Many families in the South come from old money. But what most forget is that at some point, the well runs dry. I suppose it was bound to happen to the Pleasonton family. My great-great-granddaddy Arthur Pleasonton was a suggested colonist (although it was never historically proven) who amassed thousands of acres across South Carolina. He would try his hand at anything if it guaranteed money, but what truly interested him were numbers and what led to the money. His sensible ways with money didn’t pass down the line, though. And that would be the root of the problem. Some relatives would squander their inheritance before one could blink. I never imagined the money my ancestors had worked so hard for would suddenly be gone, and so would the land. I think that hurts the most because it shows how vulnerable our finances have been, and I’ve been none the wiser.
Perhaps Miles and Momma attempted to give hints and I wasn’t paying close enough attention. But this deserved more than a hint. This warranted caution so I could prepare, and I wouldn’t find myself in the very situation I’m in now.
I can think of no other way to save our family home and debts than to go through this ridiculous façade. Is marriage the worst possible thing to happen to me? No. But I don’t particularly care for being strong-armed in any situation. Any choice I make, I want it to be mine. Especially when it comes to my future husband.
Momma seems oblivious to my anguish. She typically spends her mornings dedicated to her needlepoint in the sunroom. Later, she’ll “retire” to her living quarters and change into a tea dress (black, of course).
She’s not meddlesome and carries on polite conversation, but I know better. It’s almost as if she knows I need a bit of time and silence to process the news and come to a decision.
I adjust the high waistband of my navy blue skirt and the round neckline of my embroidered, ivory silk blouse. I purchased the pleated blouse for the orient design with no thought of the cost. Now, I’m lamenting over all the careless spending I’ve done. But there’s no use crying over spilled milk. I’ve done enough crying to last a lifetime even though my face doesn’t show the signs. My eyes aren’t bloodshot, and my nose isn’t red from running. If I was accidentally locked inside my room for the next week, I don’t think I’d object.
Tucking my hands into the pockets of my skirt, I reluctantly walk out of my room and downstairs. I find Momma just where I expect her to be, sitting at the table, demurely picking at her breakfast. It’s all a ruse, though; she’s waiting to speak with me.
When I enter the room, Momma lifts her head and smiles at me. There are wrinkles around her eyes, and dark circles beneath her brown eyes. For months now, I’ve told myself it’s because of Miles’s death, and it more than likely is, but she’s also had to bear the financial burden all on her own.
I’m not good with math. My skill with an arrow and words, doesn’t extend to numbers. But I love my family, and when you love someone or something fiercely enough, you learn to be good at what you’re not great at.
I could peruse the books. Perhaps things aren’t as dire as Momma believes, and if I confuse myself, I can call on Livingston. Although he doesn’t appear it, he’s quite intelligent, and I know I have his confidence.
He is many things, but a rumormonger he’s not.
Yet I’m not naïve enough to believe that will happen overnight. Poring through the finances is a tedious task and will take time. Until I get a clear answer for myself, I need to continue with this farce of finding a husband.
The light clanging pulls me out of my thoughts. Momma’s scooping sugar into the teacup with light blue daisies painted around edge. Years ago, she insisted on buying the Wileman set because her previous collection became “outdated.”
I can only imagine the exorbitant price of this set. Perhaps, if we sold the tea set, it could help with our money troubles and then …
No, I can’t think about that right now.
What I need to focus on is talking with Momma about my decision. Taking a deep breath, I walk to my seat across from her. “Good mornin’.”
She lifts her gaze, continuing to scoop sugar into her coffee. “Mornin’, sweetie. How did you sleep?”
“Very well.”
Lie. I slept horribly.
“And yourself?”
Momma blows into her coffee and takes a sip. Her nose scrunches, and she gives one of the servants standing in the room a displeased look as though they were the one to pour all the sugar into her coffee. Momma’s blood type is sugar, sweet tea, and some more sugar. “I slept quite peacefully.”
Quite peacefully has been Momma’s answer for as long as I can remember. She could sleep through a hurricane quite peacefully, love you quite peacefully, and mourn quite peacefully.
We settle into our comfortable morning routine of silence while a servant places a plate of food in front of me. Forks scraping against the expensive china plates, and birds chirping directly outside are the only noises to be heard. My stomach is in such knots I can only eat my toast. I poke at my eggs with the blunt tips of the fork and watch the yolk seep onto the plate. I can’t help but envision it as my hopes and dreams slowly fade from me. It’s a bleak thought, but nothing about what I’m about to do makes me happy.
I clear my throat. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“What is it, dear?”
I take a deep breath. My stomach continues to churn. “After much thought, I think it’s best I follow Miles’s will and attempt to find a husband.”
Momma’s reaction is tepid at best. You’d think from the way she slowly nods I’d just announced I wanted to update my entire wardrobe, instead of changing my entire life by marrying.
She finishes chewing, gingerly places her fork next to her plate, and dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “That’s lovely to hear. I knew you’d come around, so I took the liberty of invitin’ someone over tonight.”
Dread trickles down my spine. I stare at Momma, my mouth slowly parting. “Who? You haven’t invited a man over, have you? Momma, I just came to this decision.”
Momma waves away my words. “Oh, it’s nothin’ of that nature. Although it is a man.” She beams at me. “It’s Livingston.”
I swear, that’s even worse. “Oh, Momma, no.”
Momma goes back to eating her breakfast, delicately cutting the pieces of her sausage as though she’s a child. “I presume from your reaction you haven’t spoken to him yet?”
I shake my head.
“Then tonight is the perfect opportunity for you.” She suddenly looks away. “Perhaps you can apologize.”
I toss my napkin on the table. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. “You want me to apologize?”
“Yes.” Momma stabs her fork in my direction. “You are as stubborn as your daddy, and I know you’d rather swallow glass than make amends.”
“Correction. When I’ve done somethin’ wrong I will make amends. As long as that person is not Livingston Lacroix.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to figure out what to say.”
“Not if he doesn’t come to dinner,” I point out.
“I will not rescind an invite. That’s highly improper. Not to mention, uncivil. A lady only rescinds an invite if she has a logical reason.”