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Authors: The Bartered Bride
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pressed, his curiosity aroused.
“Well,” Chivers murmured, “I suppose I may as well be partic’lar. After all, that’s the real reason I’m ’ere.” He stood up, took a deep breath and looked the viscount squarely in the eye. “Y’ see, yer lordship, I myself ’ave a daughter …”
Chapter Eight
Lord Kittridge, though he’d listened to Mr. Chivers’ impertinent suggestion with fascination, did not for a moment give that suggestion serious consideration. The idea of selling himself and his title in exchange for a dowry—no matter how large—filled him with repugnance. Such a solution to his problem struck him as not only too easy and too vulgar but almost corrupt. There was something debauched, he felt, about any man who would consider such a plan.
Thus, having rejected that idea out of hand, he was left with only two choices for his family’s future: either to sell everything and live in unaccustomed modesty on the income of the sale for the rest of their lives; or to sell all but the Lincolnshire estate and try to endure near-poverty for a few years in the hope that he could eventually coax a profit from that encumbered and thus far unproductive property. Neither of the two plans offered him anything pleasant to tell his family.
He came home from his visit to the City determined to inform them bluntly of the state of their impoverishment. It was a necessary cruelty. He had to apprise them of the hard facts at once so that they could learn to accept what would soon be their much-diminished style of life. To that end, he ordered the butler to request that the family assemble in the drawing room in three quarters of an hour, at exactly four P.M., when he would confer with them over tea.
In the meantime, he sat down at the desk in the room that had been his father’s study to go over the figures that Chivers had given him. Attempting to calculate the exact advantages that one of the plans might have over the other, he picked up a pen. Its nib, he found, was impossibly dull, and he thrust his calculations aside to search for a knife with which to sharpen it. He opened the top drawer and discovered, to his horror, that it was stuffed full of unpaid bills.
He surveyed the crumpled, disarranged, confusing accumulation with a feeling of utter despair. Slowly, one by one, he studied them, sorting them into piles and jotting down the amounts on a tally-sheet. Every bill was overdue, and all of them—mostly household trivialities and ladies’ clothing—were for amounts considerably larger than he would have expected. His mother seemed to have deliberately purchased the most expensive items she could find. Although she must have had some inkling of the state of their finances, she had evidently taken no steps to economize. There were, for example, thirty-seven bills for millinery alone! Why, he wondered distractedly, when one’s finances were in disarray, would one even
consider
buying oneself
thirty-seven hats
?
He made a quick estimate of the total, but the sum sickened him. Could his addition possibly be right? Could his mother have spent almost
three thousand pounds
on these
trifles
? He recalculated the list, hoping that a more careful reckoning would yield a less horrendous total, but the second accounting was even worse. His fists clenched in bewilderment and frustration.
How could so large an amount
, he asked himself,
have been spent on useless, self-indulgent luxuries
?
As the fact of this new debt sank into his consciousness, his sense of helpless frustration gave way to a feeling of explosive fury. He seized the papers in an angry fist and strode across the hallway to the drawing room. “Mama,” he demanded without a word of greeting, “what on
Earth
is the meaning ofthis?”
The dowager Lady Kittridge, the only person in the family who’d thus far responded to his summons, was comfortably ensconced on an easy chair near the tea table, which was already laden with the tea things. She was
“Well,” Chivers murmured, “I suppose I may as well be partic’lar. After all, that’s the real reason I’m ’ere.” He stood up, took a deep breath and looked the viscount squarely in the eye. “Y’ see, yer lordship, I myself ’ave a daughter …”
Chapter Eight
Lord Kittridge, though he’d listened to Mr. Chivers’ impertinent suggestion with fascination, did not for a moment give that suggestion serious consideration. The idea of selling himself and his title in exchange for a dowry—no matter how large—filled him with repugnance. Such a solution to his problem struck him as not only too easy and too vulgar but almost corrupt. There was something debauched, he felt, about any man who would consider such a plan.
Thus, having rejected that idea out of hand, he was left with only two choices for his family’s future: either to sell everything and live in unaccustomed modesty on the income of the sale for the rest of their lives; or to sell all but the Lincolnshire estate and try to endure near-poverty for a few years in the hope that he could eventually coax a profit from that encumbered and thus far unproductive property. Neither of the two plans offered him anything pleasant to tell his family.
He came home from his visit to the City determined to inform them bluntly of the state of their impoverishment. It was a necessary cruelty. He had to apprise them of the hard facts at once so that they could learn to accept what would soon be their much-diminished style of life. To that end, he ordered the butler to request that the family assemble in the drawing room in three quarters of an hour, at exactly four P.M., when he would confer with them over tea.
In the meantime, he sat down at the desk in the room that had been his father’s study to go over the figures that Chivers had given him. Attempting to calculate the exact advantages that one of the plans might have over the other, he picked up a pen. Its nib, he found, was impossibly dull, and he thrust his calculations aside to search for a knife with which to sharpen it. He opened the top drawer and discovered, to his horror, that it was stuffed full of unpaid bills.
He surveyed the crumpled, disarranged, confusing accumulation with a feeling of utter despair. Slowly, one by one, he studied them, sorting them into piles and jotting down the amounts on a tally-sheet. Every bill was overdue, and all of them—mostly household trivialities and ladies’ clothing—were for amounts considerably larger than he would have expected. His mother seemed to have deliberately purchased the most expensive items she could find. Although she must have had some inkling of the state of their finances, she had evidently taken no steps to economize. There were, for example, thirty-seven bills for millinery alone! Why, he wondered distractedly, when one’s finances were in disarray, would one even
consider
buying oneself
thirty-seven hats
?
He made a quick estimate of the total, but the sum sickened him. Could his addition possibly be right? Could his mother have spent almost
three thousand pounds
on these
trifles
? He recalculated the list, hoping that a more careful reckoning would yield a less horrendous total, but the second accounting was even worse. His fists clenched in bewilderment and frustration.
How could so large an amount
, he asked himself,
have been spent on useless, self-indulgent luxuries
?
As the fact of this new debt sank into his consciousness, his sense of helpless frustration gave way to a feeling of explosive fury. He seized the papers in an angry fist and strode across the hallway to the drawing room. “Mama,” he demanded without a word of greeting, “what on
Earth
is the meaning ofthis?”
The dowager Lady Kittridge, the only person in the family who’d thus far responded to his summons, was comfortably ensconced on an easy chair near the tea table, which was already laden with the tea things. She was
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