Page 6 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess
Perhaps if we hadn’t wasted all that money on my finishing school, the wallpaper wouldn’t be peeling from the walls with no money left to fix it,she thought.Or perhaps if I’d listened harder, I might have snagged a duke or something in my first Season, instead of spending three years hurtling towards spinsterhood.
Perchance, perchance. No sense in looking back, was there? Patrina drew in a breath and glanced between her parents.
“Tell me the worst,” she said at last. “I’m not a fool. I know that our financial situation is more dire than you two have let on. I imagine there’s no dowry at all left for us girls.”
Mary and George exchanged a long look.
“It’s rather worse than that, I’m afraid,” George managed at last. “I find myself rather deeply in debt to gentlemen who are most eager for restitution. I imprudently concealed this matter from your mother, who proceeded to acquire various items on installment—things such as gowns, slippers, jewels, and the like. Exquisite items that are not easily returned. This was all intended for Gillian and Agnes, as well as for you, my dear.”
Patrina did not miss the fact that she was an afterthought. It stung, of course, but then, thiswasher third unsuccessful Season. The simple fact was that they were now relying on Agnes and Gillian to make good matches.
She reflected on her two sisters, turning them over in her mind. Their family was not a remarkably handsome one. She herself was often considered the prettiest of the family at the moment, being the oldest, tallest, and fairest. Her hair was golden, and curled naturally, and shedidthink it was very pretty. Her eyes were a pale blue, unremarkable, and hercollection of features were well enough on their own, but not enough to make her a Beauty.
Agnes was plainer, with a vivacity of mind that would make her a fine choice for any sensible gentleman in Society.
Or so Patrina thought. The gentlemen did not agree, and nor did Society. Agnes’ awkward attempt to catch Lord Something-or-Other had run aground during her first Season, and now she had her eye on the lord’s rather humbler cousin.
Gillian was shaping up to be pretty enough, with a spirit that might attract or repel the right man, depending on pure luck and who she was competing against.
Plainly put, the three of them had never much stood out in Society, where flocks of shimmering, perfect ladies crowded together and fluttered, showing off their wares at the Marriage Mart. Homely looks might be ignored over a great fortune, or being part of an ancient and highly respected family, but Patrina and her sisters were nothing remarkable in that area, either.
She was beginning to worry about their futures. Judging by the looks on her parents’ faces, they had been worrying for a great deal longer.
“Things are getting bad,” George said at last, voice quiet. “I would rather you did not tell your sisters. They’re young – Gillian is barely eight and ten – and they do not deserve to worry about this sort of thing.”
Patrina nodded slowly, bowing her head. Her mouth had gone dry. She imagined bailiffs shouldering past the front door, hefty-faced men with notebooks to make lists of everything valuable they had, carrying it away over their shoulders. She had passed by public auctions before, where some poor, ruined fool was having all of their things sold off to pay their debts. The house itself would be sold last, naturally. If the individual was fortunate, they might secure a satchel or two containing items deemed either too trifling to dispose of or possessions theywere permitted to retain. They would depart with a sense of mortification, embarking upon a fresh chapter of their existence.
The unlucky ones went to debtor’s prison, until they could pay off their debt. And, of course, while locked up in prison, nobody could work hard enough to pay off a penny. Once a person entered the debtor’s prison, barring some miracle or sudden inheritance, they remained inside.
Papa would be imprisoned,Patrina thought, an edge of hysteria creeping into her mind.Mama and the girls and I would be left to make our way as best we could. And, of course, we would not.
She thought briefly about their household, the faithful old servants who’d stuck with them through thick and thin. The servants who were owed wages by the family, no doubt. Wages that the family could no longer afford to pay, no more than they could afford to pay anything they’d bought on installment.
She swallowed hard, guilt edging up underneath her new lace-trimmed bodice. It was probably too late to return the thing, as it had already been adjusted.
“What are we going to do?” Patrina heard herself say, her voice remarkably steady considering the circumstances. “Are we ruined?”
George paused, glancing at his wife. “I would have answeredyes, undoubtedly, only an hour ago. And then a very strange letter arrived.”
He withdrew a crumpled letter from his sleeve, as if by magic. Mary tensed, drawing her hand away.
“Well?” Patrina asked, leaning forward. “Who is the letter from?”
Her father drew in a breath. “It’s from the Marquess of Morendale.”
Patrina flinched back at that. “You mean the Mad Marquess?”
George grimaced. “Who says he’s a madman? The man hasn’t been out at all this year, not in London. I haven’t seen him.”
Mary snorted. “Anyone who believes the man isnotmad is a fool, George. Everybody knows for certain that his father died an insane, and these sicknesses often pass through a family. It is naive to ignore the gossip. I hate to say it, but the gossip makes sense.”
Patrina got to her feet, pacing up and down. “Well, yes, but the rumours are flying about the city even so. You must have heard them. Everybody knows his father was mad as anything beforehedied, so it must run in the family. Miss Butterfield said, just the other day…”
“I am not interested in gossip,” George said sharply. “No matter how muchsenseit appears to make. Do you want to know what the letter says, or not?”
“I want to know why the Marquess has written to us,” Patrina responded. “He doesn’t know us. We’ve never been introduced. I’m not sure I’ve ever evenseenhim.”
“Well, the handwriting looks like a woman’s, so I would guess that perhaps his mother – the Dowager Marchioness, you know – might have written it for him. Or his sister, perhaps.”
