It’s Marriage Or Ruin

‘Mother, if a young man of worthiness approached any of my sisters, I would do all I could to encourage a courtship.’ Emilie crossed her arms. Her sisters were green girls. They couldn’t imagine the truth of men and needed her guidance.

‘You cannot fault me because no man among the ton is worthy of them.’ Emilie straightened her shoulders. ‘Except for timid Bertram Reynolds and Marthe ignores him.’

‘Dear.’ The seat creaked when her mother turned to Emilie. Her mother’s voice gave Emilie no option for refusal. ‘You must let them decide whether the man is worthy or not. Or me or your father. You are not to keep distressing their beaus. Don’t demand perfection in their suitors. At this point, we may consider a man of medium worthiness if he is willing for a match. You certainly should do the same. We do not aspire to be relegated to less-than-medium worthiness because the others have been scorned.’

‘A man of value would not let a few words of truth dispatch him,’ Emilie muttered.

‘I would not want my daughters to obtain a match with a man whose main quality is persistence.’

Emilie felt the sharp rap of a fan against her fingers. Never a good sign when the fan came out.

Her mother continued, voice rising. ‘Timid beaus can have many desirable attributes. Your father—’ she pointed the fan at Emilie ‘—was so timid, I near had to—’ She stopped, waved her hand and turned to the window. ‘Never mind. I had no trouble with your father’s reserved behaviour.’

Emilie knew her mother and father cared too much for the state of marriage and too little about the state of men. They were happy. They didn’t observe the disastrous lives among them.

‘Mother, you must forget about a wedding for me. I shall never marry. I shall paint.’

‘Emilie Marie—you are not destined to paint. You are destined to have children. You are destined to maintain a household and serve your husband.’ She pressed her teeth into the words. ‘Forget your fanciful nonsense. No more paints will be purchased. I have told your father and he agrees with me. This trip is to locate a suitor for you. If there is no agreeable man, then I will acknowledge your spinsterhood. However, I will not accept the scent of turpentine in my home any more. The rooms reek of it. You will not be dabbling in oils there, indoors or out.’

Emilie fell back against the seat, fingers closed tightly. ‘I must,’ she said.

‘No.’ Her mother turned to stare out of the window. ‘You will have to content yourself with pencils, and stitchery and gentle pursuits. There are people in the world, Emilie, besides artists. And it is time you found that out and put away that folly. This discussion is over.’

In bed that night, Emilie kept envisaging the colours on a palette. The joy of her hands as they mixed the colours. The scent of turpentine.

She loved the scent of turpentine, no matter how unpleasant. It spoke of creation and love. She could not live without turpentine, aquamarine or burnt sienna.

She sniffed. She sighed. Perhaps she was cursed.

She would marry. She would discover a husband who would not notice if the money he’d allotted for clothing and jewellery was spent on the finer things, like easels or pigments.

Catching a senseless male could not be difficult and she hadn’t noticed any unwilling to be led by a woman hinting at delights.

Marriage would quiet all those titters her sisters made as they claimed Emilie was more suited to kiss her paintbrush than a husband.

If she married, it would no longer matter how small her waist was or if she got a drop of burnt sienna—a drop so small as to be invisible—on the rug. A man surely wouldn’t notice if she received a briar scratch on her cheek from searching for perfect berries to examine their hues. Her mother had wanted to flog her—and goodness, the scratch faded away, but the drawing of the berries had been enlightening.

Once she got the ring on her finger, she wouldn’t care what he did or where he went. Her goal was to be abandoned to her own ways. She knew she would have to survive kisses, but she would tolerate them, and knew she would have to do other things a wife should do, but she didn’t foresee that would take for ever. She would make sure it didn’t.

Then she would devote herself to watercolours and oils.

She must choose carefully.

The trick was in locating a man who didn’t have the inclination to control his property. One who might leave his belongings lying about, so to speak, so his possessions could do as they were inclined.

She would try hard to keep from overwhelming a nursery with children, but a little one would be dear to hold.

Actually, she would be pleased to have several children, she realised. Le Brun reportedly had created the most beautiful self-portrait of herself with her daughter. It was said that the portrait reflected the love between the two of them.

That would be a wonderful opportunity.

Marriage could work, assuming it was not taken too seriously.

Her husband must have money to buy all the paints she needed and an appearance to work well in oils.

And handsome men didn’t dig beyond the surface. They had wandering attentions and admired beauty. After he had acquired her, an attractive man would tire of his wife. His eyes would flicker to the other women who fluttered near.

She surmised the considerate thing to do would be to make certain he was a man who didn’t mind that he’d married a woman who had little use for him. If the things she’d overheard were true, it would be simple to locate such a man.

She didn’t want a suitor who had a heart—she might break it. She didn’t want a suitor who might have motivations deeper than a bird flitting from one spot to the next.

She examined her hand and decided a wedding ring would fit. Yes, she decided, she would accept a proposal. Now she had to decide on the date and the husband.

A very unsuitable husband would be perfect.

Chapter Three (#ua811061b-3445-5277-8b58-abb84ad26494)

‘Mama, Lady Cramson’s ball was divine last night and I am so anticipating Avondale’s birthday celebration.’ Emilie practised the words a dutiful daughter and a soon-to-be wife would speak. She was running out of occasions to get a proposal.

‘You’re attending? Of your own will? Another one? Are you considering marriage?’ She slanted her head back, studying Emilie.

‘Mother.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I’m not intending to stay on the shelf. A betrothal might suit me better than I realised.’ She would get those paints back if it killed her. She had survived so far because she had been using her aunt’s paints in the night-time hours while her mother slept. And the lamplight was disastrous.

Oils, however, those had to be mixed and she could not manage to get them by her mother when they returned home. Her mother was wise to Emilie’s ways.

She grabbed Emilie by the shoulders and positioned them eye to eye. ‘You are not trying to trick me?’

‘I really should be married before the leaves turn their autumn shades.’

‘Emilie.’ Her mother frowned. ‘Perhaps you should go to Bath. The men of London society know you.’

‘They do.’ Emilie held her posture straight. ‘But they’re forgetful.’

Her mother dropped her hands and turned to the candle on the table. She moved it away from the book, closer to a vase. ‘I have already written to your father about taking you to Bath in the autumn because the men there will be more unlikely to have heard tales of your awkward ways.’

The words ran down Emilie’s spine like cold waste water from rinsing her brushes.

Emilie squeezed her hands into fists. ‘You don’t anticipate a man will see me as attractive?’

‘Not the true you, Emilie. You must be giddy and flutter your eyes and act more ladylike. You must act demure.’

‘Of course, Mama. I love my new dress.’ She batted her eyes, then turned away.

Emilie heard the clatter and turned back. Her mother was picking up the vase she’d knocked over. Fresh-cut roses lay on the table.

‘Not like that, Emilie.’ Her mother’s voice was soft. ‘You startled me.’

‘I am trying.’ Emilie briefly pressed her palm against her jaw and let her hand fall to her side as she examined her feet. ‘I have worn out a pair of slippers dancing, I’m sure.’