Mama waived her handkerchief in the air again. “That is madness.”
“It is not,” Frances replied. “Abigail is actually interested in finding a husband. With both of our dowries together, she might make a decent match. I don’t want a husband.” They’d had this argument at least a half dozen times, and her mother always dismissed it. It drove Frances mad. Mama had no concept that a young woman might actually sincerely have no desire to marry.
Mama shook her head. “Stop saying such ludicrous things. I would have the doctor pay you a visit if we had the money for such extravagances.”
Frances sighed. She would not win this argument. As far as Mama was concerned, making a decent match was the only thing in the world worth thinking about. Sonless, Lady Winfield spent far too much of her time worrying over her two daughters’ futures and their choices of husbands. It wasn’t news to Frances that she was not exactly the most highly sought-after debutante of the Season. In addition to her father merely being a baron, and her lack of a decent dowry, she’d spent far too much time this past Season sitting with the other wallflowers. When a potential suitor did ask her to dance, she quickly frightened him off by talking at length about her plans to work with the magistrates to convince Parliament to change the poor laws. At present, she had her cap set firmly against the awful Employment Bill that would be up for vote as soon as Parliament reconvened in the autumn.
Frances had been barely more than a decade old when her father had taken her for a walk in Hyde Park and they’d seen a group of poor people protesting outside a politician’s house. The small crowd had been angry and sweaty and carrying pitchforks. They were yelling about their treatment under the law. Her father had tried to hurry her past the scene, but she’d insisted upon stopping and listening.
She’d been horrified by what she’d heard. None of the crowd’s complaints seemed to be outrageous demands. She’d vowed that day that when she came of age, she’d do anything and everything she could to help them. As a debutante, she had few opportunities to change policies but what she did have, upon occasion, was the attention of some of the most influential members of Parliament’s House of Lords. During dances at ton balls, she’d been known to say things such as, “Did you know, Lord Sharton, that often the poor are forced to pay fines they cannot afford and are thrown back in prison where there is no hope of them ever paying them?” or “Lord Abemarle, are you aware that poor prisoners are tried for their lives with no counsel whatsoever? How can we say we live in a civilized Society when such a thing is true?”
Often her dancing partner would get a look on his face equivalent to a hare caught in a trap and hurry her back to the sidelines the moment the dance was through, never to call upon her again.
Mama had warned Frances countless times to stop being so unpleasant. That was the word she liked to use for Frances’s little ‘outbursts,’ but Frances refused to stop. Searching for a husband held little appeal to her, but while she had the ear of some of the most powerful men in Parliament she might as well make herself useful. She’d continued to be ‘unpleasant’ throughout the Season until nearly every eligible chap in the ton all but ran from her when they saw her coming.
Sir Reginald Francis, it turned out, had been out of the country for most of the Season. He was also wealthy, according to Mama, so wealthy he apparently was willing to overlook her pitiful dowry. That was why Mama held out hope for a match with him and why Mama was so eager to cart her off to Lord Clayton’s house party.
“You must promise me you’ll be pleasant,” Mama continued, wagging a finger at Frances.
“When am I unpleasant?” Frances winked at Abigail behind their mother’s back.
“You know I’m referring to your outbursts, dear,” Mama replied, dabbing at her forehead with her handkerchief.
Frances shrugged. “I simply don’t see why I should be forced to take the first offer I receive.”
“The first offer is usually the best offer, dear,” Mama said. “Besides, to date you’ve had no offers, so I hardly think it matters in this case. I’ve heard from several people who know him well that Sir Reginald isn’t put off by young ladies who speak up about politics and such.” Mama pressed her handkerchief to her lips this time, her eyebrows dipped in worry over her gray eyes. “I can only hope that’s true.”
Frances frowned. She might believe such a thing was true of Sir Reginald if she hadn’t already met him. The auspicious occasion had been last week at the final party of the Season. He’d talked nonstop about himself. Mama had watched her closely during their introductions and had immediately interrupted Frances when she’d attempted to bring up the Employment Bill, that hideous piece of legislation that some equally horrible member of the House of Lords was backing. A Lord Kendall. The votes were close according to Frances’s sources, which was mainly the newspaper coupled with her pressing her ear against her father’s study door when his friends came to visit and talk about politics. The vote had been put off, however, until the next session of Parliament and Frances had no intention of keeping quiet on the matter whenever she found herself in the company of a peer. And if she ever crossed paths with the hideous Lord Kendall, she fully intended to give him an earful.
“I can only hope Sir Reginald doesn’t bore me to tears with talk about a faro game from a decade ago,” Frances said, sighing.
Mama rolled her eyes. “Regardless, we’re leaving for Devon on Friday.” She turned toward the door. “I’m off to ask Albina to begin packing the trunks. Prepare yourself, and no talking about politics.” Her mother turned back sharply to face her. “Do you understand me, Frances Regina Thurgood Wharton?”
Frances pointed a finger in the air. “The Employment Bill isn’t necessarily polit—”
“No talking about bills. Or the poor. Or Employment. Or anything of the sort.” Mama huffed.
“Fine.” Frances briefly considered crossing her fingers behind her back, but that would be dishonest, and she was honest. Sometimes to a fault. “Very well, I promise not to discuss it. At least not with Sir Reginald.”
“Or any eligible gentleman of the ton,” Mama finished, arching a disapproving brow at her.
Frances posted her fists on her hips. “Very well. Or any eligible gentlemen of the ton,” she parroted back.
“Excellent. We might just get you married off yet.” Mama smiled, picked up her burgundy silk skirts, and sailed from the room.
The door had barely shut behind their mother when Abigail turned bright blinking gray eyes toward Frances and asked quite seriously, “What are you planning to do, Frannie? You weren’t crossing your fingers, I saw you. Oh, were you crossing your toes?”
Frances couldn’t help her grin. Her sister knew her well. She’d loved Abigail since she’d been a two-year old peering into Abby’s crib. Frances felt responsible for her and she was entirely serious when she’d told her mother she would like nothing better than to give up her dowry to make Abigail’s more substantial. She would do anything for her little sister. “I might have crossed my toes if I’d thought about it,” she jested. “But I promised Mama I wouldn’t talk about any of the causes dear to my heart and so I won’t.”