Lady Bridget's Diary(63)
“What am I going to do?”
“Well, obviously you’re not going to plan a wedding,” he said, stealing a bite of her cake while she sighed and glanced heavenward. Ugh, brothers.
“For a minute there you were helping. And now . . . not so much.”
“If you think having a brother is vexing, trying having three sisters.”
“And with that, I bid you, and this cake, good night.”
Chapter 20
I asked James what Darcy meant when he said Rupert would never love me the way a woman ought to be loved. He turned red and said one does not speak of such things, so now I am left to make all sorts of assumptions.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
A fortnight had passed since Darcy proposed. A fortnight had passed since he left London and presumably took Rupert with him—she had learned this from her lady’s maid, who heard it from a downstairs maid, who heard it from a footman. Bridget’s life carried on; a mixture of deportment lessons, trips to the modiste, and an endless round of balls and soirees. On Wednesdays she wore pink and trailed after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague, but it wasn’t quite the same. Her friends, if they were ever really her friends, seemed distant. Bridget found she lacked the heart to fret over it.
At the breakfast table, a fortnight after Darcy had proposed, Bridget was perusing the shipping timetables in the newspaper, searching for the next ship to America, when the duchess cleared her throat, requesting everyone’s attention.
“Lady Wych Cross has invited us to dine.”
“Your best friend,” Bridget said.
“So we are attending,” Claire said.
“And arch enemy,” Amelia added with a wicked grin.
“So we are not attending,” Claire replied.
“Oh, we are most certainly attending,” Josephine said. “I don’t suppose one of you will make a match in the next few hours? Otherwise, Lady Wych Cross will have something to gloat over.”
Bridget sipped her tea and eyed her siblings. James shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Amelia pushed food around on her plate and took a small bite from a piece of toast. Claire’s cheeks were pink.
“Has Lady Francesca made a match?” Bridget inquired, trying very hard to sound utterly disinterested in the answer.
Josephine gazed shrewdly at her.
“Are you asking if Darcy has proposed to her?”
“No?”
“That means yes,” Amelia replied.
“I would not be surprised if they did invite us over to announce the news.” What Josephine said next surprised Bridget. “She has seen you as a rival from the beginning.”
“Oh, the drama,” Claire said.
Shortly thereafter, everyone except the duchess left the breakfast room, but Bridget remained. She reached over and, etiquette be damned, took a piece of bacon from Amelia’s plate.
“You cannot be serious,” Bridget said, eyeing the duchess. “There is no way that Lady Francesca—beautiful, elegant, sleek-haired, and perfect—has seen me, the girl who fell, as a rival.”
“Have you known me to jest?”
Bridget sighed. That was such a Darcy thing to say.
“Lady Francesca has been counting on a proposal from Darcy since her debut; longer perhaps. And then you arrive and slip and fall right into his heart.”
“That’s very poetic of you.”
“The study of poetry is one we haven’t had time for yet. But that is neither here nor there at the moment,” the duchess said with an elegantly dismissive wave of her hand. “She has done everything right . . .”
“. . . And I have done everything wrong, I know.”
“Oh hush! Lady Francesca may walk with a certain air, know all the finer points of etiquette, but she is also mean-spirited. And you, Bridget, are a kindhearted girl. And that is what makes a true lady.” The duchess clasped her hand and Bridget blinked away tears. “Don’t lose that,” she continued. “Don’t let me crowd it out with rules and dancing lessons, and don’t lose it trying to fit in with the likes of Lady Francesca.”
Gah, she felt something like tears in her eyes at the duchess’s kind words and at the thought of what it would be like to stop trying so hard to fit in or to impress people who did not wish to be impressed. What if she could just . . . be?
Tonight we shall dine with Lady Witchcraft and Lady Francesca and I am looking forward to this evening as much as one would look forward to having their teeth pulled out, one by one, without so much as a splash of whiskey or laudanum to ease the pain.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Of course she would be here. Darcy was standing by the mantel, bored by Lady Francesca’s conversation, when Lady Bridget walked in with her family. When he’d been invited to an intimate dinner party, he’d never imagined that Francesca would invite the Americans. If he had known . . .