was gaping like a fish, unable to say what Antoinette had been about to say so peremptorily.
“Lord Slyther’s dead.” Antoinette’s voice shook. She looked uncertainly at her mother. “Of a stroke…around midday, I overheard it said.”
Relief was Fanny’s immediate reaction. Relief that they were in a public place so her mother could not beat her over the head with whatever object came to hand, and relief that salvation had come before it was too late.
Lady Brightwell put her hand to the wall to steady herself. The blood drained from her face while her eyes blazed like they were being stoked by the fires of Hell. Fanny’s joy at her reprieve was tempered somewhat by the observation. Her mother was never going to forgive her unless she succeeded with Lord Fenton.
By all the saints in Heaven, though, she was!
“Mama, you need to sit down.” Fanny’s tone was soothing, as if her first concern was her mother, but when she laid her hand upon her mother’s sleeve Lady Brightwell shook it off.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed. She drew a staccato breath. Fearfully, her children watched while they formed a barrier to potential interest from other shoppers. Like a spider about to strike, Lady Brightwell glared at Fanny from the shadow of her bonnet as she tossed her tippet around her neck and stepped forward. “Stupid, stupid girl, Fanny! You’d be a widow right now if you’d played your cards right and all our fortunes would be made. But no, you were too precious and too selfish to do what was required.”
Antoinette and Bertram looked downcast. Shuffling one foot over the flagstones, Antoinette ventured, “I saw Mr Bramley today and he was very attentive. I’m sure he’s going to make me an offer and as he is the Earl of Quamby’s heir—”
“Shut up , Antoinette!” Her mother rounded on her. “You understand nothing of the ways of men. You think because you are loose and obliging with your affections that a wedding band will secure the deal?” She shook her fist at her youngest. “They’ll be only too delighted to secure their pleasures without having to negotiate a marriage contract with ticklish family who consider there are better contenders than the Brightwells. You are, there’s no getting round the fact”—the substance appeared to drain from her and she slumped against the wall—“not every designing mama’s dream.”
Chapter Seven
Lady Brightwell was in no mood to accept the various attempts made by her offspring to paint their circumstances more rosily. In the bleak hues she had cast over their futures, ‘Fanny’s gross selfishness and disregard had ruined those who had sacrificed everything on her account’.
“Fanny will find another brilliant match, Mama,” Bertram generously predicted as Lady Brightwell directed her three children—in clipped tones and with a brow as glowering as they’d ever seen—to arrange for a conveyance to take her home.
To Fanny’s relief, she had acquiesced in allowing the rest of them to walk, provided they return directly to their dingy residence, but she was in no mood to be mollified by Bertram.
“You’re as much a foolish optimist over your sister’s prospects as you are over your fortune at the gaming tables, Bertram,” Lady Brightwell snapped, slapping away his hand as he solicitously tugged her skirt clear of the door of the hackney.
“Really, Mama, you all but forced the match upon her,” he persisted, unperturbed by the set-down.
“Did it never occur to you that your folly is as much a reason why your sisters must accept unpalatable alliances as your father’s impecuniousness?” Lady Brightwell slammed the door and glared out of the window before rapping on the roof for the jarvey to take up the reins.
Antoinette had by this stage lost a little of her usual effervescence. “I’ve never seen Mama quite so angry,” she said as the three of them set off along the pavement.
It was a lovely day and Fanny had used the
“Lord Slyther’s dead.” Antoinette’s voice shook. She looked uncertainly at her mother. “Of a stroke…around midday, I overheard it said.”
Relief was Fanny’s immediate reaction. Relief that they were in a public place so her mother could not beat her over the head with whatever object came to hand, and relief that salvation had come before it was too late.
Lady Brightwell put her hand to the wall to steady herself. The blood drained from her face while her eyes blazed like they were being stoked by the fires of Hell. Fanny’s joy at her reprieve was tempered somewhat by the observation. Her mother was never going to forgive her unless she succeeded with Lord Fenton.
By all the saints in Heaven, though, she was!
“Mama, you need to sit down.” Fanny’s tone was soothing, as if her first concern was her mother, but when she laid her hand upon her mother’s sleeve Lady Brightwell shook it off.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed. She drew a staccato breath. Fearfully, her children watched while they formed a barrier to potential interest from other shoppers. Like a spider about to strike, Lady Brightwell glared at Fanny from the shadow of her bonnet as she tossed her tippet around her neck and stepped forward. “Stupid, stupid girl, Fanny! You’d be a widow right now if you’d played your cards right and all our fortunes would be made. But no, you were too precious and too selfish to do what was required.”
Antoinette and Bertram looked downcast. Shuffling one foot over the flagstones, Antoinette ventured, “I saw Mr Bramley today and he was very attentive. I’m sure he’s going to make me an offer and as he is the Earl of Quamby’s heir—”
“Shut up , Antoinette!” Her mother rounded on her. “You understand nothing of the ways of men. You think because you are loose and obliging with your affections that a wedding band will secure the deal?” She shook her fist at her youngest. “They’ll be only too delighted to secure their pleasures without having to negotiate a marriage contract with ticklish family who consider there are better contenders than the Brightwells. You are, there’s no getting round the fact”—the substance appeared to drain from her and she slumped against the wall—“not every designing mama’s dream.”
Chapter Seven
Lady Brightwell was in no mood to accept the various attempts made by her offspring to paint their circumstances more rosily. In the bleak hues she had cast over their futures, ‘Fanny’s gross selfishness and disregard had ruined those who had sacrificed everything on her account’.
“Fanny will find another brilliant match, Mama,” Bertram generously predicted as Lady Brightwell directed her three children—in clipped tones and with a brow as glowering as they’d ever seen—to arrange for a conveyance to take her home.
To Fanny’s relief, she had acquiesced in allowing the rest of them to walk, provided they return directly to their dingy residence, but she was in no mood to be mollified by Bertram.
“You’re as much a foolish optimist over your sister’s prospects as you are over your fortune at the gaming tables, Bertram,” Lady Brightwell snapped, slapping away his hand as he solicitously tugged her skirt clear of the door of the hackney.
“Really, Mama, you all but forced the match upon her,” he persisted, unperturbed by the set-down.
“Did it never occur to you that your folly is as much a reason why your sisters must accept unpalatable alliances as your father’s impecuniousness?” Lady Brightwell slammed the door and glared out of the window before rapping on the roof for the jarvey to take up the reins.
Antoinette had by this stage lost a little of her usual effervescence. “I’ve never seen Mama quite so angry,” she said as the three of them set off along the pavement.
It was a lovely day and Fanny had used the
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