Her inability to hold her tongue is why we have barely settled in the drawing room before Mama calls the vicar’s sister a hopeless spinster to her face.
Naturally, that is not what she hadintendedto say.
The very opposite, in fact!
Determined to buoy Miss Burgess’s spirits, which she assumes must be flagging, given the desperate straits of her situation, Mama assures her that all is not lost.
It is early days yet.
“You could still wed,” she announces, citing Bea as proof.
If her plain niece with no conversation can find success on the Marriage Mart, then anything is possible. “You might marry a duke!” Mama adds sweepingly.
But then she realizes that the predicament is more fraught than she had originally perceived, for the problem is notonlyMiss Burgess’s advanced age. It isalsothe scarcity of dukes with an inexplicable fondness for women of advanced age.
Even just ordinary dukes without unusual tastes are thin on the ground.
Mama titters nervously as she begins to fear she has done the other woman a grave disservice by speaking encouragingly of her prospects. It is better for Miss Burgess to keep her expectations in check than to indulge in a flight of fancy.
Earnestly, Mama urges her to accept the truth of her situation rather than rail against it. “You are a spinster, and your chances are slim if not completely nonexistent.”
And the hint of satisfaction in her voice!
It is tragic and intolerable, for she genuinely believes she has appropriately clarified her positionandspared Miss Burgess unnecessary heartbreak.
Mama is thinking: Job well done, Vera!
But only for a heartbeat.
The unvarnished cruelty of her words immediately strikes her, and she stutters an apology for speaking with so much thoughtless candor. “You must believe that I never meant to insult you. Nothing I have said is a judgment on you or your appearance or your character. You are presentable enough. You certainly have more color in your cheeks than my niece, whose complexion is deathly wan. But these things are so complicated, aren’t they? Even someone like Miss Nutting, whose beauty is undeniable, might find it difficult to secure a spouse, especially if she continues to make a habit of discussing avian species during supper as though they were a scintillating topic of conversation,”she says before turning as pale as Bea as she comprehends the extent of her insult, for she has also taken aim at her host’s eldest daughter, since it was Mrs. Dowell who had introduced the subject.
Aghast, Mama inhales sharply and shakes her head, as if to clear it of all her previous thoughts so that she may start anew.
It does not work.
She continues to talk of birds, recalling the time Princess Caroline mentioned ptarmigans during a social outing to the theater. As abruptly as she makes the connection, however, she disavows it, for the example is of limited utility.
The princess is a princess, and Mrs. Dowell is not.
She is common.
“Very common,” Mama adds earnestly, for she would loathe anyone in the room to believe she does not understand social order. “Miss Nutting is even more common.”
The Incomparable scowls as a blush sweeps across her face, and Mama, fearful of giving offense, rushes to include Miss Braithwaite in her accounting. “You are just as common, my dear. More so because your grandfather was in trade.”
It is a horrifying performance, and as I sit here silently, wishing I could disappear into the settee, I try to find a small nugget of humor in the debacle.
One tiny thing to laugh about.
Mrs. Dowell’s expression as Mama notes that her name rhymes withbowel.
It is a mixture of outrage, fury, and resignation. If nobody has actually said the words out loud, Mrs. Dowell herself has thought them.
Eventually, Mama falls silent.
By the time she does, she has insulted every person in the room as well as a few who are not. Mr. Nutting’s wig is violentlycondemned even after his wife insists that his hair parts naturally to the left.
It is a massacre.
