Chapter 7

"There we are, Mrs. Kilner, one loaf of bread," Anne said, holding out the loaf she had bought at the market with a look of pride on her face.

The cook looked at her in bemusement.

"I wasn't expecting you to come down here, my Lady. Is it just the one loaf?" she asked, as the two kitchen maids giggled with one another in the corner.

Anne was not a frequent visitor to the kitchens, but she did not understand what she had done wrong, nor why the cook was not showering her with praise for bringing the loaf of bread to her. It was not every day Anne went to the market to buy bread – if ever – even as she now realized she should have given the loaf to Helen.

"Oh, Helen went upstairs. I've brought it down for her. But it's just some sandwiches, isn't it? For Lady Flintshire, and my mother. Boudoir sandwiches don't require much bread, surely. We'd never fit into our corsets otherwise," Anne said, causing the two kitchen maids to giggle uncontrollably.

The cook glared at them, turning to Anne with a forced smile on her face.

"My Lady, it's not just the boudoir sandwiches I'm making with the bread – which I usually get from Mr. Stamper on the corner of Poultry Street. But I've got the servants' tea to make, too. The footmen like a wedge of bread and dripping on the side, and the bell boys all have sandwiches, too. Never mind, I'm sure I can make it stretch," she said, taking the loaf from Anne, who felt suddenly foolish.

If it had not been for the young man in the market, Anne would surely have paid a shilling for the loaf of bread, a loaf she had thought would suffice and which had not done. How grateful she was to William for helping her, even as she realized her naivety.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kilner, I just wanted to help," Anne said, and the cook gave her a forced smile.

"And it was very kind of you, my Lady, I'm sure," she replied.

Anne made her way upstairs, finding Helen in her bedroom hanging dresses.

"I can't do anything right," Anne complained, and her maid looked at her sympathetically.

"You know what Mrs. Kilner's like, my Lady – it's her way or no way. But it won't be long before Lady Flintshire arrives. Would you like me to look out a different dress for you to wear?" she asked, but Anne shook her head.

Whatever dress she wore, and however much she hoped against it, Anne knew for certain how Lady Flintshire's visit would unfold. Immediate pleasantries would quickly be cast aside in favor of questions surrounding marriage. Lady Flintshire had surely only invited herself to tea for the express purpose of relaying information as to the Duke of Lancaster's son. This task accomplished, she would then proceed to make clear her intentions as to the arrangements she was prepared to make in order to further the match. It was always the same – progress was thankfully slow, but there was always progress.

"No, I'll just wear this. She's not coming to see me, only talk at me," Anne replied.

Helen smiled, but said nothing more, and Anne now waited for the inevitable call at Lady Flintshire's arrival. It came half an hour later in the form of a footman, informing Anne her mother and Lady Flintshire were waiting for her in the drawing room. This was not an invitation, but a summons, and Anne checked her appearance in the looking glass, before making her way downstairs.

"Burnley Abbey looks so beautiful in the springtime. Of course, it was the dowager who was my dear friend, but the current duchess is a charm, or so I'm told," Lady Flintshire was saying, as Anne entered the drawing room.

Anne's mother looked up. She was reaching for one of the sandwiches, now daintily displayed on a cake stand, the bread sliced thinner than Anne had ever seen before.

"Oh, Anne, there you are. Come in and sit next to Lady Flintshire," she said.

Anne's godmother looked her up and down, her eyes narrowing.

"A blue shawl? It doesn't suit you very well, dear. But sit down, I've had a letter from the Duchess of Lancaster," she said, clearing her throat and unfolding a piece of paper she was clearly dying to read aloud.

"I'm sure I can't wait to hear what she has to say," Anne said, as her godmother began to read.

"My dear Lady Flintshire, thank you for your kind words concerning Lady Anne. I must say, I am ever so eager to meet her, as is Maximilian. Distance separates us, and we must consider the practicalities of our coming to London, or you to Lancashire. But fear not, the summer season offers ample opportunity for Maximilian and Anne to meet. I remain yours, Miriam, Duchess of Lancaster, etc," Lady Flintshire read.

"Isn't it exciting, Anne? An introduction to the heir of a dukedom," Anne's mother said, smiling at her, even as Anne remained sullen.

She had been introduced to enough men to know what was expected of her. At her coming out, she had been paraded amidst London society, and introduced to most every eligible young man in the capital. An endless round of idle chatter, the sharing of the same information, and the ever-present question of future engagement. Thus far, none of the men she had met had proved themselves worthy of a second meeting, and having learned something of the young heir's reputation, Anne did not have high hopes for this encounter, either. But towards it, her mother and godmother appeared to be making considerable efforts, and Anne feared this introduction would not be quite so easy to extract herself from as the others.

"I'm sure I'm very excited, Mother," Anne said, adopting her most monochrome tone.

Her godmother tutted.

