One
NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND
JULY 1, 1888
One of the most curious discoveries Miss Gwendolyn Brinley had made during her brief sojourn as an unexpected and oh-so-reluctant assistant matchmaker was this—securing advantageous marriages amongst the socially elite was not for the faint of heart and, frankly, could be considered a blood sport.
She’d been in Newport a mere six days, and yet the events she’d attended leading up to this evening’s official opening of the Season at Mrs. Astor’s impressive Beechwood “cottage” had allowed her to observe underhanded tactics one didn’t expect from young ladies of such illustrious social significance.
She’d witnessed an “accidental” punch spill at a pre-Season picnic, seen ladies edging other ladies out of their way with sharp elbows to the ribs, and then watched from the balcony of the esteemed Newport Casino as a lady took out an opponent she apparently saw as competition on the marriage mart by whacking a tennis ball directly at that opponent’s head, which resulted in the young lady sporting a spectacular black eye a few hours later.
In retrospect, Gwendolyn’s decision to accept a paid position for the summer to afford herself a respite from the drama that always surrounded her cousin, Catriona Zimmerman, whom she’d been a companion to for years, seemed ridiculous, given that she’d now landed in a most dramatic situation.
“Miss Brinley, would you be a dear and maneuver me and this dreadful chair to the other side of the ballroom?” Mrs. Parker, her employer, said, pulling Gwendolyn from her thoughts. “I’m having difficulties keeping track of our targets from this vantage point. If we want to succeed this summer, we must learn what the most eligible gentlemen desire in potential brides. I won’t be able to point out the location of those gentlemen if I can’t find them in the crush we’re currently in.”
Mrs. Parker’s blue eyes began to gleam. “I’m determined to secure the best matches for the ladies I’m sponsoring this summer, Miss Elizabeth Ellsworth and Miss Hannah Howe. To accomplish that, we’re going to have to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into reconnaissance work, which was delayed due to the unfortunate breaking of my leg.”
“A leg that wouldn’t have been broken if you hadn’t entered a three-legged race,” Gwendolyn said, taking hold of the handles on the back of Mrs. Parker’s wheeled chair and pushing it slowly through the guests milling about the edges of Mrs. Astor’s ballroom.
“In hindsight, the three-legged race was sheer foolishness on my part,” Mrs. Parker admitted. “But how could I have refused to participate when my partner was Mr. Russell Damrosch? He’s worth millions and is known to be searching for a wife. I’m quite convinced he’d be a perfect match for Miss Howe.”
Gwendolyn stopped pushing the chair and leaned close to Mrs. Parker’s ear. “Mr. Damrosch is the last gentleman you should consider for either of your young ladies. He’s obviously a thoughtless man, what with how in his pursuit of winning the three-legged race he dragged you over the finish line after you stumbled and fell to the ground.”
“I’m sure he didn’t realize I’d fallen.”
“It would have been difficult for him to miss, because one minute the two of you were galloping along and the next you were lying on the ground. It speaks volumes about his character, or lack thereof, that he was so determined to win two bottles of The Marsh and Benson from 1809, he didn’t bother to notice the grievous injury he was causing you.”
“You can’t blame the man for being so earnest in his attempt to win the grand prize—1809 was an excellent year for Madeira.”
“Considering Mr. Damrosch is a multimillionaire, he’s capable of purchasing an endless supply of 1809 Madeira. He should have abandoned his desire to win the race the moment you fell.”
Mrs. Parker bit her lip. “I suppose you have a point. It may be prudent to have you monitor his behavior to see if that inconsiderate nature you believe he possesses rears its ugly head again.”
“It would be more prudent if you’d simply take him off your list of eligible bachelors. The last thing Miss Howe needs is to be shackled for life to an inconsiderate man.”
“Miss Howe will be only too happy to overlook inconsideration if it means she’ll have access to millions.”
“That’s a mercenary approach to marriage if there ever was one, and I haven’t gotten the impression Miss Howe’s a mercenary sort. I believe she may be interested in securing a love match over a profitable one.”
Mrs. Parker waved that aside. “If she wanted a love match, she’d have convinced her mother to approach Miss Camilla Pierpont to sponsor her, not me.”
“Miss Pierpont?”
Craning her neck, Mrs. Parker waved toward a beautiful lady with golden hair, dressed in the first state of fashion and surrounded by an entire brigade of gentlemen. “That’s Camilla over there. She’s a grand heiress, the only heiress, in fact, to the Hubert Pierpont fortune.”
“And she’s a matchmaker?”
“I know, she hardly fits the standard image of matchmakers, since we tend to be older matrons of society. Camilla’s twenty-five, unmarried, and has allowed it to be known she intends to embrace her spinster state forever.”
“It seems peculiar for a confirmed spinster to dabble in matchmaking.”
“Indeed, but she’s unusually successful with her matches, which makes her direct competition for me. I haven’t heard a peep about a specific lady she may be sponsoring this Season, but even if she’s decided to sit the summer out, she’s surely sizing up the gentlemen surrounding her. It won’t benefit us if she sets her sights on one of them for a match in the future. That means you need to get me settled and then get to the task I’ve given you this evening.”
Mrs. Parker gestured to a spot next to the orchestra. “There’s Mrs. Ryerson. You may deposit me beside her. I’ve been meaning to speak with her about her son, August. He’s a quiet young man but may be a prime catch in the next few years because he’s due to inherit a substantial fortune. He’ll only be a catch, though, if he can learn to mingle more comfortably in society. I believe tonight is the night I’ll present that concerning matter to his mother.”
Gwendolyn opened her mouth, then swallowed the opinion she’d been about to broach. Mrs. Parker didn’t appear to welcome unsolicited advice from a mere employee, but it was doubtful Mrs. Ryerson was going to enjoy listening to Mrs. Parker wax on about the deficiencies she saw in the lady’s son. Pushing the chair into motion again, she kept to the edge of the ballroom floor as Mr. Nash, Mrs. Astor’s cotillion leader, called out instructions to dancers weaving their way through a “German” known as the Hungarian.
She was forced to stop when she reached a gathering of young ladies dressed in lovely creations of soft-colored silk, the colors adding a festive atmosphere to an already splendid ballroom. Unfortunately, even though the ladies clearly saw they were blocking Gwendolyn’s way, not one of them bothered to step aside to create a path for her. Instead, they continued chatting amongst themselves, acting quite as if Gwendolyn and Mrs. Parker were invisible.