Page 13 of The Mad Baron's Bride
It was soon clear from the vein of conversation that the Misses Warren were there to tempt Brancaster, and Mr. Ravelli there to flatter Leda. He eagerly took a seat beside her at table and monopolized her through both courses, leaving Leda very little time to grill the Misses Warren on their accomplishments and determine whether either was suitable to be sent off to the wild fringes of Norfolk as a bride.
“Norfolk!” Lord Oxmantown boomed when Brancaster was introduced. “Must admit I’ve never been. What’s the business, then? Fishing? Can’t imagine you raise cattle there.”
“We can and do,” Brancaster replied. “And there’s a deal of effort to try to fence and drain parts of the coastline to turn the salt marshes into cropland. I believe there’s better luck with the fisheries on the eastern seaboard, Yarmouth side.”
“Farming,” Mr. Warren scoffed. “No man’s going to advance himself by farming these days, no matter how many acres he can enclose. It’s industry will run this country in the next century, mark my words.”
“And that we have in Norfolk as well,” Brancaster said. “There’s a cordwainer in Norwich, I heard, who has set up a factory for making shoes. Can you fancy? Machines punching and sewing your leather, just like the wool industry, which your Midlands have learned from Norfolk. Miss Warren,” he turned to the eldest, “have you an item of clothing of worsted wool?”
Miss Warren blushed from her neckline to the knot of beads and flowers holding her curls. “I am sure I cannot say.”
“I have a shawl and a nice thick pair of worsted stockings for muddy days.” Leda spooned up her white soup.
Brancaster smiled at her, gratified that Leda, at least, was not too bashful to speak of lady’s attire. “First made in Worstead, Norfolk.”
“How marvelous.”
“But you’re not into wool-making, man.”
Lord Oxmantown had only been made baron a few years ago due to his service in the Irish Parliament, but he had been created Viscount Oxmantown shortly thereafter, which elevated him above Brancaster’s mere barony. He made no secret that he had his eye on reviving the title of Earl of Rosse, which had died with a male relative of his earlier in the century. “Parliament’s the place for a man to advance,” Oxmantown announced. “Allthe more opportunity now with Union upon us. Plenty of matters to be settled and doled out yet.” He smacked his lips as a footman placed a dish of larded rabbit before him.
“I confess I’ve been kept by business and other family matters from taking my seat.” Brancaster selected a roasted partridge for his plate. “Been voting by proxy.”
“Eh? What business is that, then?”
“Our area is good for flint mining and, in the past, brickworks. Brick making’s a touchy trade, however, and I’ve found it difficult to achieve the correct formula for a brick that is durable and will keep its shape. I’ve spent several years performing various experiments on my lands, which no doubt have led some of my neighbors to believe I’m a mad chemist of some sort.”
“Oh, that would explain the rumors, then,” the younger Warren girl was surprised into saying, upon which she immediately blushed a hue rivaling that sported by her elder sister.
“Speaking of rumors.” Lady Oxmantown laid down her spoon. “I heard the most dreadful news of Mr. Crutch. A dear, charming man, acquaintance of mine, can always be counted upon to make up a table or cut a fine leg.” She addressed this to Mrs. Warren, who nodded as if to agree that these were fine qualities in a man. “He has been disappointed in love, I hear. Had his heart and fortunes set on a young widow, and she spurned him on the poor advice of a friend.” She glared at Leda.
“That his fortunes are disappointed I do not doubt.” Leda watched Mr. Ravelli place a slender veal cutlet on her plate, along with three dainty olives. He must assume she was delicate, and could not know she adored olives. “I imagine a man may hold ambitions to be elevated in marriage every bit as much as a woman might.”
“Oh, I don’t think—?” Miss Warren faltered.
“That women endeavor to advance themselves through marriage?” Leda raised a brow. “If not they, then I assure you their friends and family have that aim.”
Brancaster regarded her from his place as Lady Plume’s guest of honor. “You do not believe in marrying for love, Mrs. Wroth?”
“I believe it is a fine aim for a heroine in a romantic story,” Leda replied. “But I suspect that most of us are swayed by practical considerations, from the Earl of Howth’s daughters down to Sally in the scullery, who is counting coins until she can marry her Tom.”
Gibbs, standing behind Brancaster, reared and blinked at Leda as if surprised she knew this.
“I assure you I am only thinking of my daughters’ happiness,” Mrs. Warren said freezingly.
“My Dunlap cut a fine leg,” Lady Plume said thoughtfully. “Awfully smart in his uniform. But in the end I chose him because I thought I could help him to a knighthood, and so I did.”
“Let us consider Brancaster as an example,” Leda said.
“Must we?” Brancaster murmured, carving a leg of lamb for his aunt.
“He is on the hunt for a wife, and no doubt he will narrow his choices to maids of pleasing demeanor and aspect,” Leda barreled on. “But in the end, he must have a governess for his daughter and a chatelaine for his castle, and can he depend that his affections alone will land on a suitable woman for this task? Or ought he be guided by practical considerations?”
“You must have been terribly disappointed in your marriage. I do pity you, Mrs. Wroth,” Miss Warren ventured.
“Well you might. In my example, my parents married me to the highest man they could find to offer, and we were completely unsuited in temperament or our hopes.”
“I imagine you made his life a living torment as a result.” Lady Oxmantown sniffed.
