It’s Marriage Or Ruin. Liz Tyner
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on to the squabs, Emilie prepared for a recital of her errors to be repeated, but her mother remained silent.
The carriage rumbled along, returning her mother and Emilie to her aunt Beatrice’s home.
‘Goodness, Emilie, Avondale’s heir was speaking to you at his mother’s portrait and you brushed him away as if he were of no consequence. You have no skills in courtship.’
Emilie sighed inwardly and then her mind wandered to Marcus, but she forced herself to concentrate on his brother.
Mr Westbrook had good qualities. They were hard to identify, but lurked under the surface, she was sure.
At the soirée, she’d wandered by a group of men talking and couldn’t avoid overhearing their conversation. A gruff voice said if a man were to be lost in the desert, it would be good to be lost with Mr Westbrook because he would find the quickest path to the nearest woman and could do so without a smudge on his boots.
Then another man claimed Westbrook’s sense of direction was sad because he could never locate a path back to the same woman twice. The other men had laughed. And one claimed Westbrook had his compass in the same place as all men carried one.
‘Emilie.’ Her mother snapped out the word, pulling Emilie’s concentration back into the carriage. ‘I must talk privately with you. That is why your father and sisters remained at home and we have been visiting London.’
Emilie frowned, but she hid it before she turned to her mother, waiting. She’d known that her father had stayed home because her mother could be forceful about pushing Emilie into marriage and he preferred to stay out of the discussion.
These motherly speeches always went on overly long and it was best to pretend interest.
Her mother raised her chin. ‘It is not so horrible to want a family. Children. Sons…’ she raised a brow when she observed Emilie ‘…or daughters who marry.’
‘I’ve not found anyone who suits me.’
Her mother pulled her wrap closer and gripped her fan.
Emilie toed her slippers into the floor of the carriage, and let her stocking feet wiggle free while she rested her toes on the footwear.
‘Search about and uncover someone who suits.’ Her mother paused before raising her voice. ‘And put your slippers back on.’
Emilie dared not meet her mother’s eyes and she pushed her feet back inside the shoes. Even her feet had to do as they were told.
‘Your father,’ the older woman continued, ‘and I are distressed at your stubbornness where men are concerned. It is not just your prospects you’re scuttling—you are not doing your younger sisters any favours either,’ she grumbled. ‘You are twenty-five. Twenty-five. You should have married years ago.’
‘Oh,’ Emilie mumbled and felt her lip tremble. She had so hoped to have her artistic talent noticed earlier. She must try harder. Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun had achieved fame with her portraits, but her father had encouraged her from such a young age.
Emilie sighed. She should have been as dedicated, but, no, she had spent her youth learning nonsensical matters. Watercolours had hardly interested her at all until she discovered oils and then everything had burst into fulfilment for her. Even the watercolours became worthwhile.
Emilie studied the dark outlines of the passing shops, wondering how a night-time drawing of them would be best accomplished.
All she needed was watercolours, or oils and canvas. To paint was her greatest joy. To hide away somewhere with a brush and palette would be the best excitement of all.
No one understood.
When she irritated her sisters enough, they avoided her, which gave her a chance to sketch and enjoy her work.
‘You even discourage your sisters’ prospects.’
‘Mother, if a young man of worthiness approached any of my sisters, I would do all I could to encourage a courtship.’ Emilie crossed her arms. Her sisters were green girls. They couldn’t imagine the truth of men and needed her guidance.
‘You cannot fault me because no man among the ton is worthy of them.’ Emilie straightened her shoulders. ‘Except for timid Bertram Reynolds and Marthe ignores him.’
‘Dear.’ The seat creaked when her mother turned to Emilie. Her mother’s voice gave Emilie no option for refusal. ‘You must let them decide whether the man is worthy or not. Or me or your father. You are not to keep distressing their beaus. Don’t demand perfection in their suitors. At this point, we may consider a man of medium worthiness if he is willing for a match. You certainly should do the same. We do not aspire to be relegated to less-than-medium worthiness because the others have been scorned.’
‘A man of value would not let a few words of truth dispatch him,’ Emilie muttered.
‘I would not want my daughters to obtain a match with a man whose main quality is persistence.’
Emilie felt the sharp rap of a fan against her fingers. Never a good sign when the fan came out.
Her mother continued, voice rising. ‘Timid beaus can have many desirable attributes. Your father—’ she pointed the fan at Emilie ‘—was so timid, I near had to—’ She stopped, waved her hand and turned to the window. ‘Never mind. I had no trouble with your father’s reserved behaviour.’
Emilie knew her mother and father cared too much for the state of marriage and too little about the state of men. They were happy. They didn’t observe the disastrous lives among them.
‘Mother, you must forget about a wedding for me. I shall never marry. I shall paint.’
‘Emilie Marie—you are not destined to paint. You are destined to have children. You are destined to maintain a household and serve your husband.’ She pressed her teeth into the words. ‘Forget your fanciful nonsense. No more paints will be purchased. I have told your father and he agrees with me. This trip is to locate a suitor for you. If there is no agreeable man, then I will acknowledge your spinsterhood. However, I will not accept the scent of turpentine in my home any more. The rooms reek of it. You will not be dabbling in oils there, indoors or out.’
Emilie fell back against the seat, fingers closed tightly. ‘I must,’ she said.
‘No.’ Her mother turned to stare out of the window. ‘You will have to content yourself with pencils, and stitchery and gentle pursuits. There are people in the world, Emilie, besides artists. And it is time you found that out and put away that folly. This discussion is over.’
In bed that night, Emilie kept envisaging the colours on a palette. The joy of her hands as they mixed the colours. The scent of turpentine.
She loved the scent of turpentine, no matter how unpleasant. It spoke of creation and love. She could not live without turpentine, aquamarine or burnt sienna.
She sniffed. She sighed. Perhaps she was cursed.
She would marry. She would discover a husband who would not notice if the money he’d allotted for clothing and jewellery was spent on the finer things, like easels or pigments.
Catching a senseless male could not be difficult and she hadn’t noticed any unwilling to be led by a woman hinting at delights.
Marriage would quiet all those titters her sisters made as they claimed Emilie was more suited to kiss her paintbrush than a husband.
If she married, it would no longer matter how small her waist was or if she got a drop of burnt sienna—a drop so small as to be invisible—on the rug. A man surely wouldn’t notice if she received a briar scratch on her cheek from searching for perfect berries to examine their hues. Her mother had wanted to flog her—and goodness, the scratch faded away, but the drawing of the berries had been enlightening.