A thousand witnesses were watching! Her veins buzzed with nervous excitement. She’d practiced this moment for years. She knew the steps to every possible dance, and would not embarrass herself or him.
“My dear Miss Bell,” Mr. Alsop began, as they launched into the steps of the Boulangère.
My dear Miss Bell! Ha! Gladys had never been any man’s dear anything before. Could there be a moment more splendid than this one?
“I’ve been looking for a property in Wales for some time,” he continued. “I initially approached your father with a deuced generous offer to buy his plot of land, but he refused to sell. The land I seek, it seems, is part of your dowry.”
It was the entirety of her dowry. And this was not the romantic conversation she’d been hoping to have.
“No other land will do, I’m afraid. You see my conundrum.” Mr. Alsop let out an irritated sigh. “That property will be mine. If I must marry you to acquire it, then so be it.”
Gladys nearly stumbled, but saved herself at the last second.
Mr. Alsop either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
He also made no further attempt at conversation. He’d said his piece. She knew what he wanted, and now knew where she stood—which was between him and a hectare of cow pasture. Her wishes did not figure.
Or rather, her lifelong wish was for a husband, was it not? Mr. Alsop was therefore by definition a dream come true. Objectively, he wasn’t ancient or hideous. He was straightforward and honest. And, to be painfully frank, he was the best—and only—offer she was likely to get.
Worse, Gladys could not take offense at her dowry literally functioning as designed. It was there to entice suitors. It had enticed one. If Mr. Alsop wanted the carrot on the stick, she couldn’t hold its success against him.
Even if she wished he also wanted the wallflower that came with the carrot.
“I understand,” she said softly.
“I hoped you would.” He flashed her a distracted smile. “Don’t worry. Other than eventually begetting a few sons, I shan’t bother you. Between the nanny, the governess, and public schools, you won’t be needed for the children, either. I can promise you’ll be left fully alone.”
Marvelous. Her future husband didn’t want her, and her future children wouldn’t need her either. Even in marriage, Gladys was facing a life of endless loneliness. This wasn’t a dream come true. It was a nightmare.
“I’d like to call upon your father in the morning and make the transaction official.” Mr. Alsop paused. “Do I have your permission?”
Ah. Gladys was twenty-one, which meant she had her majority. She could not be compelled to marry against her wishes. Which meant whether or not Mr. Alsop got his hands on his cherished plot of land was completely up to Gladys. She could say no, and fade against the wainscoting for the rest of her life. Or she could say yes, and at least experience a few nights with a husband, and a few moments with a baby in her arms.
There was no choice but to nod her acquiescence.
“Brilliant,” said Mr. Alsop. “Then that’s settled.”
The Boulangère changed to a waltz. Gladys’s breath caught. At least they would have a romantic song to remember this moment by.
Mr. Alsop escorted her off the dance floor instead.
No waltz. It was to be cakes and punch instead. Her heart sank. Ah well, at least it no longer mattered if she spilt ratafia down her bodice or developed a full moustache of cake crumbs. They could find a quiet nook and spend the second half of their set talking about the future life they intended to build together.
But Mr. Alsop didn’t pause at the refreshment table as anticipated. He didn’t even head in that direction.
He dropped her back with the wallflowers and strode off without another word, as though he had much better things to do than spend a single unnecessary moment in the presence of his future wife.
Gladys’s shoulders slumped against the wall. If Mr. Alsop couldn’t even withstand her company for the full thirty minute set, their marriage was going to be even lonelier than forewarned.
“Lucky,” whispered one of the wallflowers. “I would kill for a dance.”
Gladys could not answer. A sob had lodged in her throat and was threatening to spill out. She needed air. Immediately.
She pushed clear of the wall and threaded her way around the dance floor, past the gaping entrance where ever more happy festival-goers streamed through, to the half-closed garden door in the far corner.
She stepped out into the brisk night and sucked in a bracing gulp of fresh spring air. Breathe. She was alone in the gardens, save for a smattering of statues and the expanse of distant stars overhead.
A flash of color caught her eye, just behind a hedgerow.
