There were to be thirty for dinner—a modest supper, her Grace called it, downplaying its true purpose of providing a venue as a marriage market. Her Grace was determined to get at least one proposal this evening even if she needed to wrestle Mr. Goodwin to the floor with her own hands.

“George, we have a situation,” Mother said at breakfast after she was alone with her son at the table.

“Yes, Mother?”

“The dinner this evening has a veiled purpose,” she announced carefully folding her napkin and smoothing it out on the table.

“I was wondering about that. You have been so strict about observing this time of mourning; I began to suspect ulterior motives as soon as the dinner was announced.”

“We can no longer dilly-dally about with your sisters’ marriages. It is time to be decisive.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and as a most particular favor, I need Lucy to be otherwise employed this evening. She is far too distractive, and I need the focus to be on your sisters—and in particular with regard to Mr. Goodwin. I am to have a word with him before, and I expect he will find it to his advantage to make an offer of marriage this very evening.”

“Bribery?”

“George, do not be so crass. But I can be most persuasive.”

“And have you spoken to Lucy about this request?”

“That is where I wish you to intercede for me. She will listen to you, while she will be in open rebellion if I were to ask.”

George sighed. “Very well, then. But if Lucy is not to attend, I also shall not be able to attend.”

Her Grace pursed her lips and took a last sip of tea. “Why must you be so contrary, George?”

“Because you continue to act so maliciously toward her.”

“I had particularly hoped you would spend some time with Miss Priscilla this evening. She is so charming and the very model of a future Duchess. Surely, you can please me just this once?”

“Mother, there is never pleasing you just once. You never cease to amaze me at how blind and insensitive you can be to my wishes.”

“Oh, George, all I ever do is think about what is best for you.”

“No, Mother, you think about what is best for you.”

“How can you be so ungrateful?” she said, shaking out her napkin again and dabbing at her eyes. “Very well, if the only way to get you to attend the dinner is to have Miss Lucy in attendance, so be it. But she shall be placed at the far end of the table, and Miss Priscilla shall be placed to your right. And as for Mr. Goodwin, I shall take care of him before Miss Lucy presents herself.”

* * *

As the guests were arriving before dinner, Stevens took Mr. Goodwin aside when he and his sister arrived.

“Sir, her Grace would like a private word with you.”

“Very well,” Beaumont said as he removed his hat and gloves and handed them to Stevens.

“You will find her in the library. This way, if you please?”

Stevens took Mr. Goodwin to the library and ushered him inside.

“Over here,” the Duchess called out from an alcove filled with shelves of books.

“Your Grace, you wished to have a word with me?” he said as he approached her where she was standing, holding a book.

“Yes. And not to beat around the bush, I have a proposition for you.”

This took Beaumont by surprise, and he could not help but chuckle. “What did you have in mind, Your Grace?”

The Duchess put the book away, left the alcove, and came over and took Mr. Goodwin by the arm.

“You have always seemed to be a very sensible young man to me. Pragmatic, I should say.”

“I believe that is accurate.”

“Good. Then let us sit for a few moments and let me outline what is going to happen this evening.”

They sat opposite each other in comfortable chairs.

“There is a glass of sherry at your elbow, Mr. Goodwin. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Beaumont picked up the glass and took a sip.

“I am listening.”

“How does ten thousand pounds sound, Mr. Goodwin?”

He paused before speaking. “It sounds agreeable. But what does that have to do with me?”

“That is what I am offering you, on top of my daughter Charlotte’s dowry of five thousand a year.”

“But my interests lie elsewhere,” Beaumont said, as a matter of factly.

“But Mr. Goodwin, you are such a practical man. Certainly, you can see the advantages. You know, Miss Lucy has no dowry. It seems her brother is not the fine gentleman we believed him to be. Apparently, he is unable to follow through on his promise of granting a living to her and so she comes with nothing what-so-ever.”

Beaumont did not respond but took another sip of sherry.

“Fifteen thousand plus her five thousand a year,” he countered.

The Duchess looked down at her lap. “I believe that could be arranged—but only if you make the proposal this evening. The offer disappears at midnight just like Cinderella’s magical pumpkin coach.”

“Would a late spring wedding be agreeable, Mother?” he asked as he stood and offered the Duchess, his hand.

* * *

In passing, as they entered the dining room, Mother alerted Charlotte to be ready for a pleasant surprise sometime that evening.

Lucy came in on her brother’s arm, but he had managed to sit next to Betsy on his other side, and they spent most of the evening with their heads close together in intimate conversation.

Lucy was granted the privilege of chatting with the Vicar who, when he learned that she was a writer, regaled her with his thoughts on publishing a book of his sermons.

Lucy could not help but notice that the daughters, while still wearing mourning dresses, had their appearances ever so subtly enhanced to make them look more adorable. All, that is, except for Ann who was more dower than usual, without even the semblance of a smile, or a trace of rouge.

