I fall to my knees and lift my hairbrush to my lips before raising it aloft, pledging my troth like a knight of old. “I solemnly swear,” I say, “that this time nothing will go wrong and I will be a perfect daughter.”
Full of hope and good cheer I clamber back to my feet and head for the bathroom to wash off the grime from the lake and transform myself into a proper young lady.
CHAPTER TWO
It is exactly twenty-six minutes later, and all is going according to plan. I am as neat and tidy as it is possible for me to be. My clean, brushed hair is swept back in a long, smooth braid, and my soft lilac dress is perfectly acceptable, if an inch or two too short and a deep breath or two too tight. I am standing next to Mother in the hallway, greeting guests with a charming smile and making the sort of small talk that not even our fusty old vicar can find fault with.
He is, of course, in attendance, with his equally sour-faced wife. Their attitude towards my family is a confused mix of deference to our ancient name, and spiteful pleasure in our reduced circumstances. They are vocal in their disapproval of almost everything I say and do and, unfortunately, the vicar’s disapproval often comes in the form of lengthy bible quotes.
Now, though, I am listening sympathetically as they tell me about one of their horrible children who has a head cold.
“Yes,” I murmur, my mind more than half on the snail hunt I’m going to have to perform under cover of darkness later on, “summer colds really are the most upsetting.”
I feel Mother start to relax beside me, and her voice becomes increasingly musical as she falls into the role of hostess that she so enjoys.
“Ah, Philip,” she exclaims happily. Philip Astley is our nearest neighbour – his far-more-financially-secure estate borders our own, and he is a perfectly nice, if deeply boring, man who has known my parents for years and years and doesn’t know how to deal with me now that I am no longer a small child that he can pat on the head.
After clapping the top of my arm enthusiastically enough to leave a bruise while muttering, “Capital, capital!” he leans in to press a perfunctory kiss on Mother’s cheek.
“Looking beautiful, Delilah, as always,” he says gallantly and Mother makes a pleased humming sound at the back of her throat before her eyes fall on the young man who is following in Philip’s wake.
“Thank you, Philip.” Her voice is a smile now; she looks just like the proverbial cat presented with a very large dish of cream. “And this must be your nephew. I’m so glad you could come along and join the party. You haven’t been here since you were a boy. We’re sadly lacking in young company, and I know Beatrice will be thrilled to see you.” Her eyes meet mine and she lifts her eyebrows. Something in her gaze immediately puts me on guard.
I behold the vision before me. Philip Astley’s nephew is around my age, about two inches smaller than me and possessed of the sort of blank gaze more typically found in grazing animals. None of that matters to my mother, of course, because I realize that standing before me is the heir to the Astley fortune.
It feels suddenly as though a lead weight has settled in my stomach. This whole dinner party is a matchmaking trap and I have tripped into it as blindly as any blissfully ignorant woodland creature. I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them the scene around me will have magically resolved itself into something else. My heart pulses erratically in my chest as I conclude that my parents have moved past heavy-handed hints about marriage and decided to take action.
“How do you do?” I manage, holding out my hand while shooting a quick glare at Mother that she blithely ignores. Frustration hums inside me.
“Hello,” the nephew says, offering up a damp, limp handshake. “I’m Cuthbert.”
Despite the terrible circumstances I feel a pang for him then. The poor boy never stood a chance – however is a person supposed to distinguish himself when saddled with a name like Cuthbert?
“Beatrice,” I say, shaking his hand then surreptitiously wiping my palm on my dress.
“Well,” Mother says brightly, “don’t let us keep you hanging around here in this draughty hallway, Cuthbert. I’m sure that you young folk have lots to talk about. Beatrice will show you in and get you a drink, won’t you, darling?”
“Of course, Mother,” I grind out.
“Capital, capital.” Philip Astley beams, rocking back on his heels and tucking his hands into his pockets.
I lead Cuthbert through to the drawing room, wishing that my bones would crumble to dust so that Hobbs could sweep me up and dispose of me in his typically discreet and efficient manner and I wouldn’t have to participate any further in this scene. There are around a dozen people in here, locked into the never-ending cycle of small talk. Father is presiding over the drinks trolley and he gives me a knowing look that indicates this is part of a tremendous scheme and he’s very pleased with its progression. He stops just short of rubbing his hands together in glee. I lift my chin and treat him to a cool, quelling stare. His expression falters a little.
My father is bluff and hearty, with a bristling moustache and watery blue eyes. He taught me to ride, one thing that we both love, although he was disgusted by my refusal to join the hunt on the grounds I thought it a barbaric exercise in cruelty. And I have never seen him more furious than the time I laid down false trails to draw the dogs away from the fox they were hunting, leaving them chasing their tails in circles. “What does a girl want with all those brains?” I have overheard him sigh more than once.
“Ahem!” He clears his throat now. “So, this must be the famous Cuthbert!” He slaps the poor boy on the shoulder with such enthusiasm that he stumbles.
I think the truth of the situation is starting to finally dawn on Cuthbert and he darts a frightened, rabbity glance between me and my father. His hand goes to his collar, as though it is too tight.
“How – how do you do, sir?” he manages, his voice feeble as weak tea.
“Let me get you a drink, Cuthbert,” I say firmly, taking pity on him. I can see that it is going to be up to me to navigate us through this particular storm – Cuthbert doesn’t seem like a very take-charge sort of character.
“Oh, th-thank you,” he stutters, his neck flushing a mottled red as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down gratefully.
While Father is occupied with someone else I pour out two glasses of punch, stiffening Cuthbert’s with a splash of something stronger which I hope will provide him with some Dutch courage.
“Thank you,” he says again, taking a deep gulp and then dissolving into a coughing fit. It’s possible that I overdid it on the liquid courage front and I pat him on the back.
“Everything all right?” Father asks, turning back to watch us rather beadily.
“F-fine, sir,” Cuthbert manages.
A loud dinner gong sounds, the noise rippling through the room and causing an already overwrought Cuthbert to jump several inches in the air.
“Better knock the rest of that back,” Father says jovially, pointing at Cuthbert’s drink. As he turns away for a moment I whip the glass out of Cuthbert’s hand and empty the remains into a nearby potted fern.
I am rewarded with a grateful, if tremulous, smile and – much to Father’s obvious delight – Cuthbert offers me his arm to escort me into the dining room.