Chapter Eight
Elmswood Manor—April 1827
Kate, Lady Elmswood, burst into the morning room waving aloft a single sheet of thick writing parchment. ‘“Lord Fearnoch is most pleased to accept Lady Elmswood’s kind invitation to call at Elmswood Manor on Friday April the sixth, with the express purpose of meeting with her eldest ward, Miss Eloise Brannagh, to discuss the possibility of a marriage between the parties on terms outlined in his previous dispatch.” Goodness, that sounds as if it was written by his lawyer.’
‘Perhaps, but it’s just as likely he wrote it himself.’ Eloise looked up from her position on the floor, kneeling in front of Phoebe to pin the hem of her sister’s new gown. ‘Remember, Kate, until he inherited the title, he was merely Alexander Sinclair, some sort of clerk at the Admiralty, so well used to penning memorandums, one would imagine.’ She smiled. ‘It’s certainly not the most romantic proposal I’ve ever come across. Does he proffer any other endearments?’
‘“Should either party conclude that the match does not fully satisfy their requirements, then negotiations will be terminated without prejudice. Should both parties prove amenable, however, it is imperative that the nuptials are concluded by the second of June, Lord Fearnoch’s thirtieth birthday, whereupon, under the terms of the Fearnoch entail, failure to be of married status would result in the Fearnoch title and estates passing to a cousin.” And he looks forward...et cetera, et cetera,’ Kate concluded. ‘What do you think, Eloise? It all sounds a bit cold and heartless. It’s not too late to write back and say you’ve changed your mind.’
‘But I haven’t.’ Eloise inserted a final pin. ‘Turn around slowly, Phoebe. Yes, I think that will do nicely. Your turn, Estelle.’
One twin replaced the other on the footstool, Eloise resumed her pinning and Kate dropped into her usual chair by the fire, surrendering the letter over to Phoebe to read. ‘You know, you could make a very handsome living if you set yourself up as a modiste. Those gowns are beautiful.’
‘Madame Eloise, dressmaker to the aristocracy,’ Estelle said in a dreadful French accent. ‘You would have a very exclusive little boutique in...’
‘Bond Street,’ Kate supplied for her, smiling.
‘Bond Street. And Phoebe could bake cakes to serve to your ladies while they wait to be fitted, and I could entertain them by playing on the pianoforte. Am I done?’
‘You are.’ Eloise stood up, shaking out her own skirts and returning her pin cushion to her sewing box before sitting down opposite Kate. ‘May I?’
Phoebe handed her the letter. ‘I shall bake my special spicy biscuits for Lord Fearnoch. I would have preferred to offer him a fruit cake, but you can’t make a good fruit cake in three days, it needs at least a week for the brandy to soak in.’
Estelle threw herself down on the sofa beside her twin. ‘I’m not sure the biscuits are a good idea, Phoebe, they’re very brittle. Not ideal for a man with no teeth.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ Eloise handed the letter back to Kate, laughing. ‘I’m sure he has a perfectly good set of teeth.’
‘Yes,’ Estelle said, grinning, ‘but the question is, are they his own?’
‘Perhaps I should make a sponge cake, then,’ Phoebe said, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘If he does have wooden teeth...’
‘A man as rich as Lord Fearnoch will surely have ivory,’ Estelle interjected.
‘Yes, but he’s not rich yet, is he? Unless he marries Eloise, he’ll have to revoke the title and will have nothing but his salary from the Admiralty to his name. So I think perhaps I will make a sponge, after all. What do you think, Eloise?’
‘I will leave that momentous decision in your capable hands, Phoebe.’
‘You’re quite right, you’ve more important things to worry about. Such as what to wear. I think the cream dress with the emerald trim is your most becoming gown. Lord Fearnoch will be so dazzled by your radiant beauty that he will be rendered quite speechless, and without further ado will fall at your feet and beg you to be his.’
‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ Eloise said, colouring. ‘You know very well that I am the bookish sister. It is you two who have the kind of looks which cause carriage accidents.’
‘That does not make a scarecrow of you!’ The twins leapt up of one accord, pulling her over to stand in front of the empty fireplace. ‘Take a look in the mirror, for goodness’ sake.’
Laughing, Eloise did as she was bid, catching her breath at the reflection of herself flanked by the twins. Though they were not identical, one strawberry blonde and the other Titian, they were both quite ridiculously beautiful. Her own auburn locks were tarnished in comparison, and though all of them had the same hazel eyes, her face was not a perfect oval, and her skin, though the same creamy colour as the twins’, was marred by a sprinkling of freckles. What would Mama, the former toast of Dublin society, think if she could see her daughters now, the younger two grown into such beauties as would put her in the shade? Ha! And there would be the rub, for Mama never could bear to be anything other than the centre of attention, the most beautiful woman in any room.
‘No one would ever mistake us for anything other than sisters,’ Phoebe said, kissing Eloise’s cheek affectionately.
‘True,’ she agreed, ‘though no one would deny that I am very much a watered-down version of you two. And besides,’ she continued, cutting short her sisters’ protests, ‘my appearance is quite irrelevant. Lord Fearnoch is not in need of a beautiful wife, but a practical, pragmatic one.’
‘Just like Aunt Kate.’ Phoebe gave her guardian a quick hug. ‘Practical, pragmatic and pretty. And don’t say that old married ladies cannot be described as pretty because you are neither old nor married—at least, not in the conventional sense.’
‘I am twenty-eight years old, young lady, and have been married to your Uncle Daniel for six years,’ Kate retorted. She rolled her eyes. ‘Uncle Daniel! It makes him sound positively ancient, but he has only just turned thirty-four.’
‘And despite the fact that he is our guardian, we have never actually met him.’
‘That is because he has been overseas ever since we tied the knot, a year before your arrival.’
‘Yes, but before that...’
‘There were nine years between Mama and our uncle. When I was born, he’d only have been...’ Eloise wrinkled her nose as she calculated. ‘Ten, I think.’
‘And by the time he was sixteen,’ Kate said, ‘he was already off on his first expedition to exotic foreign climes.’
‘The