“I don’t see why I can’t live with Aunt Susan,” she said after a moment. “You may want me to make a brilliant match, Mama, but I have no desire to be married.”
“Well,” her mother said doubtfully, “I suppose you could pursue the lifestyle I did, but I really find being a Marchioness more gratifying, and—”
“I don’t meanthat!I meant just living like Aunt Susan.” Even as Sybil said it, she knew she didn’t want that life, either, scraping for every penny she could find, forced to economize every aspect of her life.
A woman had two choices: marry or be shunned.
Depending on whom she married, she might have both.
“Thomas can’t keep funding you living there,” her mother said. “You’re twenty and it’s high time you settled down yourself.”
“Even if I sold myself?” she asked dryly.
“Oh, if that’s what youwantedI should never stand in your way, but far better to pursue such gratification out of desire, not necessity, my love, and the gentlemen that engage the services of—”
“Stop,” Sybil said, holding out a hand. “I don’t want details.”
“Then you must consent to look for a husband. I shall have some new dresses made up for you at once.”
“In the debutante style,” Sybil said quickly. “Nothing revealing.”
“We must find ways to make you appealing to a prospective husband.” The convent was looking increasingly appealing.
Sybil had done her best to put the incident with the footman from her mind. Often, she succeeded, and only thought about him in the evenings, or when she went for solitary walks, or when she considered the future and the prospect of being with another man who would know she was ruined.
If she established her reputation as being ruined in advance, perhaps he wouldn’t mind. Perhaps no one would marry her at all.
But the idea of any of the lords in London touching her and expecting her to lie on her back and take what they had to give was so repulsive, that she shuddered at the thought.
Her mother would no doubt be disappointed at the huge variance in the way they viewed intimate activities, but Sybil couldn’t bring herself to want that form of affection.
And if her husband did lie with her for the first time after marriage, no doubt he’d be able to know she had been with another man before. What would happen in that case? Would he reveal her secret to the world? Keep it quiet yet repulse her in private? Annul the marriage?
Either way, she was damaged goods, and there was no way she should be attempting to marry some unsuspecting gentleman when she knew the truth.
She settled against the plush leather seats of the carriage and waited to finally arrive at Thomas’ townhouse.
* * *
The very first thing Sybil needed to do, according to her mother, was address her wardrobe. Scarlet mentioned several times that she would not allow her daughter to dress in a dowdy manner, and so the day after they arrived, they sailed from the house to a fashionable seamstress on Bond Street. While Scarlet gushed about color and fashions, the proprietor treated them with a frigid formality that told herpreciselyhow she felt about having to serve the daughter of a courtesan.
Sybil gritted her teeth and pretended not to notice.
Next, they went to a haberdashery and purchased several large hats while a few young ladies, accompanied by a grim-faced woman she suspected was their maid, made laughing comments under her breath.
“The audacious waysome peoplemarry their way into Society,” one said, under her breath but not quite enough that Sybil couldn’t hear.
“I quite agree,” the other girl said. “And into Society, what’s more, they could never aspire to.”
“No, indeed.”
Sybil’s skin crawled, and she wasn’t sure whether she would rather dive into one of the fiery pits of Hell or throw herself out to sea without so much as a piece of driftwood to float on.
Eventually, with their carriage piled with bags and packages, they started back home. Sybil couldn’t wait to escape her mother’s company and the cloying judgment from everyone around, but before they arrived, Scarlet tapped the side of the carriage to stop it.
“Stay here,” she said to Sybil, her tone remarkably sharp. Sybil couldn’t remember hearing it sound like that before. “I won’t be a moment.”
“What are you doing?” But it was too late; her mother had already left the carriage. Sybil peered out of the window at her mother’s figure disappearing through the crowd toward Victoria Gate, Hyde Park.
