An Unreasonable Match. Sylvia Andrew
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older and wiser Hester now knew better. Mrs Guarding was usually the most astute of women, but in Hester’s case her enthusiasm had overcome her judgement. Social change has been brought about by intelligent women. But such women have been mature, sophisticated matrons with an established position, women of tact and experience who know their world, not naïve seventeen-year-olds with a strong sense of mission and no idea how to handle it.
All had gone well for the first few weeks after Hester’s arrival in London in the spring of 1806. Her adored brother Hugo was ready to look after her and introduce her to his circle of friends, all of them prominent in the Ton. Feminine enough to enjoy the pretty dresses her mother had provided for her, she accepted with pleased surprise the compliments the gentlemen paid her on her appearance. Fascinated by life in the metropolis, at first she spoke little and observed much. She soon came to the conclusion that Mrs Guarding was right. Though society had been kind to her, it was all too frivolous, too uncaring. As soon as she had found her feet, she would start her campaign…
Meanwhile it was very pleasant to be looked after by Hugo’s friends. It took a little time for her to become accustomed to their languid drawls, their refusal to take anything seriously, but it was flattering to a girl not yet eighteen to be attended by some of the most eligible young men in society. Even Dungarran, famous for his reluctance to put himself out for anyone—“Too fatiguin’!” was his favourite phrase—spent time teaching her the dance steps she had ignored at Mrs Guarding’s. Elegant, handsome, with dark hair and cool grey eyes, he spoke less than the others, seldom paying her the pretty compliments she came to expect, but this did him no harm in Hester’s opinion. There was an occasional glimmer of amusement in his eyes which intrigued her, but it was usually quickly replaced by his normal, indifferent courtesy. Though he evaded all her attempts at serious conversation, Hester was certain that behind the idle man of fashion there was an intelligence, an intellect she could respect. Inevitably, sadly, she was soon on the way to falling in love with him. She found herself listening for his lazy drawl, searching the crowds for a sight of his tall figure, always so immaculately dressed, rivalling Hugo in his calm self-possession. But though he was instantly welcome wherever he went, invited to every function, he was not always to be found. He seemed to come and go very much as he pleased. And as time went on he became even more elusive. Without him, life in London soon became very boring to Hester.
After a month, finding most conversations, even the compliments, tediously repetitive, she began her campaign. She would interrupt a frivolous discussion on the newest fashion for a collar, or Beau Brummell’s latest bon mot, in order to comment on the condition of the workers in the north, or the passage of a bill for reform through Parliament. This was met with blank stares. When invited out for a drive she took to lecturing her companion on the greater role women could, and would, play in public life, or expressing a desire to be taken to the poorer districts of London in order to observe living conditions there. Needless to say, no one ever took her, but even the request caused the lifting of eyebrows…
Her mother saw what was happening but found herself powerless to stop it. Her remonstrances, her pleas to Hester to stop trying to reform society until she was better informed of its manners and customs, fell on deaf ears. Hugo warned her, his closer friends did their best to deflect her, but Hester remained obstinately idealistic, stubbornly sure that intelligent discussion could solve the problems of the world…The result was inevitable. Society began to ignore, then neglect her. The flow of compliments, the invitations to drive or ride, dried up quite suddenly as Miss Perceval was pronounced guilty of the worst sin of all. She was a bore. And not even a pretty one.
Chapter Three
At first Hester was puzzled rather than distressed. The young men around her had listened so charmingly. They had paid her such pretty compliments, taken such pleasure in her company. What was wrong? Why didn’t they want to listen to her?
The awakening was painful. Alone, as she so often was, on a balcony overlooking one of the rooms in the Duchess of Sutherland’s mansion, half hidden by long curtains, she heard a burst of laughter from below and then voices.
“I don’t believe it! You must be making it up, Brummell! Are you trying to tell us that Hester Perceval actually took Addington to task on the question of Catholic emancipation? Addington!”
“My dear chap, every word of it is true, I swear.” Hester looked cautiously over the balcony. Seven or eight young gentlemen were gathered underneath. She drew quickly back.
“Oh God!” There was despair in Hugo’s voice. “What has she done now? What did he say?”
George Brummell was a born mimic. Addington’s self-important tones were captured perfectly. “My dear Miss Perceval, how you can think I would discuss policies of His Majesty’s Government with an impertinent chit of a girl I cannot imagine. And why the devil you should see fit to mention such a subject in Lady O’Connell’s drawing-room has me even more at a loss.”
Shouts of laughter, and applause. Then Hester strained forward as she heard Robert Dungarran’s drawl.
“Poor girl! I know that blistering tone of Addington’s.”
“Come, come, Robert! Little Miss Cure-all deserved the set-down. She’s an impudent ninny. What have politics to do with a woman? Their little brains simply aren’t up to it!”
“Do tell me, George—are yours?”
More laughter, and the good-natured reply. “I’ve never tried t’ fathom them—even if my health permitted me to try. Fatiguin’ things, politics. All the same, Hugo, isn’t it time you did something about the girl?”
“Quite right, Brummell!” The interruption came from Tom Beckenwaite. “Dammit, when I’m with a woman I don’t want to think—that’s not what they’re for!” He gave a low laugh, which was followed by a chorus of ribald remarks. Hester was shocked. She had always regarded Lord Beckenwaite as a true gentleman. A fool, but a gentlemanly fool. He spoke again.
“The fact is, Hugo, old dear, you are wasting your time. Your little sister is incurable. And un-marriageable. Demme, there’s a limit to what a fellow can stand! I’m as ready as the next man to do a friend a favour, but your sister is demned hard work, and that’s not something I look for. She never stops talkin’! Ridin’, drivin’, dancin’—it’s all the same! Talk, talk, talk!”
“Hugo—” Hester leaned forward again. This was Dungarran speaking. She smiled in anticipation. He would defend her against these asses. He seldom spoke but when he did it was always to the point. They would listen to him. His drawl was more pronounced than ever. “Hugo, I’m sorry to say it, but it’s time you did something!”
“Not you too, Robert!” Hugo said resignedly.
“Have a word with Lady Perceval, old chap. Your wretched sister’s behaviour is doing neither herself, nor anyone else, much good. She is too young, and much too foolish for life here. Get your mother to take her back to Nottingham, or Northampton or wherever it is you all come from. Perhaps the country air will blow away some of her silly notions. Bring her back when she’s learned how to behave. But, please, not before.”
Hugo said stiffly, “She never used to be like this, and I’m sorry for it. I don’t know what my mother was thinking of, bringing her to London with her head full of such nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, exactly. Just absurd coming from your sister.” Dungarran again. “It would be better suited to a graybeard with a corporation than a child out of the schoolroom. A girl into the bargain.”
“I don’t know what to say to you all. She’s my sister and I love her, I suppose. But believe me, when I asked you all to give her a good start to the Season I never imagined it would be such hard work. You’ve been Trojans.”
“Well, from now on, dear boy, your sister can lecture someone else. This Trojan is retiring to his tent. Wounded in the course of duty, you might say. Shall we look for the card-room?” A chorus of agreement faded as they went away, leaving Hester sitting in her chair staring into space.