6. Chapter Six

S even minutes later, Clara was grumbling to herself about wasted space and the benefits of her family’s simple, twelve-room vicarage when she finally located Ambrose and Marmaduke in the billiard room.

“I require your assistance.” Her announcement sounded almost panicked to her ears, but she attributed that to being slightly out of breath from running all over the house, grumbling.

Neither man seemed particularly concerned, though, as they finished watching a red ball bounce around the bumpers before giving her their attention.

Marmaduke arched an eyebrow while Ambrose hid a smirk behind his hand. "Oh?" Marmaduke drawled. "Whatever for? We’ve already forced you to enjoy life a little.” He raised his eyebrows. “Nice hair, by the way.”

She lifted a hand to find her hastily twisted bun had fallen halfway out. No matter. The maid would redo everything anyway.

Clara lifted her chin. “I require your assistance in selecting a suitable husband.”

Ambrose lost the battle and let out a bark of laughter.

“Do try to take me seriously,” Clara said with an exasperated sigh. “This is a very important matter.”

“I’m certain it is.” Ambrose lined up the balls for a new game. “But I have a certain reputation and Duke, here, all but shuns good society as a whole, so I fail to see how we can help you trap the hapless fellow you’ve targeted.”

“I haven’t a target at all.” Clara deflated and sagged against the side of the doorway. “That is the problem.”

Ambrose sighed. “Very well, then. How high are we reaching? Riverton, perhaps? He’s young, known to be more than a little stodgy, and loves his family.” He frowned. “No. Wait. He got married last year.”

“Can you honestly picture her as a duchess?” Marmaduke leaned over the table and sent balls scattering across the green baize with a crack of his cue.

“I still picture her as a lass in braids tagging along as we climb trees, so imagining her married is a bit beyond me.”

“How very encouraging,” Clara mumbled.

Ambrose had the decency to look somewhat abashed, even as he gave a nonchalant shrug. “Apologies, cousin, but it’s true. Still, I’ll help as best I can. What do you need?”

“Whether the two of you want to admit it or not, Mother would prefer the man I marry be at least connected to a title.” She pulled out her list, short though it was, and reread it to maintain her focus. “All I require is a man with enough means to keep me comfortable, so my parents need not worry, and enough faith that we agree upon life’s important works.”

“The means should be easy enough.” Marmaduke grimaced. “Faith, however, isn’t a quality as easily measured or discussed.”

“Nonsense.” Ambrose smiled as if his horse had just won a race. He pointed his cue at Clara. “You need a younger son.”

Marmaduke leaned on his cue, a thoughtful frown on his face. Then he nodded slowly. “That might do it. One bound for the church?”

“Precisely.” Ambrose pointed at Marmaduke as if congratulating him on coming up with the idea in the first place.

Clara pulled her lip between her teeth as she considered the notion. She had considered a man of the cloth herself, but she had forgotten the fact that many of those positions were filled by younger sons of the aristocracy. It was where many third and fourth sons found their purpose, since the freedom gained by access to means with no inherited responsibilities left them free to pursue higher personal callings.

It was the perfect solution.

Ambrose was too far away as he stood on the opposite side of the billiard table, but Marmaduke was within reach and Clara threw her arms around him as she smiled broadly. “You’re both brilliant!”

“Would you tell my mother that?” Ambrose asked, as he lined up a new shot.

Clara waved him off as she ran from the room and to the nearby library. Moments later, she was back in the billiard room with a thick, leather-bound tome in hand. She plopped the book onto the table, sending balls rolling and bouncing against bumpers.

“That doesn’t count,” Marmaduke said.

“Yes, it does.” Ambrose grinned. “The interference came from neither of us. I win.”

Clara ignored them both as she flipped through pages. Lineage after lineage stared up at her. There were plenty of younger sons and first cousins, but how could she know which ones were intent on acquiring a living and which were buying a commission in the army?

Or, even worse, going into some form of business.

“What are you doing?” Marmaduke finally asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? She’s flipping through Debrett’s Peerage like my mother peruses the latest furniture catalog.” Ambrose racked his cue, then leaned against the table to nudge Clara’s shoulder. “You can’t choose a husband from a book.”

