It wasn’t that she was averse to having a husband and a family, but the men of the ton were all so boring or boorish, or both. Self-absorbed, idle, lightweights … None of them seemed to do anything constructive or important with their lives.
Mother put on a brave, encouraging face. “You’re not unpleasant to look at, you are the daughter of an earl, and you have a proper education and training in deportment. You would be an acceptable bride if you’d only try. All it requires is that you exert yourself, perhaps use a bit of flattery, a bit of coquettishness. Make a man feel good about himself. Show an interest in something other than your books, and perhaps flirt a little.”
Flirt. Act like an empty-headed miss who couldn’t cross a ballroom unless a man gave her directions and lent his arm for her to lean upon.
“Don’t make that face at me, young lady. It’s not wrong to be smart, but it is wrong to assume that everyone else is stupid compared to you. If you continue to make potential suitors look foolish with your sharp tongue, you’re destined for Yorkshire and the life of a lady’s companion, and you might as well forgo this Season and head to Aunt Philomena’s now.” Her mother’s voice had sharpened, and her shaft hit true.
Charlotte nodded, letting her chin drop, knowing she had been guilty of handing out setdowns when she lost her patience with the shallowness of conversations at balls and dinners. But how could she possibly marry a man who bored her to sawdust? If only she could meet someone who actually did something with his life, who could claim to have read any book in the last year, who did more than talk about his haberdashery or his driving skill with a coach-and-four. Someone who wasn’t looking for a bit of fluff to admire him and remind him how wonderful he was. Someone who might actually be capable of fidelity and genuine love and soul-nurturing conversation.
Perhaps someone who could see behind the plain dresses and severe hairstyle, prescribed by her parents, to the person she was inside.
“Now,” her mother said, brisk and businesslike as she rose from her chair. “Put that book away and get your cloak. We’re going to start as we mean to go on. I’ve received an invitation to meet some friends at the Frost Festival. It opens today, and there will be lots of people there with whom to mingle. All the most fashionable persons will turn out for the occasion. I expect you to be polite to those we meet. In fact, say as little as possible, and you’ll be fine. Dress warmly. I can’t remember a winter this cold, and it’s bound to be worse on the river.”
Charlotte had about as much experience holding her tongue as she did flirting. She set her jaw mutinously, but she obeyed, taking the book along with her to her room, lest her father come across it and confiscate it.
An hour later when Charlotte stepped out of the carriage at the top of the steps leading down to the Thames, her mother’s claims of cold seemed an understatement. Icy wind scudded over the cobbles and whipped at her bonnet ties. For the first time in years, the weather had been so bitterly cold that the river had frozen completely. Enterprising souls had used this phenomenon to revive the Frost Festival, and crowds had gathered for the entertainment.
“Come. I’ve arranged to meet someone on the quay.” Her mother gathered her woolen cloak about her, her cheeks already pink with cold but her eyes bright and eager. Mother, like the rest of the ton, loved any reason to socialize, and the temperature wouldn’t daunt her if it meant a chance to gather with friends.
Charlotte burrowed her hands into her knitted muff and followed Mother down the steps, careful where she placed her feet on the uneven stone. All around her, people laughed and called, vendors hawked their wares, and children wove and dove between the revelers.
Smoke from braziers and campfires whipped around, propelled by the stiff breeze, and the aromas of cooking meat and yeasty ale enticed investigation.
A small city had sprung up on the solid surface of the river—booths, tents, shacks. Straw had been strewn in paths to make impromptu “streets.” Standing as they were above the icy surface on the pier, Charlotte observed a juggler entertaining a crescent of onlookers, and she spied a thin urchin dipping into the pocket of one jovial man while he was distracted.
She checked that her reticule was secured around her wrist and nestled deep into her muff. All summer long she had been saving to purchase a subscription to a lending library for the time she would be in London. Her father rarely turned any money over to her, and she’d had to hoard and scrape to purchase each of the treasured books in her collection. She couldn’t afford to be robbed if she was to have new reading material this Season. A library subscription would allow her to read as much as she wanted of books she could never afford to purchase.
“There they are.” Mother took Charlotte’s elbow and tugged her toward the end of the pier. “And they’ve brought Dudley.”
A groan worked its way up Charlotte’s throat, and her shoulders sagged. They were meeting the Bosworths? Dudley Bosworth? Mother hurried toward her friends while speaking in a low tone. “If you won’t take care of the matter of finding a husband yourself, I’m going to have to intervene. Now, be nice.”
All too soon Dudley was bowing over her hand, his rounded face parting in a reluctant smile. “H … hello, Lady Charlotte.”
Was his face red from cold, or was he blushing?
Remembering her mother’s admonition to keep her mouth shut, Charlotte said nothing, only nodding to him. He’d paid some court to her last Season, probably pushed into it by his mother, for he suffered greatly from awkwardness around girls. Charlotte hadn’t been interested then. She wasn’t interested now. Dudley was nice enough, she supposed, but he was about as exciting as blancmange.
“Charlotte was just telling me how eager she was to see you again. She couldn’t wait to come to the festival, knowing you’d be here,” Mother said, sending a warning glance Charlotte’s way, forbidding any contradiction to this bald-faced lie.
“We were delighted to know you were coming, my dear.” Mrs. Bosworth looked fondly from her son to Charlotte. “Dudley was most anxious to see you too.” She inclined her head a little, as if encouraging Dudley to say something. He shot a startled glance at his mother and then covered it up by nodding vigorously.
So that was the direction in which the land lay. Ambushed by their parents. Charlotte turned away under the guise of dealing with the wind whipping her plain woolen cloak around her, and a bookseller’s stall caught her eye below. If only she could escape to that little oasis in the crowd.
“Let’s take in some of the festivities, shall we?” Mr. Bosworth clapped his gloved hands together and then rubbed his palms against one another, as if anticipating all he would see and do.
Dudley stood between Charlotte and her mother, shifting his weight. He half offered his arm to Charlotte and the other to her mother, then stilled.
His father solved the dilemma. “You escort Charlotte, my boy.” He held out both elbows to his wife and Mother, and they strolled back along the length of the pier, leaving Dudley and Charlotte to come along behind.
Taking his arm meant removing her hand from her muff, a proposition she didn’t relish. She was more than capable of walking without support, and her hand would freeze through her glove. Still, proprieties. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.