duchess said. “Oh, Marcel, she’ll dwindle into an old maid … I’m so unhappy,” she said in a burst, tears rolling down her face.
“Well,” said Marcel uncomfortably. “Violetta married quite late; why give up hope for Charlotte?” Marcel was a large, quiet man whose French first name had been given to him by his romantic mother. It had caused him quite a bit of embarrassment in the past few years, especially in 1797 when republican France threatened to invade England.
“I think,” he said, settling his wife’s head firmly into the crook of his shoulder, “we should just loosen the reins a little. What if she doesn’t want to go to parties? Let her paint.” He thought of adding the fact that he was tired of arguments about balls, but he didn’t.
The duchess wriggled her head against her husband’s shoulder. He was a sweet man, but he had no idea of the daily vexations that greeted a woman who never married, the snubs and insults that were already being doled out to Charlotte.
“But what about when … where will she live?” Adelaide said despairingly. “Horace will inherit this house and the one in the country, and he’ll want to start a family, and who’s to say that he would want a maiden sister living with him, especially one who has a reputation for an unladylike interest in painting!”
“I’ll tell you what,” said her spouse comfortably. “The other two girls are settled. Winnie’s husband will never lack blunt and Violetta’s marquess is doing just fine. I’ll turn that Welsh estate over to Charlotte, you know, the one that I inherited from Aunt Beatrice. It’s not entailed, and it turns a pretty profit. With the land and her dowry, she’ll be right and tight.”
Adelaide thought about it. Their eldest daughter, Winifred, had married Austen Saddlesford, a madly wealthy American, and gone off happily to live in Boston, and Violetta had married the Marquess of Blass, and indeed, neither girl was hurting for money. And Horace would inherit all the ducal holdings; he wouldn’t begrudge the Welsh inheritance.
Characteristically, she saw it from a slightly different angle than did her husband. Marcel thought, kindly enough, that with the Welsh rents Charlotte could live comfortably and buy a house in London if she wished. But what Adelaide immediately grasped was that the Welsh estate—a little Elizabethan manor house and its land—would turn Charlotte from the very well-endowed daughter of a duke into being a remarkable heiress. And that , she thought sagely, would perk up interest in her daughter and what’s more, would stop tongues wagging about her being an old maid. A great heiress just didn’t fit the category, somehow.
One never knew; perhaps the right man would come along for Charlotte, and now it wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t wealthy.
“Marcel, you are a wonder,” Adelaide said gratefully, rubbing her hair against his shoulder like a silken cat.
So the season of 1801 opened on a rather different note for Charlotte. Ignoring all her protests, her father had signed over to her a quite vast amount of land in Wales.
“You might as well get used to the responsibility while I’m around to advise you,” he said, signing the last papers with a flourish of his quill. The duke’s thin, prunelike lawyer, Mr. Jennings of Jennings and Condell, shuddered delicately, inside of course. Jennings and Condell did not approve of women holding property of any kind and Mr. Jennings foresaw endless bother after the Duke of Calverstill passed away.
On her side, Charlotte quickly realized that owning a house made her very happy. She owned a manse in Wales; twenty-three people lived and farmed near the house, and some three hundred sheep grazed on her land, according to the manager’s report. She read the latest reports over and over. The newspaper gained an interest that it never had before. When workers destroyed looms in the Cotswolds, she shuddered. What if riots spread to
“Well,” said Marcel uncomfortably. “Violetta married quite late; why give up hope for Charlotte?” Marcel was a large, quiet man whose French first name had been given to him by his romantic mother. It had caused him quite a bit of embarrassment in the past few years, especially in 1797 when republican France threatened to invade England.
“I think,” he said, settling his wife’s head firmly into the crook of his shoulder, “we should just loosen the reins a little. What if she doesn’t want to go to parties? Let her paint.” He thought of adding the fact that he was tired of arguments about balls, but he didn’t.
The duchess wriggled her head against her husband’s shoulder. He was a sweet man, but he had no idea of the daily vexations that greeted a woman who never married, the snubs and insults that were already being doled out to Charlotte.
“But what about when … where will she live?” Adelaide said despairingly. “Horace will inherit this house and the one in the country, and he’ll want to start a family, and who’s to say that he would want a maiden sister living with him, especially one who has a reputation for an unladylike interest in painting!”
“I’ll tell you what,” said her spouse comfortably. “The other two girls are settled. Winnie’s husband will never lack blunt and Violetta’s marquess is doing just fine. I’ll turn that Welsh estate over to Charlotte, you know, the one that I inherited from Aunt Beatrice. It’s not entailed, and it turns a pretty profit. With the land and her dowry, she’ll be right and tight.”
Adelaide thought about it. Their eldest daughter, Winifred, had married Austen Saddlesford, a madly wealthy American, and gone off happily to live in Boston, and Violetta had married the Marquess of Blass, and indeed, neither girl was hurting for money. And Horace would inherit all the ducal holdings; he wouldn’t begrudge the Welsh inheritance.
Characteristically, she saw it from a slightly different angle than did her husband. Marcel thought, kindly enough, that with the Welsh rents Charlotte could live comfortably and buy a house in London if she wished. But what Adelaide immediately grasped was that the Welsh estate—a little Elizabethan manor house and its land—would turn Charlotte from the very well-endowed daughter of a duke into being a remarkable heiress. And that , she thought sagely, would perk up interest in her daughter and what’s more, would stop tongues wagging about her being an old maid. A great heiress just didn’t fit the category, somehow.
One never knew; perhaps the right man would come along for Charlotte, and now it wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t wealthy.
“Marcel, you are a wonder,” Adelaide said gratefully, rubbing her hair against his shoulder like a silken cat.
So the season of 1801 opened on a rather different note for Charlotte. Ignoring all her protests, her father had signed over to her a quite vast amount of land in Wales.
“You might as well get used to the responsibility while I’m around to advise you,” he said, signing the last papers with a flourish of his quill. The duke’s thin, prunelike lawyer, Mr. Jennings of Jennings and Condell, shuddered delicately, inside of course. Jennings and Condell did not approve of women holding property of any kind and Mr. Jennings foresaw endless bother after the Duke of Calverstill passed away.
On her side, Charlotte quickly realized that owning a house made her very happy. She owned a manse in Wales; twenty-three people lived and farmed near the house, and some three hundred sheep grazed on her land, according to the manager’s report. She read the latest reports over and over. The newspaper gained an interest that it never had before. When workers destroyed looms in the Cotswolds, she shuddered. What if riots spread to
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