One
Philomena shivered in the drafty dining room of the grand country house—and not only because of the snow swirling outside. The snow was light and feathery and would melt before noon. Her mother’s wrath would last much longer.
“Philomena, I simply do not understand what would cause you to do such a thing,” the duchess said for perhaps the third time in so many minutes. “Viscount Knoxwood is not yet forty, has all his teeth and a full head of hair, and is, if not wealthy, not in the poor house. Why on earth would you refuse his offer?”
Phil pushed her toast to one side of the plate and back again. The trick here was not to allow her gaze to stray to the other side of the room. She had to focus on her plate or her mother. “Mama, I do think marriage should be based on more than finding a man who is not elderly and has a full head of hair.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Her mother set her teacup down with a clatter. Phil cringed.
“I agree. Marriage should be based on mutual respect. Viscount Knoxwood has been courting you for the last six months and has shown nothing but respect. The sacrament of marriage should be entered into by equals, and you and he are of the same social rank.”
Phil stared very, very hard at her plate.
“And, though I know this is out of fashion, a marriage should forge an alliance. Viscount Knoxwood has several estates. Your dowry would help him make the repairs and improvements he wants, enriching both our family and his. So tell me, please do, what is your objection?”
Phil shrugged.
“Do not shrug your shoulders, Philomena. It is unladylike.”
Phil looked directly at her mother. “I don’t love him, Mama.”
This was really the wrong thing to say. The duchess looked as though she might throw her teacup across the room. “Listen to me, Philomena. I do not want to hear another word about love from you. I have had quite enough of that from your brother. If Phineas wants to ruin his life by marrying a woman old enough to be his mother then taking up with her in Berkshire, of all places, that is his mistake.”
“She isn’t quite that old, Mama.”
“She is too old to bear him an heir, and now what will become of the title?”
The Mayne title was in little danger of extinction, but Phil knew her mother did not wish to be corrected. Wisely, she kept her mouth closed.
“You are the last of my children. I have seen four sons put in the grave and one daughter whose husband has been disgraced. My only living son has made a mésalliance I have little choice but to accept. But you, Philomena, you will marry well, and you will make me proud.” The duchess rose. She was not a tall woman, but she stood very straight, which gave her the appearance of height. “Either make the decision yourself, or I will make it for you. You have one month from today.”
With that shocking pronouncement, the Dowager Duchess of Mayne strode out of the room, her skirts swishing.
Phil waited a full minute before raising her eyes to the sideboard. James stood there in his light blue livery. His back was straight, his eyes focused on an indistinct spot across the room, his face expressionless. Of course, the footman had heard every word, but one would never guess it from his behavior.
Phil lifted her teacup and drank deeply, all but draining the cup. As if on cue, James lifted the teapot and came to stand beside her. “More tea, me lady?”
“Yes, please.” She held the teacup in place while he lowered the pot. By raising her arm just slightly, she grazed the underside of his wrist with the outside of hers. Of course, he wore white gloves, but she could see the slightly darker color of his flesh between glove and coat sleeve. He lifted the teapot, and his gaze met hers briefly. She nodded and he withdrew, back to his spot across the room, though it might as well have been an ocean away.
PHIL WORKED DILIGENTLY on her correspondence for the next hour or two. This was no easy task with her mother at the desk behind her. The two had often written their letters in the morning room in companionable silence, but the silence this morning was strained. Phil’s hand shook as she wrote and she blotted her ink several times, forcing her to begin letters anew. Each time she crumpled a sheet of ruined vellum, her mother would huff as though disappointed. Finally, the clock chimed eleven and Phil rose.
“Have you finished your letter to Aunt Joyce?” her mother asked without looking at her.
“I have, Mama.”
“It seems a bad idea to ride today. There might be ice.” Her mother continued to write, her pen scratching the paper in front of her.
“I thought I would take a walk. I trust that is acceptable.”
Her mother made a sound of acquiescence and Phil started away.
“Perhaps I shall join you,” the duchess remarked, looking up and out the window. The sun was shining now, glittering off the quickly melting snow making a thin covering on the grounds.
Phil held her breath. Everything inside her screamed no, but she couldn’t very well say it aloud. Her mother would want to know why she shouldn’t go out walking with her daughter, and Phil had no answer for that.
Finally she said, “Shall I have Miss O’Malley bring your pelisse, gloves, and hat?”
Her mother made a face. “Never mind. That seems a lot of trouble to look at dead trees and grass.
Phil blew out a silent breath of relief.
“I’ll have Cook put out some cold dishes about one o’ clock. Help yourself if you’re feeling peckish.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“We will have guests for dinner.”
Phil paused, trying to remember who was coming to dinner. She’d ask Miss Dawson, her lady’s maid. Feeling lighter than she had in days, Phil rushed up to her chamber and found Dawson laying out several of her dresses. She saw a pretty green one she would have liked to change into as it made her eyes look even bluer, but it was a spring and summer dress, and winter hadn’t quite loosened its grip on the world. Phil decided to content herself with the warm dove gray dress she had donned this morning.
“What are you doing, Dawson?” she asked.
“I’m looking to see if these dresses need mending. I know we travel to Town in a few days to order your gowns for the Season, but you can still wear these from last year when you are at home.”
Phil sat on the edge of the bed and let her fingers trail over last year’s gowns. Each of them held a memory of dancing and music and garden parties. She had always looked forward to the Season before. But this year the riot of balls and routs held little appeal for her. She would have rather stayed in the country. Her mother’s pronouncement meant that by the time she attended her first ball of the Season, she would be engaged.
“Mama says we have guests for dinner. Do you remember who?’
“It’s Reverend Maypole, Mrs. Maypole, Viscount Knoxwood, his mother, and sisters, my lady.”
“Oh. That should prove awkward.”
Dawson gave her mistress a sympathetic look. “Perhaps it will snow this afternoon and the roads will be impassable.”
Phil rolled her eyes. That was about as likely as her mother agreeing to allow her to marry their footman. She stood. “I should take my opportunity to go for a walk now then. I don’t want to be out if the weather does miraculously turn. Can you help me change into my boots and cloak?”