“Why not?” Clara flipped another page.

Ambrose looked to Marmaduke, but the other man simply shrugged. The viscount sighed. “He might be stingy or dumb as a post.”

“Or incapable of riding a horse,” Marmaduke added.

Both Clara and Ambrose frowned at him until he crossed his arms and frowned back. “You have to admit, it would be a strange thing.”

Clara shook her head. Ambrose placed a hand over the book page. “He could be a stick in the mud. Or bracket-faced.”

Unable to flip more pages with Ambrose’s hand in the way, Clara straightened and looked from one man to the other. “I care not for his outer appearance, as it is the life we will build together that matters.”

Ambrose let out a disbelieving snort. “You’ll want to fancy the man at least a little.”

Clara attempted to pull off a haughty look, but it was difficult when her eyes didn’t even top her cousin’s shoulder. “I will fancy a virtuous heart.”

“If you say so.” His tone implied he didn’t buy it for a moment. “I’ve yet to find a heart so virtuous that—”

“Do take care,” Marmaduke cut in, though it was unclear if his warning was for Clara or Ambrose. He cleared his throat and looked at his sister, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Clara, do not let haste cloud your judgment.”

He meant the words and gesture as a comfort, Clara knew, but it felt like he was holding her back instead of helping her move forward.

“You should feel something for your husband,” Ambrose said. “Respect, at the very least. Some form of affection would be better. You aren’t destitute.”

Clara swallowed. “We can’t afford another season, and Mother’s worry for my future may soon start causing her health to decline.”

Marmaduke choked on a laugh. “Her constitution is better than that, I should think.”

“Very well then. It is my constitution that could not survive another year of this.” She stabbed a finger at the book. “Now, would you both please focus?”

The two men sighed but gave their attention to the pages. Marmaduke wasn’t much help, as the only gentlemen he knew were the ones that played alongside the professional players in the cricket clubs. Ambrose, however, knew at least a little bit about everyone.

For thirty minutes, they reviewed the lines of England’s finest families. They came up with discouragingly few possibilities.

As in none.

There were a limited number of livings in the country and while many would one day be assigned to younger sons and cousins, very few had already been earmarked. It would be a gamble to marry without assurance that the man would be assigned to a parish that provided a parsonage along with a salary and pension.

Clara turned the page and found the next option, a sense of desperation making her drag her finger down the page in a way that nearly caused it to rip. “Mr. Lewis Pitt. Third son of the Earl of Blitzmoor.”

“He recently finished his schooling,” Marmaduke said with a tilt of his head. “I’ve played cricket against him before, and he seemed a decent sport.”

Both siblings looked to Ambrose who had been freely offering information until that point.

“He’s due to inherit a living,” Ambrose said slowly, as if he didn’t want to give Clara the information.

Clara brightened. Finally, she had a promising candidate. He was a young, educated, and in direct line for the church. “When?”

Ambrose’s eyebrows lifted. “When the current vicar dies or retires. That’s how it works, you know. It’s been promised to him, though.”

Clara beamed and clasped her hands together. “He sounds perfect.”

“I rather doubt it,” Ambrose mumbled.

“Nonsense.” Clara slammed the book closed. “We’ve been looking at names for the past thirty minutes and his is the only suitable situation we’ve crossed.” Sometimes God made the path clear by providing only one door. Clara wasn’t about to despair over a lack of options. She only needed one husband, after all.

“Just . . . promise me you’ll consider the actual man before doing something rash.” Ambrose frowned at the book but turned away to retrieve his cue.

“What do you know of marriage prospects? When was the last time you even spent time with a respectable lady, cousin?” Clara picked up the book and clutched it to her chest.

Ambrose tossed her a grin, seemingly unaffected by her censure. “This afternoon. I took you to the park.”

She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “That is not what I meant.” She lowered her glare to meet his gaze once more. “I love you dearly, cousin, but even you must admit that I would be a fool to listen to you on matters of virtue and prudence. You do not exactly walk the path of morality.”

