“None of them are likely to produce a candidate for the altar,” Ethel pointed out.
“You never know. I might quite like to marry a scholar.” It was a new idea, but not an unpleasant one. “In any case, I intend to command gentlemen to escort me on most of my ventures. As my mother said, an houror two in a man’s company could be much more revealing than a dance. Speaking of which, I must visit Lady Cawle. She will have additional suggestions.”
“Hemight still be living there,” Ethel said, putting away hairpins.
“Lord Kynaston will either be out or sunk in brandied gloom.”
But Ariana admitted to herself that a mere two days out of his orbit and she needed to know how he was. As best she could tell, Lady Cawle was making no attempt to help him, and his sister was young and living elsewhere.
She still worried that he might do away with himself.
A note to Lady Cawle brought an invitation to visit at one in the afternoon. Ariana approached the Albemarle Street house, trying to divine if Kynaston was inside. If he was, he didn’t appear as soon as she entered, like a lurking fox after a chicken. Ethel took herself off downstairs, and Ariana was soon with Lady Cawle.
“How goes your project?” Lady Cawle asked.
“Poorly. I can’t like Churston or Blacknorton, Dauntry is to wed soon, and I suspect Wentforth has a lady in mind.”
“Dauntry is to wed? To whom?”
“I don’t know. Within the week, he said.”
“How very intriguing. Why do you think Wentforth out of reach?”
Ariana told her about the poetry evening, but she didn’t mention “dainty” or “feet.”
It was not surprising, therefore, that Lady Cawle asked, “You couldn’t tolerate a poetical husband?”
“Perhaps I could,” Ariana said, but moved on. “Ma’am, do you truly think Sellerden or Sir Arraby might suit me?”
“I put them on the list, didn’t I? As you’re being unreasonably particular, I can’t tell.”
“I was told Blacknorton’s a womanizer who’s unlikely to be faithful.”
Lady Cawle raised her eyes to heaven. “Now the gel demands fidelity in a husband!”
“Is it so impossible?”
“It severely limits the possibilities, and in truth can never be guaranteed. I’ve known the most meek and comformable gentlemen wander and some of the wildest become faithful. Take Lord Arden. Heir to the Duke of Belcraven. A rake of the first order, but he married a schoolteacher and has become a saint.”
Ariana’s friend Hermione Merryhew had been a guest of the Ardens in Town, and had written from there. She’d liked Lady Arden, but found the marquess arrogant.
“He married aschoolteacher?” Ariana asked.
“The whole world was agog, I assure you. On the other side, we have Lord Rawstall, who seemed good and pious enough for sainthood. A few years of marriage sent him off to loose women and he now has not one but two mistresses housed and waiting for him, one in Town and one near his country estate.”
“His poor wife.”
Lady Cawle shrugged. “It was never a love match. Impossible to know what she thinks, but four babies in five years might have made her grateful for relief. Do I embarrass you with such blunt talk?”
Ariana would have liked to deny it, but she was blushing. “A little. We are taught that fidelity in marriage is the most important thing.”
“Ladies are taught that, because gentlemen like tohave some hope that their nurseries are full of their own get.”
“Lady Cawle!”
“Don’t expect me to be mealymouthed. I suppose you want more names. Of course there are plenty, but the fashionable world is thin in London at this time of year. There may be some merchants or professionals worth a look.”
Ariana knew she should agree, but she didn’t think she’d make a good wife to a merchant or a lawyer. She found she was clasping her hands. “I didn’t think details would matter so much.”
