Chapter 6

Tybalt Featherstonehaugh, Baron Sheffield, was not the sort of man that would inspire anyone to matrimonial thoughts. Much as Kitty had predicted (and feared), he was of an age with Methuselah, with mean little creases around his eyes and mouth. Kitty doubted that he had ever been handsome, though he was still in possession of the piercingly blue eyes that peaked out from beneath unruly brows. His back was not curved with age, but he required the use of a cane, citing a war wound sustained on the Continent. Kitty resisted the urge to ask him if it was gotten chasing the heathens during the Crusades, but only just.

All of this would have been tolerable if he had not been possessed of an equally odious temperament. Kitty was the sort of young lady who could find a point of beauty with nearly any specimen of the masculine sex—she fancied herself something of a connoisseur of their many different varieties—but she was flabbergasted at the notion that she should tie herself down to such a man.

The baron had arrived at their house in an equally ancient carriage, though the crest on the door was highly polished, and the horses pulling it were a pair of gleaming bays, their heads held high. Grumpily, he had waved off the help of a pair of hovering footmen, lurching his way unsteadily up the front steps. Kitty had watched his grand entrance from her bedroom window, which overlooked the street.

He was escorted, haltingly, into the sitting room at the rear of the house, ostensibly to admire Mr. Johnson's few hunting trophies. Idly, Kitty wondered if he would be informed that Mr. Johnson had not hunted a single one of them, purchasing them instead at an estate sale as a younger man to smarten up their townhouse. Kitty watched his progress through the house from the upper floor of the house, leaning forward on hands planted wide on the railing. Her father and the baron halted in the hall, trailed by Mrs. Johnson, pointing out a painting on the wall.

"There you are Kitty," Mrs. Johnson said with an expression that was likely an attempt at a smile. "Won't you come down and join us for some tea?"

Kitty was of a mind to outright refuse, but she had promised to at least meet the beast. She stretched her own mouth in a gross pantomime of a smile and flounced down the stairs. The baron turned and watched dispassionately, revealing his near-sightedness by squinting fiercely up at Kitty as she descended.

When she hopped down from the second stair, skipping the last step and landing firmly on her feet, the baron frowned. Kitty was idly fascinated that the furrows around his eyes and mouth were able to deepen further. Mrs. Johnson, meanwhile, was busy giving Kitty a look from behind his back that was equal parts pleading and disapproving.

"Baron, may I present my daughter? Miss Kitty Johnson," Mr. Johnson ground out, his own face slightly florid. "Kitty, this is Lord Featherstonhaugh, Baron Sheffield."

Resisting the urge to sigh, Kitty dropped a curtsy, as was expected of her. She stared into the baron's face, who was busy scrutinising her.

"Daughter, mm?" the baron asked in a gravelly voice. He fished about in the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a lorgnette which he held up to his left eye. "Pretty enough, I suppose," he commented as if Kitty were not standing right there in front of him. "How many summers has she?"

"She is not yet four and twenty, my Lord," Mrs. Johnson answered hastily. Strictly speaking, this was true…for the next two weeks.

The baron grunted a little. "Well, at least she is not likely to be as silly as a girl in her first flush," he allowed. "Is she educated?"

"She has been well-taught in all of the gentler arts," Mrs. Johnson replied warily, unsure which way the baron's tastes were inclined. "She is quite handy with a needle, and has been trained in the running of a household—she knows well how to handle servants."

"I require someone that knows how to take a firm hand with the servants," the baron replied, his left eye comically enlarged by the thick glass. "I shan't tolerate any shillyshallying from them. These lower orders need clear instructing, else they might take all sorts of notions into their heads."

"How right you are, my Lord," Mr. Johnson jumped in, nodding sagely. "That is how all of that unpleasantness began in France: far too many liberties given to those who cannot bear them properly."

The baron jerked his head in a sharp nod. "Precisely. I am glad to see we are of a mind about that." His gaze sharpened on Kitty. "She hasn't been polluted by any tutelage unsuitable for the gentler sex, has she? It's no good for them, overheats the brain."

Kitty stared at him, agog. It was a fortunate thing indeed that she was too outraged to speak, lest she say something that would truly shock and offend him. Thankfully, her father was there to once again interject with the "correct" answer.

"Oh no," Mr. Johnson said hastily, "we don't entertain any bluestocking notions in this household."

The baron grunted again, a sound about which Kitty was uncertain if it meant approval or disapproval. She was of a mind to ask if he would like her to open her mouth so that he might inspect her teeth as if she were a horse he were considering purchasing.

"Very well," he allowed at last. No one was entirely sure what this grudging acceptance meant, and there was an awkward moment where the Johnson family all glanced at one another by turns.

Mrs. Johnson was the first to recover. She stepped forward, gesturing elegantly with one arm to the sitting room. "Would you care for some tea, my Lord?" she asked, favouring him with a demure smile.

The baron grunted again, but turned to follow Mrs. Johnson. When his back was turned, Kitty exhaled through her nose, deflating a bit. Her father gave her a baleful look, which Kitty responded to with one of her trademark sparkly-eyed winning smiles.

"Well, this has been the height of delight," she said briskly, clasping her hands together. "I think it best if I just perhaps retire now," she continued, turning to the stairs.