"I've gone to considerable lengths to arrange this match, Anne. It's not every day a suitor appears in one's lap," she said, helping herself to one of the sandwiches from the cake stand.

Anne smiled to herself, thinking back to her encounter with the young man in the market. His name was William, and he had been charming. She wondered what he had thought of her – a naive young woman, entirely out of her depth, bartering with the stall holder.

"But does one really have to go all the way to Lancashire to find one?" Anne replied, thinking back to the strange coincidence of William's place of birth.

She was not averse to the idea of marriage – quite the opposite, in fact. Her days were spent buried in the pages of romantic novels, dreaming of her own rescuer. But so far, in her encounters with me, Anne had found only disappointments, as opposed to men like Anton. Even the baron would be a welcome distraction. The men she had encountered were all the same – ambitious, rakish, and entirely lacking in charm and manners. Too many of them considered marriage a right and looked on women as theirs to do with as they pleased.

"Listen to her, Jemima, she doesn't know what she's talking about. The son and heir of a dukedom – one of the oldest and noblest dukedoms in the country – wishes to make her acquaintance, supported by his mother and father, and she remains indifferent to it," Lady Flintshire exclaimed, shaking her head.

Anne's Godmother could be a formidable woman – perhaps the reason she herself had never married – and now Anne glanced at her mother, who gave glare at her.

"It's not that I'm not grateful. But…I'm just not certain about him, that's all," Anne said, only expressing the truth as to her view of the situation.

"No one's ever certain in these circumstances. One can't be. But the prospects are excellent. Anne, Duchess of Lancashire – it's quite a title," Lady Flintshire said.

There was little point in arguing. Anne knew she would be introduced to the duke's heir, whether she liked it or not. Resistance would only lead to further argument – better to make a bad impression than to outrightly refuse. Anne thought of Letitia, and the dozens of other heroines she had read about in the pages of her penny novels. Such women always had ways and means of securing the match they desired and avoiding an unfortunate ending. It was always the same, for no novel ever ended unhappily for the heroine. Anne feared real-life would not be quite so forgiving, and whilst she might be able to refuse the attentions of Duke of Lancaster's son, the matter would only be harder next time, and the time after that. A woman like Anne had to marry. She had no choice, for this was not a penny novel, and Anne was no heroine.

"You'll meet him, Anne, and then we'll discuss it. There's no reason why we can't go up to Lancashire – we can stay with the Denby's at Pendlebury," the countess said.

"Didn't they have an awful witch trial at Pendlebury?" Anne said, and her mother looked at her askance.

"I don't think that's quite an appropriate topic for conversation, Anne," she said, and Anne fell silent.

The talk of marriage continued, and by the time Lady Flintshire had left, Anne could be forgiven for thinking she was already engaged to be married.

"I'll write to the Duchess and invite her and the boy to come to London. Far better than us going there. I dread to think what society consists of in such a far-flung province. Better the balls, dinners, and soirees of the capital, than bridge, square dances, and idle gossip in the country," Lady Flintshire said, as she took her leave.

"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement," Anne's mother said, and she and Anne wished Anne's godmother a safe journey home.

As the door of the drawing room closed, Anne breathed a sigh of relief, turning to her mother with a look of dejection.

"Why do you support her endeavors?" she asked – believing the word endeavor was preferable to "interfering" if she was to win her mother to her cause.

The countess looked at her and sighed, too.

"And why don't you, Anne? Don't you want to get married? Your father desires it for you, as do I. Your godmother's been very kind in arranging the match," she said.

"Introduction," Anne corrected her.

In her mind, this was not a match, merely an introduction, one she could remove herself from if she wished. Her mother tutted.

"You can't hide from it forever, Anne. You can't remain a spinster forever," she said, as one of the maids now came to clear away the tea things.

"But can't I remain a spinster a little longer?" Anne asked.

She could not help but think the inevitability of marriage had come too soon. She had not yet lived, or so she thought. The heroines in her novels were all of them women of independent spirits, fighting back against the very rigidity Anne now found herself trapped within. Letitia would never have stood for an arranged marriage – she had fled from the baron because of that very possibility.

"Not much longer, Anne. I assure you," her mother replied, and shaking her head, she left the drawing room.

Anne glared at her retreating figure, but as soon as the door was closed, she hurried to the chair on which Lady Flintshire had been sitting and drew out the novel she had bought that afternoon from Mr. Pullman. She had hidden beneath the cushion, and it had given her some delight to think of her godmother sitting on such a scandalous work of literature.

Anne now settled herself down on the chair and opened the volume to the first page. Her hands were trembling, and she felt quite excited at the prospect of learning what was to become of the baron, whose wicked ways surely deserved their comeuppance.

"Miss Matilda Goodwin was no ordinary woman," Anne read, and at these words, she sighed.

"They never are," she said out loud, wishing her own life might one day prove to be out of the ordinary, even as she doubted her hopes would ever come true.