Lucy could also not help but notice that George was at the far end of the table and chatting amiably with Miss Priscilla, who was all ribbons and bows, and ringlets of enhanced reddish hair. It was clear to Lucy now that there could no longer be any thought of a union with George without her brother’s promised dowry. She had no doubt that the Duchess had gotten her way and George would soon be asking Miss Goodwin for her adorable, petite hand in marriage. The Duchess was on the other side of George and was clearly directing the conversation to her satisfaction.

Lucy had noticed that Mr. Goodwin had not tried to speak to her even once this evening, and now he was seated next to Charlotte and giving her his full attention—all smiles, light touches on the arm, and casual laughter.

While carrying on a continued light conversation with the Vicar, Lucy was resigning herself to the fact that her writing was now going to be the focus of her life. At least she did not need to fear expulsion from the manor now that Harold was ensconced as the manager, and hopefully, would be marrying Betsy.

* * *

It was so obvious to George that his mother was pushing him toward Miss Priscilla. Not that he was surprised. He continued, as a good host, to chat and smile with the young lady, and every time he glanced at his mother she gave him an encouraging smile and directed the conversation back to Priscilla.

But his attention was not only on Miss Priscilla. He managed to keep an eye on Mr. Goodwin and Charlotte and Harold and Betsy. He could see that his mother might be successful, at least in those two quarters. It amused him that Mr. Goodwin had not given a single moment of attention to Lucy. Whatever his mother had said to him was obviously successful, and he believed Charlotte would soon be engaged.

Lucy had been seated way down at the other end of the table, as far away from Mr. Goodwin as possible, and while she looked to be engaged in conversations, it was not the usual scintillating Miss Lucy he was observing.

He was in a strange state of divided mind. He found he was carrying on a normal conversation with Miss Priscilla while at the same time being detached. It was like a part of him was floating high above the dinner table looking down on all the guests at once. He felt that if he focused, he could enter into any conversation that was going on whenever he wished. And at the same time, he found himself in his studio painting, standing across from Lucy who was engaged quietly in her writing—both in a state of profound peace.

His mother touched his arm, and he snapped out of this multi-dimensional reverie and turned his attention to her.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Miss Priscilla asked you a question, George, where have you been?” the Duchess asked.

George smiled softly and said, “In my studio. Doing what I should be doing right now.”

His mother looked puzzled. “George you are talking nonsense.”

George stood and addressed his mother, “No. This is your little dog and pony show—not mine.” He turned to Priscilla and, taking her hand, kissed it, saying, “Miss Priscilla. As charming as you are, I am afraid you shall never win my heart. You must excuse me. I have pressing business to attend to elsewhere. I hope you have a delightful rest of your evening.” And he turned and left the dining room to an astonished Duchess and a nearly tearful Miss Priscilla.

* * *

After the dinner was over and the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the library for coffee, her Grace hovered nearby where Mr. Goodwin and Charlotte were seated on the far side of the library away from most of the other guests.

Mr. Goodwin caught her eye for a moment and looked back to Charlotte who was coyly lowering her eyes in anticipation of the next crucial moment.

“I am sorry I have been so otherwise engaged,” Mr. Goodwin said. “Coming down to Dorset from London, I needed to attend to my mother while she was staying with us. But now that she has returned, I am able to free my mind and concentrate on what really matters to me. Do you understand my meaning?” he asked seductively.

“I believe I do, Mr. Goodwin,” Charlotte said, flushed and almost quivering with anticipation.

“You must forgive me if I have seemed to be distracted from time to time, but with so many new people to meet in the area, it has taken me a while to appreciate the finest. It has been a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff.”

“Oh, Mr. Goodwin, how eloquently you put your meaning.”

He smiled and looked again at the Duchess who was motioning with her hand for him to get on with it.

“And so, my dear Miss Charlotte, could you find it in your heart to care for a humble gentleman like myself?”

Charlotte blushed and lowered her eyes. “Mr. Goodwin…”

“Beaumont,” he insisted.

“Beaumont… I think you know the answer to that question.”

He took a deep breath and, closing his eyes for just a second before asking the fatal question, said, “Then, Miss Charlotte, might I ask for your hand in marriage?”

“Oh yes, Beaumont you may. And I shall happily accept.”

Beaumont looked up at the Duchess and nodded ever so slightly.

* * *

In a corner across the library a similar, but slightly different scenario was also playing itself out. Harold was holding Betsy’s hand and tears were threatening to spill from his eyes as he said, after telling her of his tale of misadventure, “My dearest, I am so ashamed. I feel I do not deserve you. However, I cannot but hope and pray that you might be able to forgive me and consent to take me as your husband.”

“Oh Harold…I do love you.” Betsy said, her tears flowing freely and squeezing his hand.

“Can you? Can you please say you will forgive me? Will you be my wife?”

Betsy lowered her head for a moment before asking, “And have you spoken to my brother about this? Will he accept you as my husband?” Betsy sensibly asked.

“I have,” Harold said, “And I have agreed to the conditions he has stipulated, as I have explained.”

“Then I shall accept you as well, my beloved Harold—you naughty boy.”