“Clara,” Marmaduke said in a low warning. “I don’t think—”

“Let her speak,” Ambrose said with a thread of stone beneath the light tone. “We’ve gone more than an hour without her giving me a lecture on my immoral behavior or declaring me a squandersome wretch. I’m sure she’s near to bursting with the restrained words.”

Clara’s cheeks heated as she watched her cousin strike the billiard ball hard enough to send it careening off the table.

She’d fed hungry children, comforted mourning widows, kept vigil beside a multitude of sick beds, but here amongst her own family was the humbling reminder that she had accomplished but a modicum of the mission God had given her.

It didn’t matter how many lessons she shared from her father’s sermons or how many verses she tried to remind him of, Ambrose claimed nothing of God but a regular seat in church on Sundays.

“Let it go,” Marmaduke whispered as he turned Clara gently toward the door.

Clara glared at her brother through narrowed eyes. They’d had enough conversations over the years to know Duke’s theology was sound and his heart devout. Despite his seemingly frivolous career, he viewed his life as a sort of ministry. Was he truly ready to give up on the man who was practically a brother to them both?

“How can you say that?” she whispered.

“Because.” Marmaduke practically sighed out the word. “It isn’t that he doesn’t know what you want to tell him. It’s that he doesn’t believe it. He never has.”

Never? Clara blinked, trying to remember the years before he’d gained adulthood. Childhood ramblings don’t lend themselves to discussions of sermons and ethics. She’d thought him a man who’d strayed away soon after finishing his schooling, but if Duke was right and the divide was even greater, the matter was more pressing than she’d realized.

“But—”

“Why don’t you go get Aunt Elizabeth’s opinion of Mr. Pitt?” Marmaduke pulled her gently from the room. “It’s got to be worth more than ours, anyway.” With a thin smile, Marmaduke returned to the billiard room.

Clara stayed, hidden out of sight, waiting to see if Marmaduke would say something without her present. Maybe he had a different way of stating things that Ambrose would only listen to in private.

The only sounds to drift from the room, though, were the crash of billiard balls and a groan of disappointment followed by a laugh of triumph.

Finally, Clara stalked off to prepare for the night’s event. She would discuss Mr. Pitt with her aunt that evening, and then at least one area of her life would be moving in the right direction.

Then, tomorrow, she could see about putting other areas on the right path.

For the first time, Clara saw this trip to London as a God-given opportunity instead of a familial obligation. Where else would she meet a man with the intentions and connections to take a position within the church? She’d been thinking a ministry-minded gentleman might be the best she could do, but this was even better.

She’d had her few days of self-pitying melancholy, but now it was time to get her head on straight. She was going to build the perfect future for herself, save her cousin from a life of depravity, and make sure her brother remembered what was important in life.

Clara’s maid was nearly beside herself with concern by the time Clara returned to her room, but her toilette was completed in plenty of time and Clara was still in the drawing room before her mother and aunt.

The ride was too short for her to broach the subject of Mr. Pitt with her aunt, but Clara wasn’t concerned. She would find a time at the musicale or after the event.

As the daughter of a vicar, Clara had been in and out of many fine homes. She took tea with charitable-minded ladies, was invited to all the gatherings of the lower gentry in the country, and often got selected to even out the numbers at a dinner party.

She’d seen nothing like the rooms they walked into that night.

They weren’t in a ballroom, but doors had been thrown open to allow the party to flow through the front hall, the dining room, the music room, and two large drawing rooms. Every corner seemed to drip with near gaudy opulence.

Clara tried not to gape as she followed her aunt, who didn’t seem to even be glancing at the surrounding decor. Were all homes in London like this?

Eversly House was certainly exquisite, but it wasn’t decorated to this level. Of course, that could be due to it being Ambrose’s primary residence as much as anything else.

“Now then.” Aunt Elizabeth folded her hands in front of her and gave the room a long look. “The prospects might still be slim as we are somewhat early in the Season and, well, frankly speaking, the bachelors we are considering do not always flock together as regularly as the upper tier ones do.”

