With those words, her mother pulled shut the window. Jane sighed and moved toward the garden gate, wondering if it was a good or bad letter. Since June had married, only Jane remained at home, a future spinster, no doubt. She would have loved to marry and have a family, but she’d known for some time that men did not find her an attractive marriage prospect, with her gawky stature and horrid carrot-hued hair. Oh, her disastrous hair! It was the color of pale, overboiled carrots, thanks to some random Scots ancestor on her father’s side.
If only she’d gotten her looks from her mother’s side. The Countess of Mayhew was thoroughly English, blonde, petite, and elegant, and good at everything. She was good at society, good at balls, good at manners, good at fashion, good at being a proper lady, and June took after her so readily.
Jane had gotten none of those graces. It was a bitter shame.
Her mother rapped upon the window, beckoning her in, and Jane walked faster through regrettable amounts of slush. She brushed as much of it off her boots as she could on the flagstones near the side patio, then handed her coat and soiled gardening gloves to a footman by the door. The laundry women hated her, understandably. Perhaps that was why her father had written. Perhaps the laundry women were once again threatening to quit.
“In here, Jane,” her mother called. “Come quickly.”
She hurried to the green drawing room, passing another pair of silent footmen. Was she in trouble for something? Would the stone-faced servants hear her berated again for some petty crime? She thought of some of her more recent, secret transgressions. She’d added another pet to her menagerie, a juvenile rabbit too lame and small to be out in the cold, but her father wouldn’t know about that. She’d also written to a natural science professor at Cambridge with a question about diet and hibernation in reptiles, using the false name of Josiah McConall…
“Jane,” her mother said, as soon as she entered. “What do you know of the Marquess of Townsend?”
She blinked at her. “The Marquess of Townsend? I’ve seen him a few times.”
She tried to sound casual, although his name made her heart race a little bit. He was one of the few gentlemen she’d really noticed the past season. Tall, elegant, classically handsome…
She’d become aware of his appealing attributes while her sister was holding court upon the marriage market, and after that, Jane’s eyes had searched for him in every ballroom, finding him only a handful of times. She remembered that Lord Townsend danced with a sort of powerful grace and had striking black hair and piercing eyes.
Well, to her, they seemed piercing, although she’d never had the opportunity to feel his gaze close up. No, he only danced with breathtaking women, diamonds of the first water. The way Lord Townsend held them and guided them had excited her in some way, then made her feel silly, because such an impressive man would want less than nothing to do with a plain carrot-top like her.
“Isn’t he one of Lord Wes—” She stopped herself from saying the name. It was not to be uttered in their household anymore, since he’d gone back on his expected offer of marriage to her sister. “Isn’t Lord Townsend one of Lord W’s gentleman friends?”
“I believe he’s part of that group, but it can’t be helped.” She waved the letter as Jane settled into a chair by the fire. “The marquess has asked for your hand in marriage, and your father, assuming your agreeability to the match, has told him yes.”
Having barely sat down, Jane jumped to her feet again. “He has asked—Lord Townsend has—What?”
“Lord Townsend has visited your father and put forth a marriage proposal. You are going to be wed,” her mother exclaimed. “And to such a prospect.”
“That cannot be. The Marquess of Townsend has asked to marry me? The Duke of Lockridge’s son?”
“Really, Jane, would there be another? Yes, he’s asked to marry you. Your father wishes us to return to London at once, so you may meet your future husband and his family.” She fluttered the note in agitation. “He hints at a holiday wedding, but that is surely too precipitous. We must find you a wedding gown, manage invitations, arrange a proper breakfast…”
Jane sank back into the chair before the fire. A gown? A reception? Lord Townsend could not truly intend to marry her. It made no sense. He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in London. “Are you sure you read it correctly? May I see it?”
Her mother handed her the letter, and indeed, in her father’s own handwriting, it said very shortly and urgently that the marquess had proposed marriage and that they must come. A contract had already been signed.
“Jane, look at your hem.” Her mother gazed mournfully at the wet mud splotched upon the bottom of her skirt like some ill-conceived painting. “That’s practically a new gown.”
“It’s a day gown, not hard to wash. If you would let me wear trousers, just in the garden—”
“No. Proper ladies don’t wear trousers. If you’re to wed this man, a duke’s son, you’ve got to take more care with your appearance and reputation, young lady.”
“My reputation?” She cleaved to this argument, for otherwise she must think about this shocking marriage proposal. “I’m perfectly virtuous. I always have been.”
“That’s not the reputation I mean. I’m talking about your propensity to muck about in meadows and forests, and collect those godforsaken monstrosities you house in the kitchens and barns.”
“They’re animals, mother, not monstrosities. They are natural beings just as we are.”
“Of course you would say so, you exhausting girl. This is why that horrible man broke his vow to marry you and fled to Spain.”
Jane pushed down her hurt emotions because they wouldn’t move her mother. Why, she’d cried buckets of tears over that “horrible man” who’d jilted her, the man she’d barely known, and it had accomplished nothing at all. Now she was to be married to a different man who’d never spoken the first word to her?
It had to be some mean-spirited joke.
“Why would Lord Townsend propose to me?” she asked. “Do you think father is telling the truth?”
“I don’t imagine he’d go to the trouble of ordering us to London if he wasn’t. My dear…” She took back the letter she’d been clutching. “Your father writes that Lord Townsend offered with great passion for your hand.”
“But mama… It must be a mistake. I’ve never spoken to Lord Townsend, not once. We’ve never been introduced.”
“Mistake or not, the contract is signed, unless you’re foolish enough to refuse him. The Duke of Lockridge’s oldest son, dear girl!” She softened her voice and lifted her daughter’s face with a finger beneath her chin. “What, not even a smile? This is joyous news.”
“What if it isn’t true, though?” Her stomach wrenched with fear of mockery. “What if it’s a prank? Some sort of nonsense?”
“Nonsense? Why would you think so? Remember how quickly all the gentlemen came calling for June when she became available for marriage?”
“I’m not June, mother. I’m not as pretty or vivacious, or light on my feet.”