Page 1 of To Catch a Husband
CHAPTER ONE
Miss Mary Lound looked up from her embroidery, which she was working upon with more vehemence than skill, stabbing the fabric in an accusatory manner, and stared out of the window. She was not the sort of young woman who enjoyed needlecraft of any sort, and had it not been for the rain which had come down heavily all day, she would have been out, either upon horseback or her own two feet, for she was a brisk walker. She sighed heavily. It was terrible weather for July.
‘I think that even though the sky is somewhat lighter, my dear, you ought to wait until tomorrow before taking the potted cheese to old Mrs Nacton,’ Lady Damerham suggested, a little nervously. Mary had been very snappish all week, not that her parent blamed her8for it. For her own part, Lady Damerham regarded what had happened as all just another misfortune laid upon them.
‘You are quite right, Mama, but …’ She shook her head, and was silent for several minutes, before blurting out, ‘I wish I were a man.’
‘Mary! Really, you say the strangest things.’
‘Yes, but if I were a man, I could do something. As it is we are stuck, with no means of earning an income, and on the verge of penury. If I were a man I could join the army, or the navy, or …’
‘You could write a book? Ladies do write novels and—’
‘Me? Goodness, no. I would be pretty appalling at it, and I hardly think lady authors earn more than pin money. Besides, I can think of nothing worse than trying to write one of those fanciful romances with kidnappings and haunted houses and all that foolishness. Having said which, our situation has all the makings of something as silly. “Titled gentleman wastes much of his inheritance gambling, is succeeded by heir who is as thoughtless and has to sell the family estate to meet his debts, and departs for the wilds of North America, leaving his mother and sister nearly destitute.” Yes, that is ridiculous enough to make a novel!’
‘Not destitute, dearest. I have this house for my lifetime, remember,’ corrected her ladyship, gently, ignoring the fact that upon her decease, her daughter would be homeless.9
‘You have the house, Mama, but how are we to manage? It might have seemed a good idea for you to have a jointure when you married, but it was pathetically small, and how Edmund and his fancy lawyer managed to persuade you to accept a miserable lump sum from the sale of the estate in return for nullifying it I do not know.’ Mary was still fuming over this, for her brother had invited the lawyer to the house when Mary was out for the day visiting a friend, and had not used the family solicitor.
‘But I had to, Mary. The poor boy would otherwise have been severely curtailed in what he could sell, and he said a debtor’s prison threatened. I could not leave him liable to such a fate. He did have it in the estate sale that it was dependent upon me being able to remain in the dower house, do not forget.’
‘I am not sure if he could have tried to sell otherwise, Mama. It is all very murky to me, and that letter from Lord Cradley, upon purchase, was unpleasant in the extreme.’
‘It was not couched in the most genteel of terms, I grant you,’ Lady Damerham admitted.
‘It made it very clear you were to remain only because of the legal requirement, and woe betide you if you as much as stepped upon one yard of “his” land. “His”! The effrontery of it.’
‘Mary, if you maintain this level of ill temper, you will drive yourself to an apoplexy. I am sure of it. There is nothing to be done, except to economise, and though10we may have to turn off some of the servants, you know dear Atlow would not leave us, even if we paid him not a penny, as long as we gave him bed and board.’
‘Atlow is indeed a dear, but we cannot exist with an ageing butler and a cook-housekeeper, and ultimately only one maid to keep a house this size clean and the fires laid.’
‘It will be … difficult. We must be brave and … Are you absolutely certain you could not write a book, not even a small volume of poems, dearest?’
Mary shook her head and laughed, though it was not a laugh of joyous merriment, and promptly stabbed her finger with her needle.
It was thankfully not long afterwards when the butler announced that Sir Harry Penwood wished to know if the ladies were ‘at home’. Atlow had moved with them from Tapley End to the smaller dower house out of loyalty, but also with relief at the reduced number of stairs, passages and galleries that had to be traversed. He gave the ‘Sir’ an emphasis.
‘Oh, do please show him in, Atlow. How wonderful!’ Lady Damerham pressed her hands together in delight, and when the young man entered the room, came forward instantly and hugged him.
‘Dear Harry. Awful circumstances … so glad you are safe and home … your poor mother, I so feel for her …’
Sir Harry, looking over Lady Damerham’s shoulder11as she addressed these disjointed remarks to him, gave Mary Lound a wry grin, and then responded, in a serious tone.
‘Thank you, ma’am. I cannot say I had thought to be back in England for some considerable time but … Mama is quite well, and coping, as one does.’
‘She was always so very stoic. I saw her but last week and she made no mention of your return,’ sighed her ladyship.
‘I did not give warning in case I was delayed on the journey and she fretted. You know her one great fear is the sea, and every time I have left England’s shores, she has been convinced I will end up shipwrecked. Anyway, I am back, and to stay, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I must, very belatedly, offer you my own condolences, ma’am, even though you must be nearly out of your blacks by now.’
‘Indeed, another month and … besides, I – we – had time to accept … it was not sudden.’ Her smile returned. ‘We must offer you refreshment. I hope you have not got too wet coming over to see us. Oh, and while I think of it, your mama asked me for the receipt I have for damsons in a batter pudding when we met outside church the other week. A very weak sermon we both thought, which is most unusual for the rector. I had it ready the other day, but where … ah yes! Mary, dear, send for tea, or would you prefer something stronger, Harry?’ Lady Damerham was already halfway to the door.12
‘Tea would be perfect, thank you, ma’am.’ Sir Harry had almost forgotten how ‘butterfly’ Lady Damerham could be in conversation. He looked again at Mary. She had not changed, he thought, although he had not seen her in nearly three years.
‘Do take a seat “Sir Henry”,’ offered Mary, with a grin and a gesture of her hand, as her parent shut the door behind her, ‘as soon as you have pulled the bell.’
