, aren't you? Percival St. John is the duke's cousin."

"We are going, yes," Mama gushed with the excitement of a sixteen-year-old debutante, while Brooke groaned loudly enough to overshadow Rose's own bemused yet exasperated sigh. "Do we need to arrange for new gowns?"

"You know we cannot afford new gowns, Mama," reminded Rose.

"But we can alter the ones you have." Violet smiled, as eager to do anything pertaining to fashion as ever. "Shall we begin now?"

Her child disagreed by way of a very large kick, sending all the ladies into laughter.