A GRAND GESTURE
CHAPTER 1
HARTH HOUSE, 5 FEBRUARY 1816
My Dearest Mary,
I have invited my twin nieces, Lady Iris and Lady Dahlia, to London for the Season. As daughters of my brother Aldric, fifth Earl of Whelan, they possess the rank which demands a society debut.
Recently, it was brought to my attention that I have two other Shreveton nieces, both of marriageable age, who have come out provincially yet have not had the opportunity of a London Season. One is Susannah, daughter of my youngest brother, Captain Glendon Shreveton, and the other is Catherine, your daughter, and the only child of my dear departed brother, Ralph.
I am certain you are aware that the Shreveton family holds a respected place in Society. We owe it to Society to introduce our children. I cannot allow any of my brothers' daughters to be overlooked in this manner.
I have decided this Season should be enlivened by the presence of four young Shrevetons, and I intend to undertake this effort. Under my aegis, all of my Shreveton nieces can be assured of the proper notice from the polite world.
If you send my dear niece Catherine to London, I will introduce her to the ton. Do not worry for the lack of suitable gowns. I intend such articles to be gifts I grant all my nieces.
I am confident that Catherine, though the eldest and possessing the least in prospects, will be able, under my tutelage, of course, to make an eligible parti. If you will forgive my plain speaking, at least she will have a better chance than in the wilds of Yorkshire.
I remain with respect, etc.
Lady Harth, Countess of Seaverness
Lady Burke’s knuckles were white and her hands shook as she lowered the letter. The brown eyes she turned toward her daughter Mary glittered with anger.
Seeing her mother’s expression and knowing full well her Irish temper, the Honorable Mrs. Ralph Shreveton’s hands fluttered beseechingly. “Lady Harth has no way of knowing Catherine’s true position, Mama. She knows Ralph’s portion was small. It would be natural for her to think Catherine has never had a Season because we are too poor!”
“Fustian.”
“No, it’s true.”
“Mary, she’s implying Catherine’s a nothing!”
Mary looked down at her hands which were twisting her handkerchief into a ball. “Maybe it would have been better if she were,” she said softly.
“Mary!”
The younger woman blushed and looked up quickly, stilling her nervous fingers by pressing her hands deep in her lap. “Well, she will be two-and-twenty this spring.” The note of defiance mixed with exasperation in her tone was unusual.
Gwen drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair, staring at the sunlight shining through the tall parlor windowsthat showed dust in the air as silver glitter and made patterns of light on the Aubusson carpet, lending jewel-like clarity to its mellow old colors.
It was not for lack of beauty or money that Catherine remained unwed, rather from a lack of concern! Two-and-twenty Catherine would soon be; however, a nothing she was not. To a string of forlorn young men who had crossed her path, she was the elusive beauty. None were able to capture her attention, let alone her heart. No matter how long she talked or danced with them at the local assemblies, they always proclaimed to be head over heels in love with her warm brown eyes, laughing freckled countenance, and masses of auburn hair shining like burnished copper in candlelight or fire in the sun.
That was part of the problem. There was too much proclaiming and little enough sincerity.
And Catherine knew it.
The only sincere aspect of Catherine’s suitors was their awe at discovering Catherine was schooled as a horse trainer for her uncle, Sir Eugene Burke, Bt., and would be his heir.
Perhaps it would be wisest for Catherine to go to London for the Season. She knew Catherine had no desire for a taste of town life. Yet how could the chit choose to be a country spinster without knowing the alternatives? But how to make Catherine see that? And how to make her obey the wishes of the haughty Countess of Seaverness?
Gwen turned to face her daughter, a thoughtful expression on her face. Mary smiled timidly back, afraid to break into her mother’s thoughts.
“Do you truly wish her to go?” Gwen finally asked.
Mary, who was again studying her hands, looked up at her mother. This time her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”
Gwen sighed, nodding her head as she tossed the letter on the little table by her chair. “I believe Deirdre is the key,” shesaid. “She can turn the lock on this matter. Of that, I am certain. After all, she is Irish.”
