The Convenient Felstone Marriage. Jenni Fletcher
One
North Yorkshire—July 1865
‘But I don’t want to marry him!’ Ianthe Holt felt as though she’d just been slapped in the face. ‘How could you even suggest such a thing?’
‘Because it’s a good idea, that’s why!’ Her brother, Percy, threw his head back against the carriage seat with a sigh. ‘And I didn’t say that you had to, just that you ought to consider it.’
‘He’s twenty years older than me!’
‘Thirty, more like.’
‘Then how could you... How could I...?’
Ianthe spluttered the words, barely resisting the urge to kick her brother violently in the shins. There was a great deal more about Sir Charles Lester than simply his age that bothered her, not that Percy would ever believe that. Good idea or not, the Baronet was the last man on earth she wanted to marry. Even the sight of him these days gave her goosebumps, yet here she was, trapped in a train compartment, every burst of steam and thud of the pistons taking her closer towards him.
Silently she gritted her teeth and stared out of the window, trying to soothe herself with a view of the countryside rolling past. Arguing with Percy these days was pointless, and an outright refusal would only make him more stubborn. No, she had to try and stay calm, however much she wanted to scream.
Not that the rugged terrain was doing anything to steady her nerves. She was used to city life, to houses and shops and factories. This Yorkshire landscape was so different it felt strangely unnerving, as if the whole world had suddenly become bigger and wilder, as if she were losing control of every aspect of her life.
‘You said we were going to visit Aunt Sophoria.’
‘We are, but Charles has a house near Pickering too. I didn’t lie.’
‘You didn’t say you’d been arranging a wedding behind my back!’
‘Discussing, not arranging. Look, sis, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but you might try to like him. He’s quite sincere, you know, asked permission for your hand and everything.’
‘He asked you?’ Ianthe swung around incredulously, calm resolve forgotten. ‘I’m twenty-one! I don’t need your permission to marry.’
‘I’m head of the family.’
‘You’re my brother, Percy, my little brother! I’m perfectly capable of making decisions on my own.’
‘I thought it very good of him to come to me first.’
‘Oh, don’t be so pompous! You never used to be. That’s his influence, too.’
‘And you never used to be such a dowdy old spinster. You know you were quite pretty before you went to Bournemouth, but now it’s impossible to tell behind that high collar and that awful hair. Do you have to scrape it back so tightly? You look such a prig.’
‘You know I don’t care for appearances.’
Ianthe twisted her face away quickly, catching an unwelcome glimpse of her reflection in the carriage window, of nondescript brown hair and matching, wide-set eyes. Doe eyes, her father had called them, though they seemed to have grown even bigger since his death. Now they looked almost unnaturally large in her narrow face, making the rest of her features appear too small by comparison.
‘And do you have to wear grey every day?’ Percy seemed to be warming to his theme. ‘It’s depressing.’
‘We’re only just out of mourning!’
‘Exactly, out of mourning. I’d have thought you’d want to wear colour again. Personally, I don’t know what Charles sees in you.’
‘I wish he wouldn’t see anything! And you needn’t be so unchivalrous. We’re not alone.’
She threw a pointed glance towards the man sitting opposite. He’d been asleep when they’d entered the compartment, his dark head resting casually against the windowpane, but Percy was doing nothing to keep his voice down and the last thing she wanted was an audience. Her situation was mortifying enough without it being aired in public.
Besides, she wasn’t at all certain that their travelling companion was quite as unconscious as he’d first appeared. During Percy’s last tirade, she thought she’d glimpsed a slight shift in his expression, an almost infinitesimal furrowing of his brows, as if he were offended on her behalf.
Had she imagined it or was he listening?
She narrowed her eyes, studying his profile as she watched for any further flicker of movement. Even asleep, he was quite strikingly handsome, with a straight nose, chiselled cheekbones and square jaw all framed by black, neatly trimmed hair. His skin was lightly tanned, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, though judging by the expensive cut of his clothes he was also a gentleman—though surely a gentleman wouldn’t eavesdrop quite so blatantly?
She must have imagined it.
‘What?’ Percy followed the direction of her gaze. ‘Oh, he’s asleep. And I doubt he’d be very interested in our little domestic drama even if he weren’t.’
‘You should still keep your voice down.’
‘Why? If he wakes up, we can ask his opinion. I’m sure he’ll agree with me. No man wants a wife who looks like an old maid.’
‘I don’t want anyone else’s opinion. And don’t you dare ask!’
‘I’m only trying to help. If you don’t marry Charles then I’ve done my best and that’s that. You’ll have to find someone else on your own and you’ll never catch a husband looking like that. Ow!’
Ianthe shot her brother a venomous glare, slowly retracting the elbow she’d just jabbed violently into his ribs. She knew exactly how her appearance made her appear. That was the whole point. She didn’t like her grey clothes or dowdy hairstyle any more than he did, but at least she couldn’t be accused of drawing attention to herself. She couldn’t be accused of anything untoward at all. This was who she was, who she wanted to be now, whether Percy or any other man liked it or not.
But his words still hurt, especially since the old Percy would never have been so cruel as to insult her. Since their mother’s death from consumption the previous year, followed by their father’s grief-stricken demise soon after, her brother’s whole character seemed to have changed for the worse, his sunny disposition darkening the more time he spent with Sir Charles. Now she felt as though she hardly knew him at all. If she could only reach out to the old Percy, appeal to his better nature somehow...
‘I just wish you’d told me the truth about this trip.’ She tried not to sound too accusing. ‘Can’t we be honest with each other?’
Percy heaved a sigh. ‘Look, Charles asked me not to tell you he’d be here. He said he wanted to surprise you, show you his house or something before he proposed. He spends most of his time in London, but he seems very proud of the place. That’s why I didn’t say anything until we reached Malton.’
‘Because you knew I’d take the first train home, you mean.’
‘That, too. But now we’re here, can’t you just look on it as a holiday? It must be at least ten years since we last visited Aunt Sophoria.’
‘Twelve.’
Ianthe found herself relenting slightly. Their aunt hadn’t been well enough to attend either of their parents’ funerals, though her letters of condolence had been tender and thoughtful, even inviting her to move north, though Ianthe had known that her aged, impoverished relative could hardly afford to keep herself, let alone anyone else. Given what had happened afterwards, however, now she rather wished she’d accepted...
In any case, the thought of spending some time with Aunt Sophoria now was the one bright point on her horizon. Her memories of childhood holidays spent