“But your work here must sustain you,” Margaret said. “I love to read about politics in the paper. I saw with keen interest your essay concerning Lord Hardwicke’s marriage bill last year. The parallel you drew between unsuitable gentlemen and the advantages of wolves in the forest was very apt—I smiled when I read it.”
Lord and Lady Spence nodded. “Yes, a very virtuous bill, that,” Lord Spence said. “Marriage should be performed in a church.”
Constance plunged her nails deeper into her hand. No recent piece of legislation made her angrier than Lord Hardwicke’s bill, which had replaced the practice of marriage by vow with a system in which banns must be issued weeks in advance, parental permission secured for anyone beneath the age of majority, and the ceremony performed in a church. It was purported to protect women from men who would abuse them with false promises of marriage under the old codes. But in her opinion, its primary effect was to put barriers between women and what modest control they had over their own lives.
“Indeed,” Lady Spence sniffed. “We are not pagans.”
“But as a Christian woman, Lady Spence,” Constance found herself saying, despite the fact that it was not at all a good idea to speak, “have you no concern that the law makes the sacrament of marriage a transaction, based more in coin than in religious principle or love?”
Lord Spence raised a furry brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, take the clause on marriage prior to the age of majority. By requiring a father’s permission, the law allows him to treat his offspring as chits to amplify his fortune, with no concern for what they might wish for their own futures.”
“No one chooses his fate,” Lord Spence said severely. “That is in the hands of the Lord.”
Apthorp caught Constance’s eye across the table and subtly shook his head, warning her not to pursue the debate. He cleared his throat. “The law is intended to protect women from bigamy and false promises, is it not? That can only strengthen our society.”
“Ladies don’t need gentlemen limiting their choices for their supposed protection,” Constance said, in a louder voice than she meant to. “They need the ability to protect themselves. They need information. They need rights.”
Everyone stared at her.
Lord Spence laughed. “Indeed. Rights!” He merrily sawed into his beef. “You’ve raised a proper hellion, Westmead.”
“Thank you,” her brother said, continuing to look at her as though trying to diagnose an ailment of the mind.
Lord Spence continued to chuckle. “Apthorp, you’ll have to take her firmly in line.”
Apthorp arranged his face into an exquisitely neutral expression. “I cherish Lady Constance in no small part for her independent mind. It is, in fact, the reason that I fell in love with her.”
She retreated to the farthest recesses of her uncomfortable wooden chair, not wanting anyone to observe that she was touched by the sentiment to the point of wanting to weep. Touched by the performance of the fake sentiment she herself had insisted he demonstrate at all times.
Unless it was true.
What if it was true?
She could feel everyone looking at her, wondering why she was so fractious.
She should be happy in this moment, with victory so close at hand.
She should be seizing it, spearing it on her fork, and savoring its sweetness.
But she didn’t want sweetness. She felt like if she ate a single pea, she would choke.
Because if she seized this success that sat before her at the table, so easily in reach, it was well and truly over. The family environment, the hum of purpose, the comforting patter of the ladies, her brother’s solicitude. Even the dreadful sewing.
And, of course, her kind and handsome and altogether lovely fake fiancé, Julian.
She had arranged it to work out exactly as it had. She had simply not expected it to hurt so much.
“My dear Lord Apthorp,” she said, finally finding the soothing tone that was required, “you are kind. But Lord Spence is right. I can be quick to temper. I am blessed that my future husband is possessed of so much patience.”
“Patience is about all he is possessed of by the sound of it,” Lord Spence cackled. “You’ll certainly need your waterway to afford the likes of this one for a wife. Westmead’s ruined her for anything but lavish rot.”
“You are a direct fellow, aren’t you?” her brother whistled, warning in his tone.
“Well, that’s why I’m here, is it not?” Spence intoned. His great, thunderous voice was giving her a headache. “The ladies may be fooled by your sudden interest in our congregation, Apthorp, but let’s be frank. I am here not because my wife has saved your soul but because you require my votes to save your bill.”
“Your support would indeed do much for the welfare of my tenants, who suffer from the high price of coal,” Apthorp said. “These canals will open up the entire region to fair trade.”
Lord Spence tapped his hands on the table. “My wife tells me you’re a decent man. Increasingly devout. That the trap in the papers is all slander. Is that right?”
“It is,” Julian said.
“Well, my secretary tells me a bloc is fomenting to oppose Henry Evesham’s appointment to lord lieutenant.”
Apthorp coughed on his elderflower cordial. “Pardon?”
“I’ve put a proposal before the Lords to convene a special committee to investigate vice, naming Henry Evesham as lord lieutenant, with broad powers to wrest this infernal city out of bedlam.”
Apthorp looked taken aback. “I’m afraid I’ve been preoccupied with the coming vote. I was not aware.”
“Nor was I,” her brother added, looking most displeased.
“It is very important to me that it passes, gentlemen. And, if you are indeed so reformed, Apthorp, I imagine you share this impulse.”
“No one is a greater supporter of Mr. Evesham’s aims than we are,” Constance said quickly, for Julian looked like he might be inclined to disagree.
“Yes,” he echoed, looking somewhat pained. “Of course you have my support.”
“If you can assure me of your votes, I will grant you mine in favor of building the canals.”
“I’m so very glad to hear it,” Julian said. “Thank you for your consideration, Lord Spence. I know we are all very grateful.”
Lord Spence stood, rubbing his prodigious belly. “Well, no need to dally over pudding. Eugenia, I’m feeling most dyspeptic. Apthorp, tell your man to call my carriage.”
As soon as the Spences departed, Constance leaned back in her chair. “I thought they would never leave.”
“They only stayed for two courses,” Lady Apthorp noted.
“Only? It seemed to last forever. I feel like I have aged into a wizened old crone since they arrived.”
“You’re ill-tempered as a crone, if not precisely wizened,” her brother observed. “Yet. Apthorp, where’s your Armagnac? My sister clearly needs a drink.”
Julian poured them all a round. “I believe a toast is in order,” he said. “To our canals. And our immortal souls.”
He winked at Constance.
Everyone cheered, except her.