"Ah-tah-tah," Mr. Johnson said, catching her by the shoulders and steering her back in the direction of the sitting room. "I think not, young lady. Have you any idea what it took to get the Baron even through our door? I shan't have you mucking this up," he chided.

Kitty sighed, even indulging in a hearty roll of her eyes, but her father's tone was hard and implacable. She knew that he would brook no nonsense. Resignedly, she marched to the sitting room, feeling a keen sense of sympathy for all of those Frenchmen that were herded to the guillotine.

There followed an afternoon of such ill-humour that one would have thought it a funeral wake rather than a sociable afternoon tea. Kitty could feel herself shrinking into her chair more and more, willing herself to simply disappear. She knew that the family were in dire straits—she was not so na?ve as to pretend otherwise—but the thought of tying herself down to such a man was worse than any poverty she might be forced to endure.

When an agonising two hours had finally passed, the baron rose with a great crackling of his knees, and proclaimed it time for him to be off. Without waiting for comment, he proceeded to shuffle and creak his way back out to his carriage, where the poor driver was huddled up in blankets, awaiting his pleasure. The baron had not allowed him to come in out of the cold into the servants' quarters, as most other masters might have. He had forbidden even to allow the man to be taken any refreshment, which had made Kitty's face go pinched in disapproval.

As the baron was clamouring up into his carriage, he had paused, both hands on the doorway. Without turning back around, he said, "I shall contact my solicitor about drawing up those contracts. Everything seems to be in order here," he threw over his shoulder as casually as if he were discarding a bit of rind. He did not bother waiting for a response, but climbed into his carriage and rapped the roof with the head of his cane.

As the carriage and the baron both rattled off, Kitty turned to her father. "You cannot really be serious," she said.

"Can't I?" Mr. Johnson asked, still watching the carriage as it grew smaller as it made its way down the street.

"You cannot really expect me to marry that man," Kitty said flatly. "We are so poorly suited it is almost comical! No, I mean it Father, in the hands of a good playwright, this would make for quite the onstage farcical."

"There is nothing humorous about making a respectable match, and you will treat this situation with all of the gravity it is due," Mr. Johnson ordered.

Kitty, feeling a bit reckless, audibly snorted in derision. "As you say, Father, I shall treat this with ‘all of the gravity it is due,' which none. Less than none!"

"Kitty," Mrs. Johnson warned, clearly wishing to head off an argument while they were all assembled on the sidewalk.

"Mother, you cannot possibly wish for your daughter, your only living child , to entertain such match," Kitty rounded on her. It was a low blow, and when Mrs. Johnson winced, Kitty felt a matching pang of guilt.

"Catherine Johnson, you will remember your place," Mr. Johnson said, jabbing a finger in Kitty's direction. "You need this match— we need this match. You shall be on the shelf in a matter of only a couple years if we do not act hastily, and then there will be nothing to be done."

Kitty narrowed her eyes, a suspicion growing. "Father, why do I suspect that it was not only marriage contracts that the baron was referring to? What other contracts will his solicitor be drawing up?"

"That is none of your concern at this moment," Mr. Johnson said hotly, turning and entering the house. There was no hiding the way that his cheeks reddened.

"I beg to differ!" Kitty cried, stalking after him. "If I am to be sold, I should at least know what the price is; have I not the right to know what I am worth at least?"

She followed him right into his study, usually forbidden terrain. The room was small, dominated mostly by a large desk, stacks of papers and folios covering it. There was a small hearth to one side, and it was to hear that Mr. Johnson retreated. He jabbed at the sullenly burning embers with an iron poker.

"You are acting as if marriage were not a contractual business," Mr. Johnson huffed. "There's scarcely been a marriage performed that hasn't been accompanied by an exchange of property."

"Fair enough, Father, and I do not object to that notion as such, but to the Baron ?" Kitty demanded, hands on her hips. "He is old enough to be your father!"

"Yes, which means that his position is secure. You shan't want for anything," Mrs. Johnson said soothingly, trying again to play the part of peacemaker.

"Except love, companionship, the friendship of my husband," Kitty retorted sardonically. "Tell me right now, Father, did you feel none of those things for Mother when you offered for her?"

Mr. Johnson paused in his stirring of the weak fire, clearly feeling not only Kitty's eyes on him, but Mrs. Johnson's as well. He stared into the fire for a couple of beats, blinking slowly. At length, he took a deep breath.

"That was a long time ago," he answered at last.

Kitty made a derisive, scoffing sound, folding her arms over herself. Mrs. Johnson stepped forward, putting her hands on her daughter's arms and looking at her gently.

"Kitty, of course we wish for you to have those things," she said, her gaze flicking to Mr. Johnson. "But the time for your carefree, wild days is over. I should have liked for you to make a suitable match before this time, to find someone on your own who suited, but…"

"But you did not," Mr. Johnson finished, his voice and face hardening. "Now, we must make the best of this situation. By all means, if you find an agreeable alternative, feel free to present him. Bear in mind that it must be someone willing to take you on with no promise of a dowry. I wish you good luck," he added, jabbing the fire viciously one last time.

Mrs. Johnson frowned, her eyes going a little distant as if she were trying to remember something. Kitty paid her no mind, instead screwing her mouth up so that she would not say something that would only make things worse. Pushing past her mother, Kitty fled the room and up the stairs to her private chambers. For once, she allowed herself the indulgence of slamming her door.