Page 2 of A Lady of Means
She felt fickle partygoers' eyes train on her as she trailed down the terrace stairs to the great lawn, many curious pairs of well-heeled feet traipsing behind her.Moria turned to face them, removing a bow from an urn and knocking it with a fresh arrow.The leather of the string and the wood of the bow feltrightagainst her gloved hands.Ladies weren’t expected to be adept at manly pursuits, but Moria had found pride and purpose in such rote and repetitive tasks while she’d been in mourning.Why not use them as an advantage now?
She widened her shoulders and spread her feet apart.
“All that music has me in the mood for some competition.A chance to stretch my limbs.The partygoer who can successfully hit more bullseyes than my own, I’ll personally purchase the painting of your choice.”
Moria pulled back the string, hitting a practiced, near perfect bulls-eye several yards ahead in front of a row of hedges.She turned over her shoulder to gauge the reaction of the assembled crowd.Her friends Lady Gretchen and Carina were clapping appreciatively, the Earl of Drysdale was smirking as if he knew she was up to some scheme.He didn’t know the half of it.
Moria picked up another flecked arrow, knocked it, let it lose.It whistled its way to a perfect bulls-eye.That wasn’t good enough.Moria stepped to another target, another bulls-eye.The murmuring continued, four bulls-eyes in rapid succession by a lady in finery wasn’t the kind of accomplishment they’d been expecting.The ladies looked envious or fearful, while simpering and complimenting her; half the men looked as if they’d like to take her to bed.And with that, Moria’s distraction had once more kept the fashionable crowd from looking too close.
ChapterTwo
Marriage Mart-yr Moria
“A rejected proposal by Lady M a rite of passage for the elite men of London.Perhaps Lady M collects them for sport, aiming for the loftiest title like some sort of big game trophy.”
- Scandalous Lives of London, April 1841
* * *
“What utter rot.”
The sound of a scandal rag hitting the ottoman in front of Moria called her to look up from her embroidery hoop.Her mouth quirked to the side in amusement.She’d already seen this particular headline earlier that day when her friends Lady Gretchen Von Mien and Miss Carina Smythe had come to call, acting as though she had committed some boast-worthy accomplishment.All she’d done was to answer a question in the negative.
“I should find this writer and rip out their innards,” Moria’s older brother Jasper, The Earl of Westmoreland added, raking a hand through his tousled bronze hair.
Moria’s other brother Lawrence followed Jasper in the room on his heels.“I think you might find this particular one lacking in guts entirely, mocking a lady behind anonymity.It’s cowardly.”
Jasper handed Lawrence a tumbler of amber liquid, the latter perching on the arm of Moria’s chair.
“Perhaps the article is right, though.Maybe I am hunting for a lofty title.”Moria said, not looking up from her sewing.
“You were right to refuse Lord Adderton, for what it’s worth.He didn’t deserve you,” Lawrence returned, colliding his shoulder with hers the way that brothers often do.
There was a tug at the hoop of embroidery where Moria was ripping out stitches to restart part of the design in a different color thread.Jasper’s twin sister Kathleen seated beside her chose this moment to interject, turning on her most matriarchal of tones to her younger sister.
“You can’t cut people out as easily as you can your needlepoint.I’m not sure your reputation will survive if you keep turning down proposals, dear,” she counseled.
If you give up pieces of yourself, remember your worth.Those that need reminding, my dear, you make them pay.Dearly.
Their mother’s words came back to Moria, words meant only for her, something she’d hoarded to herself along with memories that weren’t ready for the light of day just yet.
The Pembrooke women were more than ladies, justmore, their mother included, God rest her fiery soul.Moria had spent the last year since her return to society showing just how muchmoreshe was than what she’d been boxed up and labeled as when they’d put her on the shelf.Well, she’d taken herself off that damn shelf and no one was putting her back there without her permission.
Moria set down her embroidery, taking her squirming nephew from Kathleen.She settled the infant and a linen cloth on the shoulder of her butter yellow dress.“The Pembrooke ladies are too strong to worry about things like reputations.Don’t worry about me, sister.”
Moria stood to rock the infant with swaying motions, turning so that Kathleen could check whether his eyes were yet closed.Kathleen nodded, lowering her voice so as not to wake the colicky infant after Moria had successfully gotten him to sleep.“It’s Olivia I worry about.Did you have to cause such a scandal right before her debut?”
“Me?I didn’t cause the scandal,” Moria whisper-shouted over her nephew’s head.The infant stirred, Moria bounced him to keep him settled.“Hedidn’t have to run and sell the story to the papers!Hewas only after my hand because Drysdale showed interest,thatand my dowry.I couldneverbe married to such a fickle character.”
“Youwillhave to marry before Olivia can,” Kathleen whispered.“It’s your third season, Moria.”
Jasper chose that moment to aid his twin sister’s point.“I think what Kathleen is trying to say is that…the more scandals you find yourself in the center of, the harder it will be for our younger sister to make an appropriate match.”
Kathleen placed a hand on Moria’s forearm, both sisterly and motherly at once, before she asked, “That is what you want, isn’t it, sister?To make a match of your own as well?”
Moria stared at the top of the infant’s dark, downy head pressed against the crook of her neck.Three of her siblings stared back at her, awaiting her answer.A lump formed in the back of Moria’s throat.Moria wasn’t really surewhatshe wanted, only thewho.
* * *
