Bridget nodded, a smile still on her face. However, when they entered the drawing room, her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the assortment of papers and calling cards scattered on the table in front of the chaise lounge.
“Oh la! I see you are busy with your matchmaking scheme.” She placed the woven basket she’d been carrying on the chaise and took off her long, white gloves before placing them inside the basket.
“Indeed, I am. I have had such a large number of requests that I require a system to keep all of the lords and ladies in order, so as to not make an error.” She stopped and winked at Bridget. “But enough about my endeavors. How was your very first walk with your match? Did you adore Lord Bent as I thought you might?” She sat across from her friend, eagerly awaiting a positive report when, to her disappointment, Bridget shook her head.
“He is a bore. Perfectly handsome and well-spoken, but a bore nonetheless. He spoke of nothing the entire time but fishing. I can name every single fish that is to be found in his pond at home in Kent. Every. Single. Fish. I do not speak in jest, either. Faith, Penny. Where did you find this man?”
Penelope sat back, disappointment filling her every bone. She wanted nothing more than to find good matches for those she cared about, and Bridget was her closest friend. Thus, she above all needed to be matched well. Lord Bent seemed like such a perfect fit. He was the nephew of one of Penelope’s neighbors, Lady Hazelton. The year prior, Penelope had made a match of Lady Hazelton’s daughter with a wealthy Marquess, and as such had gladly agreed to set her nephew up with Bridget Hughes. She’d even volunteered to be their chaperone. To hear it had gone poorly was disappointing.
“Are you sure? Did you ask him questions as I instructed you to do? Would you not give him another chance, if he’s willing?”
She shrugged. “I suppose so. It cannot hurt. He is famously wealthy, after all. And I would be a Countess.” Her friend’s eyes got a dreamy expression at the thought while Penelope’s stomach lurched. She did not seek to make matches to increase wealth or status. While she had to consider these factors, she aimed to make matches based on love. So few ladies of their class got to marry for love, and she found it ever so important.
“But could you love him? Could you be happy?”
Bridget frowned, suddenly remembering the purpose of the matchmaking. “I do not know. He seems awfully fond of livestock in general. And of his brother. Whenever he was not speaking of fish and cows and the like, he spoke about his brother, a Captain in the Royal Navy. The brother sounds as though he might be a wonderful fellow. Alas, he is away at sea for another year.”
She picked up a piece of barley sweet and popped it in her mouth while retrieving her basket from beside her. She carefully unwrapped her embroidery and set it down on her lap.
“It is a shame,” Penelope agreed. A Navy man—a Captain no less—might indeed be advantageous for Bridget who was fun-loving and enjoyed adventures. She knew what her friend wanted most in a man was status, in order to elevate herself. But her friend would also appreciate someone she could enjoy her time with, someone who would hold a conversation and challenge her sharp mind.
“Do you mind if I complete my needlework as you sort through your maze of potential lovebirds?”
Penelope smiled. “Not at all. Perhaps I will find another match as I sort through these.”
They worked quietly side-by-side for several minutes, with Penelope on occasion asking Bridget’s opinion about this match or that, while Bridget asked her friend’s opinion pertaining to her embroidery.
It wasn’t until Penelope glanced up from her almost completed matchmaking plan when she realized her friend was no longer stitching. Instead, her eyes were set in the direction of the painting above the fireplace.
“Why is it there are so few paintings of your dear Mama?” Bridget asked, not looking away from the painting. Penelope looked up at it herself, even though she knew it in detail, having spent many an hour lost in it.
The portrait of Katherine Richmond, the late Duchess of Branigan, hung high above the fireplace. She stood against a blurred background of their village, dressed in a sky-blue gown with golden embroidery along her pale chest. The cap sleeves likewise were hemmed with shimmering gold, and her golden hair was arranged atop her head in a beautiful braided style, with ringlets framing her face on either side. Her cheeks carried a blush as though she had just returned from a brisk walk.
Penelope wetted her lips before she answered. “After she died, my father could not bring himself to look at her portrait anymore. I suppose it was too painful. He took most all of them away. For years I did not see my mama’s face at all. It wasn’t until I asked him to see it that he agreed to hang this one in a place of honor.” She paused. Her father did not frequent the drawing room much, and never had. Perhaps it was why the portrait found its place there. On the few occasions he did venture into the drawing room, he always made sure not to look at his late wife as she peered into the room below.
“You have her eyes,” Bridget commented. It was a warm day and her friend retrieved a white feather fan from her basket, fanning herself and Penelope both at once. “You look a lot like her.”
Penelope looked up. Indeed, her mother had gray-blue eyes just like hers, but her hair was golden while Penelope’s was the same rich chestnut as her father’s had been when he was young.
“I always thought I favored Papa.”
Bridget shook her head. “When first we met that was true, but you look more like her now. A beauty, just like her.” Her friend reached for the licorice on the table and chewed as she examined Penelope. “You are such a beautiful girl, and so kind and loving. Why is it you do not seek a husband for yourself? I am certain His Grace would allow you to pick a man for yourself. He dotes on you more than I ever saw a father dote on his daughter.”
Penelope swallowed and looked away. She did not take joy in talking about her reasons, even with her dearest friend. “I am not interested in a match. My father is much too ill for me to consider taking a husband and leaving him. He needs me. I am all he has.”
“Penny, that is honorable, of course, but one day he will be no longer. Then what? Who will provide for you?”
She shrugged. “Papa has made a will leaving me all of his freehold property. Anything not in entailment shall be mine. As long as I do not marry, I will have control of my own lands.” She considered herself very lucky to be so loved and looked after. Many of her friends, and almost all the ladies who sought her guidance, were forced to marry to be secure. She had no such worries.
“But have you never wanted to love? To be loved? It is not a luxury afforded to many of the aristocracy, but for you it is possible.”
She sighed and pushed away the slight irritation that rose inside of her. “I do not. I loved once. When I was young. Too young to really understand what love was. I made a cake of myself then. I lost my heart. It was trampled upon. Promises were broken.” She sighed and leaned back. “I do not care to discuss the matter, Bridget. I am sorry.”
Her friend looked at her with her eyes wide and gave her a short nod. “No need to fret. I am your friend. If you do not wish to discuss a matter, then we will not. Now… What of this matchmaking plan of yours?”
Grateful for the change of subject, Penelope picked up her calling cards and sat beside her friend. The two were just narrowing down the most likely matches for Bridget, when the front door flew open and Mr. Percival marched into the house, all but pushing the butler aside.
“Where is His Grace?” He demanded of the puzzled butler who stammered his reply.
