The Duchess of Haverford usually enjoyed welcoming this year’s crop of maidens on the Marriage Mart to afternoon tea. She had begun the practice for the sake of her legion of god-daughters, offering a relaxed environment in which the young ladies could form friendships with others they would meet at fashionable entertainments. Just the girls, away from their mothers’ fussing and with no need to compete for the attentions of prospective husbands. In London, she tended to devote an afternoon a month to the practice. Here in Bath, one event sufficed.
Today’s crop of young ladies seemed unusually frivolous and silly. Or perhaps Eleanor was growing old. As they took their turns to sit with her for a few minutes, she smiled and nodded at their stories of balls they had been to, bonnets they desired, and bouquets they had garnered from suitors. Here came another Fishingham child. She had already endured Miss Eugenia’s quotations from a book of etiquette and Miss Matilda’s boasts of more callers than either of her sisters.
Ah! She remembered this one from last year. The eldest, but the quietest. Miss Fishingham had been a wallflower at last night’s assembly, until the Master of Ceremonies presented Will Chadbourn as a dance partner. A nice boy, Chadbourn, newly come to his title. She had shown plenty of animation talking to him, and had been popular for the rest of the evening. “Did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Fishingham?” Eleanor asked.
The girl looked up from the hands she had been studying. “Yes, thank you, Your Grace.”
Nothing more. Miss Fishingham had used up her stock of conversation last night, it seemed. “What did you and Chadbourn talk about with such enthusiasm?” Eleanor asked.
“Crop rotation, Ma’am. His lordship was good enough to explain a new succession planting method that ensures better crops.”
The unexpected answer made Eleanor smile. “And are you interested in crop rotation, Miss Fishingham?”
“Lord Chadbourn certainly made it more interesting than some of my later partners made tying a cravat or collecting snuff boxes,” the girl retorted.
Eleanor laughed out loud. “You have discovered the secret of Social success, Miss Fishingham. Listen attentively.”
“At the risk of terminal boredom,” said Miss Fishingham, then clapped a shocked hand over her mouth. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I quite forgot myself.”
“No apology required, my dear. If I have to hear a description of one more bonnet, I am at risk of dying of boredom myself. So tell me, Charis–it is Charis, is it not? What would you rather be doing than dancing at a assembly?”
***
Charis is the heroine in The Beast Next Door, my contribution to the box set Valentines from Bath.
