During the Regency, few women had a choice when it came to marriage...
This is a snippet from my forthcoming novel, An Improper Marriage:
Eleanor
eyed the man whom had stood in place of her father for the last six years.
Dressed neatly and without ostentation in a dark blue coat in a finely-woven
wool cloth which itself spoke of wealth, he was a ruggedly handsome man with
close-cropped sandy hair which showed only a sprinkling of silver. Deep furrows
around his pale blue eyes and his unusually stern mouth bore witness to his
concern both for her and the situation. He was a good man and she held him in
considerable affection, for even as a schoolroom chit still grieving the loss
of her papa, she had felt drawn to Robert Holt. Nevertheless, what he was
asking her to do was positively medieval.
“But sir, he
is nigh on twenty years older than I!” she protested.
“What has that
to say to anything?” he countered. “Jeremiah Knight is a fine man; honest,
upstanding and in good health. He is heir to the Knight family estates and
wealthy in his own right. He could give you every luxury and, what is more, is
prepared to invest heavily in Henzey and Holt’s expansion of Belleview
Glassworks.”
Eleanor
tossed her head of chestnut ringlets. “So you are selling me for the sake of a
marriage settlement!”
An expression
of pain crossed Robert’s features. “Eleanor, must you always speak so plainly?
It is not like that. You are aware, however, how long I have wished to specialize
in fine quality Flint glassware.”
“My father did
not like me to be mealy-mouthed,” she replied sharply, ignoring the second part
of his speech. “He hated hypocrisy in any form.”
“Your mother
would have hated to hear her daughter speak so forcefully and in a manner
unbecoming to a young lady,” he said quietly.
Eleanor
flushed at the reprimand and lowered her eyes to the skirt of her
butterscotch-coloured muslin morning gown, automatically smoothing the soft
fabric. She had only recently begun to wear colours again following her
mother’s untimely death under the wheels of a runaway coal wagon the winter
before last.
“I beg your
pardon, sir,” she said stiffly. “I did not mean to give offence. But I beg you
will reconsider!” Impulsively she jumped to her feet, pushing back by several
inches the carved mahogany armchair in which she had been sitting, and ran to
him. Clutching his arm, she gazed beseechingly up at him. “Please, Papa
Robert.”
Want to read more? Good! Watch this space for more posts and book details. I'd love to hear from you.
Heather
