CHAPTER TWO
CLAREHAVEN, HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND – FEBRUARY, 1814
Grace Mattersley pulled her pelisse robe around her as she settled into the window seat of the library, clutching a book. It would be far warmer on the settee in front of the fire, and yet somehow the window drew her again and again.
She glanced out at the high drifts of snow enveloping her family home. Normally, they’d have spent the entire winter in London for the Season while her brother, Deveric, Duke of Claremont, sat in the House of Lords. But this year they’d returned for Deveric’s wife Eliza’s confinement, all anxiously awaiting the newest Mattersley. Isabelle had finally made her appearance two weeks ago.
Grace’s sister, Emmeline, was likely pacing the hallways, longing to get to town again, bored to tears here in the dead of winter with only her sisters as companions. Rebecca, too, was no doubt chafing at the bit, wishing she could be out on her horse, galloping through the woods. But Grace was quite content exactly where she was. Grateful, even, that she hadn’t had to disrupt her daily rituals to return to London and all its people.
Her mother, Matilda, though, was anxious to return. “We cannot miss the entire Season, after all. No, not with all three of you out now. And we must show strength in Amara’s absence. Yes, yes, we must. Oh, this blasted snow!”
Mama loved every social opportunity, every chance she had to mingle with the highest echelons of London society. She relished hopes of grand matches this year for her youngest daughters, no doubt. Emmeline and Rebecca might be interested, but Grace most assuredly was not.
She flipped a page. How she disliked the Marriage Mart. Last year had been awful enough. If one more awkward, bumbling viscount or baron asked her to dance, she’d likely scream. Not that she minded dancing. But she did mind the men, with their hopeful, occasionally leering glances. And, oh, how dreadful, having to make conversation with someone she did not know!
What was wrong with her? Many of her friends were eager to find a match. Emmeline soaked up male attention as if it was her due. Even Rebecca giggled in delight when young lords flirted with her. But Grace?
She’d rather her heroes remained literary ones, at least for now. At twenty-two, however, she was nearly on the shelf, as her mother was prone to remind her.
She was expected to marry. That’s what highborn ladies did, after all. At least in the Mattersley family. They didn’t engage in trade. They didn’t design houses. They certainly didn’t write novels. No, a Mattersley’s duty was to marry well and produce heirs.
“Managing an estate and family will keep you busy enough, my dear,” her mother promised.
Grace looked down at the page. She’d read the same sentence three times over. Not that it mattered; she knew the book by heart. Ever since Eliza had brought her a copy last year, Grace read it through at least once a month. There was something about its heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, that spoke to Grace. Her spirit, her independence. Her intelligence. Elizabeth Bennet was a member of the gentry, though, not the nobility. Those of the highest society hadn’t fared as well in their representation in this book, Pride and Prejudice.
Grace loved the story. But why did illness or injury have to play such a large role in securing a husband? Marianne with Willoughby and Colonel Brandon, Jane with Mr. Bingley. How absurd.
On the other hand, had Eliza not done the same when she’d fallen in that dreadful accident? She’d been unconscious for days, but that event had knocked sense into Grace’s brother and made him realize his feelings for this odd American, this distant cousin of theirs, ran far deeper than familial. Not so absurd after all, then.
“Perhaps Mama will suggest I walk in Hyde Park during the rain. Although a cold would redden my nose, I suppose, and no suitor would find me attractive then.” She pressed her fingers to her lips; she’d been speaking to an empty room again.
“Always talking to the air, silly goose,” Emmeline liked to tease her. It didn’t bother Grace; she preferred empty rooms to crowds of people. Crowds made her uncomfortable.
The door burst open and Emmeline ran in. “I should have known you were here, sister,” she exclaimed. “I’m so bored. Will this winter never let up?” She plopped down on the settee with a huff, throwing her head back against the piece of furniture in dramatic fashion. “There’s nothing to do!”
“You could read.”
Emmeline glowered at her sister. “Read. Read. I swear I’ve read every book in here worth reading.”
A very unladylike snort escaped Grace. “I highly doubt that, sister. And even if you have, read them again. You could give this one a try.” She held up her book. “It’s wonderful. You would quite like it.”
Emmeline glanced at it. “Eliza told me all about that one. She insists Deveric is her Darcy.” She rolled her eyes.
“Better than a Wickham, that’s for sure.” Grace stood and crossed to her sister. “We’ll be off to London soon, dear Emme, and then you shall once again be the belle of every ball.” She beckoned with a hand.
Emmeline rose and they neared the fire, holding their fingers in front of the flames. “That was Rosaline Marcheux, and you know it,” she said with a pout. “No one could compete with her violet eyes and that sable hair.”
“More like a raven’s nest, if you ask me. Besides, she ended up with Lord Demville. That old goat; you wouldn’t have wanted him, anyway.”
“You’re right. But I was hoping, so hoping.”
Grace linked her arm through her sister’s, and they exited the room. “Soon, my Cinderella in waiting, soon.”
“Cinderella? As if I’d be caught dead sweeping up ashes!”
Grace could only smile as they headed to the parlor, where Emme said Rebecca had set out a game of cards. She loved her sisters, but in many ways she was their opposite.
Oh well. She could return to Darcy later.
It wasn’t as if there was much else to do.