the same age—a woman of thirty-two—must be positively ancient .
The thought made her anxious. She needed to find a husband quickly— before news of her troubles broke; before her age started to show.
“But handsome, still?” Jane persisted.
Her interest seemed peculiar. A vision flashed before Liza’s eyes: Jane, blond and blue-eyed as a china doll, drifting down to the good doctor’s cottage and promptly winning him with her blemishless complexion and virginal white gowns—all of them, so Liza had noticed, cut an inch lower than current fashions advised. “Why does it matter?” Country doctors were as marriageable as . . . furniture.
“It matters if you mean to bring him to his knees,” Jane said. “If he is ugly, you’ll have to attack his intellect, for he’ll never believe you deign to notice him otherwise. But if his looks are passable, why, then you can trick him into loving you and then break his heart!”
Laughing, Liza set down her teacup. “My goodness!A very cold approach!” Yet it felt soothing to her vanity to be accounted still capable of breaking hearts. “Wouldn’t it be kinder to ignore him altogether?”
“But he was rude to you,” Jane said. “So tell me: is he handsome or not?”
Liza considered the girl for a moment. It felt uncannily like looking a decade into her own past, at a face smooth, unlined, alight with pleasure and ambition, unshadowed by doubts. The years ahead—the decade that had been lost to Liza—would comprise Jane Hull’s greatest triumph. She would learn, no doubt, about the uses of kindness; having tasted her own defeats, she would develop compassion for those less blessed than she. But while disappointment was a fine tutor, it need not be her lifelong companion. She had beauty, breeding, and in Liza, a brilliant entrée to society: what else did she need to find love?
Perhaps, Liza thought, this was how she might have felt for a young sister: hopeful and impatient and protective all at once. She reached for Jane’s hand, catching and squeezing the soft little fingers. “Darling. You trust me, don’t you?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Of course, dear Liza!”
“Then let me make certain you are happy.” She’d squandered her final chance at love. But she would make certain Jane did not. “As for this doctor—no, he’s not handsome. Good heavens,” she added with a laugh. “He’s a doctor . Let the poor man be!”
Jane looked slightly disappointed. “Then you don’t mean to break his heart?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” Smiling, Liza released Jane’s hand and reached again for her tea, which really did fix her head marvelously. “It entirely depends on how bored I am.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Had anyone told Michael three months ago that soon his most constant companion would be a vicar, he would have choked on laughter, or predicted the end times. Religion, along with all other forms of creaky propriety, was best left to firstborn sons, who could afford such noble indulgences. Yet here he was, gladly sharing a tankard at the village pub with a man who wore the collar.
Lawrence Pershall was that rare churchman who had been drawn to his position by faith rather than by financial considerations. But God did not figure much in their conversations, and today, as usual, it was politics and sport that engaged them. They shared an interest in racing, perhaps strengthened by the fact that neither of them could afford to indulge in it. They both believed—quietly, for they were not suicidal—that rugby trumped cricket for athleticism. And on matters of empire, they also concurred: the Irish question had become a great burden, best discharged by granting independence to that nation. However, the army was a damned fine institution, regardless.
“Soldiering was my other calling,” Pershall confessed as they exited the pub into the bright daylight. “At fourteen, I was convinced I’d be a general one day.”
“I remember that phase,”
The thought made her anxious. She needed to find a husband quickly— before news of her troubles broke; before her age started to show.
“But handsome, still?” Jane persisted.
Her interest seemed peculiar. A vision flashed before Liza’s eyes: Jane, blond and blue-eyed as a china doll, drifting down to the good doctor’s cottage and promptly winning him with her blemishless complexion and virginal white gowns—all of them, so Liza had noticed, cut an inch lower than current fashions advised. “Why does it matter?” Country doctors were as marriageable as . . . furniture.
“It matters if you mean to bring him to his knees,” Jane said. “If he is ugly, you’ll have to attack his intellect, for he’ll never believe you deign to notice him otherwise. But if his looks are passable, why, then you can trick him into loving you and then break his heart!”
Laughing, Liza set down her teacup. “My goodness!A very cold approach!” Yet it felt soothing to her vanity to be accounted still capable of breaking hearts. “Wouldn’t it be kinder to ignore him altogether?”
“But he was rude to you,” Jane said. “So tell me: is he handsome or not?”
Liza considered the girl for a moment. It felt uncannily like looking a decade into her own past, at a face smooth, unlined, alight with pleasure and ambition, unshadowed by doubts. The years ahead—the decade that had been lost to Liza—would comprise Jane Hull’s greatest triumph. She would learn, no doubt, about the uses of kindness; having tasted her own defeats, she would develop compassion for those less blessed than she. But while disappointment was a fine tutor, it need not be her lifelong companion. She had beauty, breeding, and in Liza, a brilliant entrée to society: what else did she need to find love?
Perhaps, Liza thought, this was how she might have felt for a young sister: hopeful and impatient and protective all at once. She reached for Jane’s hand, catching and squeezing the soft little fingers. “Darling. You trust me, don’t you?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Of course, dear Liza!”
“Then let me make certain you are happy.” She’d squandered her final chance at love. But she would make certain Jane did not. “As for this doctor—no, he’s not handsome. Good heavens,” she added with a laugh. “He’s a doctor . Let the poor man be!”
Jane looked slightly disappointed. “Then you don’t mean to break his heart?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” Smiling, Liza released Jane’s hand and reached again for her tea, which really did fix her head marvelously. “It entirely depends on how bored I am.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Had anyone told Michael three months ago that soon his most constant companion would be a vicar, he would have choked on laughter, or predicted the end times. Religion, along with all other forms of creaky propriety, was best left to firstborn sons, who could afford such noble indulgences. Yet here he was, gladly sharing a tankard at the village pub with a man who wore the collar.
Lawrence Pershall was that rare churchman who had been drawn to his position by faith rather than by financial considerations. But God did not figure much in their conversations, and today, as usual, it was politics and sport that engaged them. They shared an interest in racing, perhaps strengthened by the fact that neither of them could afford to indulge in it. They both believed—quietly, for they were not suicidal—that rugby trumped cricket for athleticism. And on matters of empire, they also concurred: the Irish question had become a great burden, best discharged by granting independence to that nation. However, the army was a damned fine institution, regardless.
“Soldiering was my other calling,” Pershall confessed as they exited the pub into the bright daylight. “At fourteen, I was convinced I’d be a general one day.”
“I remember that phase,”
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