A mournful wind set about the house and I was glad of my little fire, though it was burning low and I did not want to disturb the housekeeper by asking for more fuel. They are unfriendly enough in the servants’ hall; I have no desire to enter into any intercourse with them that is not strictly necessary.
Ah, but soon all of that will change . . .
But I gallop ahead of myself. There I sat, in my little nook, netting a new purse, when I heard a knock at my door.
Thinking it to be one of the girls complaining of an upset stomach or a quarrel with the other, I called for the knocker to enter.
Imagine my confusion – and my blushes – when my visitor proved to be his lordship. He was dressed formally, for dinner, in a silk waistcoat and tails, his hair brushed and curled.
‘Your lordship,’ I said, rising from my seat. ‘Is something amiss?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was so hollow it alarmed me even more. ‘A very great deal is amiss. Dine with me, Miss Manning, and I will expand on the theme.’
‘Oh . . . but . . . my dress.’ I was so plainly attired, and I possessed nothing suitable for the dining table of a lord.
‘Your dress is nothing to the purpose,’ he said, and he was impatient, not his usual courteous self. ‘Dine with me, damn you.’
In my shock at his uncouth language, I could do nothing but follow him downstairs.
The table was set for two and a bowl of soup awaited me, together with a crystal flute of wine.
‘I am honoured, my lord,’ I said, taking my seat. ‘But also somewhat surprised. Might I ask your reasons for inviting me to dine with you tonight?’
‘Yes, you might,’ he said, eyeing me as he unrolled his napkin. ‘The fact is, Miss Manning, I have admired you from the first moment I laid eyes upon you.’
The words were clear, and yet they did not strike my ear in a manner that allowed them to sink in. I had to ask him to repeat them.
‘I see no reason to keep silent on the matter,’ he continued. ‘You are unattached, and so am I. Therefore, it seems nothing prevents me from making a declaration. Miss Manning, I love you, and I want to make you my wife.’
I stared down at the soup, which was a white soup, topped with a sprig of parsley so highly coloured I doubted its veracity. It swam before my eyes, green and white, with the suggestion of a skin forming at the edges of the bowl.
‘I wonder if you can mean this,’ I whispered. ‘For it is so strange.’
‘What the devil’s strange about it?’ He banged his soup spoon on the tablecloth. ‘A single man proposes marriage to a single woman. It happens every day.’
‘Not to me.’
‘Well, I should hope not. Can’t have any old Tom, Dick and Harry proposing to my sweetheart, can I?’
His sweetheart!
The words gave me courage to face him across the table.
‘It is so unaccountable that you . . . should look at me,’ I explained.
‘You’re a handsome woman,’ he said, and I blushed anew. ‘But I suppose you refer to our disparity in rank and station. Well, well, that’s all the same to me. I am a man in need of a wife, and a mother to my children. You are a single woman in need of protection. Marry me, Miss Manning, and your family will never again know want or distress.’
The way he phrased it, like a bargain at market, wounded me. But I saw the sense of it all the same. And he had struck me with the hand of love already. I only needed the black rush of fear at the enormity of the decision to recede and then I would be able to . . .
I spoke.
‘Yes, my lord, I will marry you.’
He tapped his bowl with his spoon as if formally sealing the contract.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s settled. Now, will you take some veal?’
‘What a romantic bastard,’ observed Jason.