Beaumont picked up the glass and took a sip.
“I am listening.”
“How does ten thousand pounds sound, Mr. Goodwin?”
He paused before speaking. “It sounds agreeable. But what does that have to do with me?”
“That is what I am offering you, on top of my daughter Charlotte’s dowry of five thousand a year.”
“But my interests lie elsewhere,” Beaumont said, as a matter of factly.
“But Mr. Goodwin, you are such a practical man. Certainly, you can see the advantages. You know, Miss Lucy has no dowry. It seems her brother is not the fine gentleman we believed him to be. Apparently, he is unable to follow through on his promise of granting a living to her and so she comes with nothing what-so-ever.”
Beaumont did not respond but took another sip of sherry.
“Fifteen thousand plus her five thousand a year,” he countered.
The Duchess looked down at her lap. “I believe that could be arranged—but only if you make the proposal this evening. The offer disappears at midnight just like Cinderella’s magical pumpkin coach.”
“Would a late spring wedding be agreeable, Mother?” he asked as he stood and offered the Duchess, his hand.
* * *
In passing, as they entered the dining room, Mother alerted Charlotte to be ready for a pleasant surprise sometime that evening.
Lucy came in on her brother’s arm, but he had managed to sit next to Betsy on his other side, and they spent most of the evening with their heads close together in intimate conversation.
Lucy was granted the privilege of chatting with the Vicar who, when he learned that she was a writer, regaled her with his thoughts on publishing a book of his sermons.
Lucy could not help but notice that the daughters, while still wearing mourning dresses, had their appearances ever so subtly enhanced to make them look more adorable. All, that is, except for Ann who was more dower than usual, without even the semblance of a smile, or a trace of rouge.
Lucy could also not help but notice that George was at the far end of the table and chatting amiably with Miss Priscilla, who was all ribbons and bows, and ringlets of enhanced reddish hair. It was clear to Lucy now that there could no longer be any thought of a union with George without her brother’s promised dowry. She had no doubt that the Duchess had gotten her way and George would soon be asking Miss Goodwin for her adorable, petite hand in marriage. The Duchess was on the other side of George and was clearly directing the conversation to her satisfaction.
Lucy had noticed that Mr. Goodwin had not tried to speak to her even once this evening, and now he was seated next to Charlotte and giving her his full attention—all smiles, light touches on the arm, and casual laughter.
While carrying on a continued light conversation with the Vicar, Lucy was resigning herself to the fact that her writing was now going to be the focus of her life. At least she did not need to fear expulsion from the manor now that Harold was ensconced as the manager, and hopefully, would be marrying Betsy.
* * *
It was so obvious to George that his mother was pushing him toward Miss Priscilla. Not that he was surprised. He continued, as a good host, to chat and smile with the young lady, and every time he glanced at his mother she gave him an encouraging smile and directed the conversation back to Priscilla.
But his attention was not only on Miss Priscilla. He managed to keep an eye on Mr. Goodwin and Charlotte and Harold and Betsy. He could see that his mother might be successful, at least in those two quarters. It amused him that Mr. Goodwin had not given a single moment of attention to Lucy. Whatever his mother had said to him was obviously successful, and he believed Charlotte would soon be engaged.
Lucy had been seated way down at the other end of the table, as far away from Mr. Goodwin as possible, and while she looked to be engaged in conversations, it was not the usual scintillating Miss Lucy he was observing.
He was in a strange state of divided mind. He found he was carrying on a normal conversation with Miss Priscilla while at the same time being detached. It was like a part of him was floating high above the dinner table looking down on all the guests at once. He felt that if he focused, he could enter into any conversation that was going on whenever he wished. And at the same time, he found himself in his studio painting, standing across from Lucy who was engaged quietly in her writing—both in a state of profound peace.
His mother touched his arm, and he snapped out of this multi-dimensional reverie and turned his attention to her.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Miss Priscilla asked you a question, George, where have you been?” the Duchess asked.
George smiled softly and said, “In my studio. Doing what I should be doing right now.”
His mother looked puzzled. “George you are talking nonsense.”
George stood and addressed his mother, “No. This is your little dog and pony show—not mine.” He turned to Priscilla and, taking her hand, kissed it, saying, “Miss Priscilla. As charming as you are, I am afraid you shall never win my heart. You must excuse me. I have pressing business to attend to elsewhere. I hope you have a delightful rest of your evening.” And he turned and left the dining room to an astonished Duchess and a nearly tearful Miss Priscilla.