A twinge of irritation tickled the back of Clara’s throat. She wanted to remind her aunt that all were equal in God’s eyes and all had value, but they could have that discussion later. For now, Clara, too, had a goal in mind and it wasn’t to gain the eye of a top-tier anyone.

“Do you know if Mr. Lewis Pitt will be in attendance?” Clara stretched her neck, looking about as if she’d be able to know if the man was here.

She didn’t know what her future husband looked like, though. He was a name in a book, a short list of practicality. Not that it would matter if she could identify him. Etiquette required that she be introduced, anyway.

“Mr. Lewis Pitt?” Her aunt’s voice rose above her earlier whisper and threatened to draw the attention of the people around them. “Whyever would you pull that name out? He’s certainly within your reach, but we can do better than a third son.”

Clara resisted the desire to roll her eyes and express how nonsensical she found that statement. “I see no difference between a second son and a third.”

“Aside from the number of hunting accidents standing between you and a title?”

Mother cleared her throat and spoke over the end of her sister’s observation. “There’s also low-ranking gentry and several gentlemen to consider.”

Clara couldn’t keep from looking at her aunt with a measure of horror. Had she really talked so casually about a man’s potentially tragic death?

Aunt Elizabeth waved away Clara’s outrage. “I’m hardly wishing doom on anyone in particular. Merely pointing out that certain credence is given to spares just in case. Death is a fact of life, you know.”

Clara closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. Around her, Aunt Elizabeth and Mother discussed potential suitors as if they were selecting fish at the market.

“I do believe,” Clara said, “that a third son bound for the church would be a more than adequate fit for me. That being so, Aunt, do you know if Mr. Lewis Pitt is in attendance?”

“Yes, yes.” She sighed and nodded toward the music room. A young woman sat playing the piano while several people looked on and murmured among themselves. “He’s over there. In the green waistcoat.”

He was of average height, if the people gathered around him were anything to go by, with thick auburn hair waving back into a short queue. It was impossible to make out any more intricate details, aside from the fact that he seemed very quick to smile.

That was an excellent trait in a vicar. Clara gave a small, decisive nod. “I should very much like you to make an introduction.”

“Of course.” Aunt Elizabeth smiled at Mother. “We’ll simply make our way in that direction.”

Making their way meant introducing Clara to every man they encountered on their meandering path through the joined rooms. There was Mr. Thompson who owned a home out in Cornwall and only came to London for the first month of the season to discuss the political happenings.

Then she met Mr. Russell, who would one day be a baronet, unless he met with one of Aunt Elizabeth’s untimely deaths before his father did.

After that there was Mr. Payne, who would be purchasing an officer’s commission at the end of the Season, and Mr. Morris, who owned something having to do with shipping, and finally Sir John Hayes, a knight who had to be older than Clara’s father.

Each and every one of them spoke kindly to Clara, but it was evident they were far more concerned with impressing Aunt Elizabeth.

Before they actually reached Mr. Pitt, dinner was served. As the crowd could not begin to fit around the dining table, smaller tables had been grouped throughout the rooms and seats had been left unassigned.

Aunt Elizabeth tried to maneuver their little trio to a table with the elderly Lady Hawkins, Mr. Morris, Mr. Russell, and a man she’d yet to meet, but Clara had other ideas. She might not be as subtle or crafty as her aunt, but she was just as—if not even more—determined.

A short delay, a quick dart through the crowd, and she and her aunt were taking the last two seats at Mr. Pitt’s table. She wasn’t sure where her mother ended up.

Introductions were made and dinner eaten. If Mr. Pitt gave the other young ladies at the table more attention than Clara, it was simply because he didn’t know her yet. She had to admit, though, that he was a very affable man. Not only was he quick to smile and laugh but his companions were as well.

That was a good quality in a vicar as well, wasn’t it?

Clara chewed her fish thoughtfully as she observed her potential husband. As he expressed grave concern over the health of Miss Davis’s father and offered to come by the house and entertain the man with a game of chess, a peace settled in Clara’s mind. Yes, Mr. Pitt was going to be a fine choice, indeed.