It was currently half-past nine. Her family had been scrunched into the parlor since nine, none of them willing to miss an event as momentous as this. Despite the close quarters, Gladys supposed she was lucky that their rented rooms had a parlor at all.
“Kitty acquitted herself well last night,” said Mother. “Danced every set but two.”
Kitty had also danced twice with Mr. Alsop, not that Gladys cared. She might have been hurt or jealous if it had happened before she’d met Mr. Medford, but now she needn’t settle for a mismatch like Mr. Alsop at all. She hadn’t told her family about his offer, either. Or that he’d seemed more interested in her sister.
“Kitty danced almost every set,” said Father, “but no marriage offers?”
“It was her first evening out!” Mother scolded him.
It was also a harbinger, and they all knew it. If even effervescent Kitty with her sunny personality and beautiful blond looks couldn’t snare a suitor at a matchmaking festival, then it was up to Gladys to provide her baby sister with the one thing she lacked: a dowry.
Gladys had it all worked out. Her first act as the new Mrs. Medford would be to convince her husband to sell the Welsh property to Mr. Alsop for twice the price it was worth, then donate half of the sum to Kitty in the form of a dowry. In that manner, Kitty would enter her first season with the same financial advantages Gladys had been afforded, and Medford would still have a windfall commensurate with the value of the plot of land.
She was certain she could convince him. Medford hadn’t asked a single question about the land at all. She doubted he even knew it was her dowry. A man as wealthy as he was would look upon such details as incidental. He didn’t care about Wales. He cared about Gladys’s breasts. Property she was happy to give him, whenever he wished.
“Well,” said Kitty. “It’s nine forty-five.”
“He’ll be here,” said Gladys.
They all looked at the clock upon the mantel, which was much better than all of them staring at Gladys. She’d barely been able to keep a blush from staining her cheeks all morning.
That was the other reason she hadn’t mentioned Mr. Medford’s name. If they got that out of her, they’d want to know how she had met him. Neither of her parents had made the introduction, and no one else in the ballroom knew Gladys’s name.
“I kissed him in the garden” was far too scandalous to ever admit. She hoped Mr. Medford had come up with a plausible alternative explanation. Gladys didn’t wish to accidentally contradict his story by inventing one of her own.
She sent another look at the clock. Nine fifty. Nerves prickled beneath her skin. Where was he?
She wished she’d written down her address for Mr. Medford, but he must know where to find her. Blushing Maid Inn was one of the biggest and best in Marrywell, which meant Mr. Medford was probably staying under this very roof himself.
And there was no need to remind him of her name. She’d told him herself, from the close distance of right there on his lap, to which announcement he’d answered, “I know.”
In addition, they’d been treated to both Mother and Kitty screaming Gladys Bell! Gladys Maria Bell! from the open door.
More importantly, Mr. Medford had known who Gladys was even before she spied him in the garden. He’d specifically said he’d been desperate to kiss her all night. And promised to come to her hotel room on the morrow. He’d gone so far as to say he felt as though he’d been waiting for her all his life.
A man that much in love would be here before ten. She was sure of it.
Granted, she’d also been sure that he would come and pluck her from the wallflower wall for a dance. She’d stood there all night, looking as approachable as she could, but she never saw him again. He must have been called away for some reason. She would ask for a full explanation when he arrived.
Gladys straightened her spine. She was about to become the bride of someone who wanted to spend time with her. Who wanted to kiss her, not assume control of her land. If Gladys had to beget heirs, she’d rather it be with a man who made the act a pleasure. Who actually wished to make love to her. Who looked at her and saw passion, not a property.
“It’s ten,” said Kitty.
“I said he’ll be here. Don’t worry.”
But ten turned into ten-oh-five, then ten fifteen, then ten thirty. At ten forty-five, there was still no sign of Reuben Medford. There was no sign of anyone.
Father sighed and lowered his newspaper. “I see you’ve made me waste my morning.”
“Wait,” Gladys begged. “Just a few more moments. He’s… He’s a late riser.”
That’s what it was. He had been horrified at the thought of paying a call at ten a.m. rather than ten p.m. Perhaps he’d overslept. Or worse—what if something had happened to him? Had he succumbed to an accident on his way back to the inn? Or taken ill?
“Eleven,” said Kitty.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Oh, thank God,” Gladys muttered.
