Sir Philip's Folly (The Poor Relation Series Book 4) by M. C. Beaton Page A
Authors: M. C. Beaton
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you cancel the hairdresser because Lord Denby cannot start to court me right away, and if Mama sees my hair up, she will immediately get her maid to brush it down, and all that money will have been spent for nothing.”
“I am going to the Pattersons’ ball tonight,” said the earl. “I will dance with Lady Carruthers, which will give me an opportunity to call on her tomorrow and meet you.”
“If Mama knows you are to call, then she will send me out with the maid,” said Arabella.
“Ah, then I shall appear suitably disenchanted and so she will expect me to send my servant instead.” It was the custom for gentlemen to call the next day on ladies they had danced with the night before, but many sent their servants if they were not particularly interested in their dancing partners.
Mr. Davy looked at the clock on the wall and gave an exclamation of surprise. “I am to meet the colonel and go to his tailor.”
They all rose, Arabella with a feeling of regret. The earl looked down at her curiously, wondering what she would look like with a modish hair-style and fashionable clothes. He saw her turn slightly pink under his steady gaze and gathered his wits. He had come to London, complete with new clothes, to find a wife, a wife who would bear him sons and enliven the solitude of his life in the country. Playing games with a young miss was not the way to go about it, and yet there was something endearing about Arabella Carruthers and the odd company she kept.
At his club later, before he returned home to change for the ball, he was accosted by Mr. Sinclair. “Well, what did you think?” asked Mr. Sinclair. “Is she not ravishing, divine?”
“A pretty-enough actress, I’ll grant you that, but I fear Mrs. Tarry may prove expensive.”
“She has a mind above material things,” exclaimed Mr. Sinclair. “And what of you? Who were those odd people you left with? That shabby actor, the drab middle-aged creature and the baby.”
“The baby is Miss Arabella Carruthers, daughter of Lady Carruthers. She is, in fact, all of nineteen years.”
“How odd! What an odd way to dress! Does she make her come out at this unfashionable time of the year?”
“I do not know,” said the earl, affecting boredom. “Talk of something else.”
And Mr. Sinclair was only too happy to return to rhapsodizing about the beauties of Mrs. Tarry while the earl followed his own thoughts. His marriage had not been a success. It had been an arranged marriage, arranged for him by his father before the old earl died. His wife, Henrietta Babbington, had seemed well enough, and arranged marriages were very common. He had not thought much about love, but often, when the prattle of his wife’s conversation irritated him, and when she lay at night as passive in his embrace as a dead body, he had often regretted following his family’s wishes. For most of the marriage she had been ill. He had suspected her of manufacturing illness. She lay, day in and day out, in a darkened room, surrounded by patent medicines. She was addicted to dosing herself with mercury, a medicine which was just beginning to go out of favour. Whether it had been the mercury or whether she had, after all, been really ill, he did not know, but when she died, he suffered from extreme guilt, feeling that he could perhaps have done something to get her out into the fresh air, to rally her spirits. He had then worked hard on his estates, believing in a way that he had no right to enjoy himself.
Recently he had begun to find himself free of guilt and determined to get back into the world and enjoy himself. His clothes had become sadly old-fashioned even in an age when fashion moved slowly, and so he had ordered a great many new ones from the best tailor. But London appeared such a boring, affected sort of place, or at least it had seemed like that until that afternoon.
When he left Mr. Sinclair and returned to the hotel to change, he looked at it with new eyes. It was
“I am going to the Pattersons’ ball tonight,” said the earl. “I will dance with Lady Carruthers, which will give me an opportunity to call on her tomorrow and meet you.”
“If Mama knows you are to call, then she will send me out with the maid,” said Arabella.
“Ah, then I shall appear suitably disenchanted and so she will expect me to send my servant instead.” It was the custom for gentlemen to call the next day on ladies they had danced with the night before, but many sent their servants if they were not particularly interested in their dancing partners.
Mr. Davy looked at the clock on the wall and gave an exclamation of surprise. “I am to meet the colonel and go to his tailor.”
They all rose, Arabella with a feeling of regret. The earl looked down at her curiously, wondering what she would look like with a modish hair-style and fashionable clothes. He saw her turn slightly pink under his steady gaze and gathered his wits. He had come to London, complete with new clothes, to find a wife, a wife who would bear him sons and enliven the solitude of his life in the country. Playing games with a young miss was not the way to go about it, and yet there was something endearing about Arabella Carruthers and the odd company she kept.
At his club later, before he returned home to change for the ball, he was accosted by Mr. Sinclair. “Well, what did you think?” asked Mr. Sinclair. “Is she not ravishing, divine?”
“A pretty-enough actress, I’ll grant you that, but I fear Mrs. Tarry may prove expensive.”
“She has a mind above material things,” exclaimed Mr. Sinclair. “And what of you? Who were those odd people you left with? That shabby actor, the drab middle-aged creature and the baby.”
“The baby is Miss Arabella Carruthers, daughter of Lady Carruthers. She is, in fact, all of nineteen years.”
“How odd! What an odd way to dress! Does she make her come out at this unfashionable time of the year?”
“I do not know,” said the earl, affecting boredom. “Talk of something else.”
And Mr. Sinclair was only too happy to return to rhapsodizing about the beauties of Mrs. Tarry while the earl followed his own thoughts. His marriage had not been a success. It had been an arranged marriage, arranged for him by his father before the old earl died. His wife, Henrietta Babbington, had seemed well enough, and arranged marriages were very common. He had not thought much about love, but often, when the prattle of his wife’s conversation irritated him, and when she lay at night as passive in his embrace as a dead body, he had often regretted following his family’s wishes. For most of the marriage she had been ill. He had suspected her of manufacturing illness. She lay, day in and day out, in a darkened room, surrounded by patent medicines. She was addicted to dosing herself with mercury, a medicine which was just beginning to go out of favour. Whether it had been the mercury or whether she had, after all, been really ill, he did not know, but when she died, he suffered from extreme guilt, feeling that he could perhaps have done something to get her out into the fresh air, to rally her spirits. He had then worked hard on his estates, believing in a way that he had no right to enjoy himself.
Recently he had begun to find himself free of guilt and determined to get back into the world and enjoy himself. His clothes had become sadly old-fashioned even in an age when fashion moved slowly, and so he had ordered a great many new ones from the best tailor. But London appeared such a boring, affected sort of place, or at least it had seemed like that until that afternoon.
When he left Mr. Sinclair and returned to the hotel to change, he looked at it with new eyes. It was
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