A Most Unsuitable Bride. Gail Whitiker

and was delighted to see her looking so well. For all her having just celebrated her fifty-third birthday, Mrs Isabel Mitchell was still a remarkably handsome woman. Her hair, once a bright blazing red, had mellowed to a warm shade of auburn, and her eyes, a shade paler green than Phoebe’s, still reflected a passion and enthusiasm for life that was so much a part of her personality. Indeed, time seem to have inflicted few of the infirmities so often visited upon women approaching their later years, and though Diana knew that her aunt occasionally suffered with pains in her legs, she nevertheless managed to attend most of the events deemed to be of particular social consequence. A widow for six years, she seldom wore bright colours any more, preferring the dignity of dark blue, lavender and occasionally deep maroon if the occasion warranted it. She referred to it as her cultivated attempt at staidness; something she feared she had been lacking most of her life.

      ‘Well, my dears, did you have a good journey?’ Mrs Mitchell asked, drawing them both into an affectionate embrace. ‘It is such a pretty drive from Whitley.’

      ‘We had a lovely trip, Aunt,’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘But I am ever so glad to be here.’

      ‘Good, and now that you are, we must make ourselves comfortable. Come, there is a nice fire in the parlour. The day has turned unusually chill for April, has it not?’

      Diana, who was indeed anxious to warm her hands, fell in beside her aunt while Phoebe trailed a few steps behind. ‘How is Chaucer, Aunt Isabel?’ she asked. ‘Is he here, or did you leave him in the country?’

      ‘Oh, he is definitely here, and well enough, though the wretched creature is never anxious to leave his bed,’ Mrs Mitchell said. ‘His old bones are no more immune to the cold than mine, But I dare say he will be happy to see you. In fact, I think I hear him scratching at the door. Stop it, Chaucer, or Jiggins will have your coat for a carriage rug!’

      Diana bit back a smile. Chaucer was her aunt’s dog, and while he was a recognised member of the family above stairs, she doubted he was as warmly welcomed below. The younger maids were afraid of him, and the older ones complained about the amount of hair he shed. Jiggins simply ignored him, which was a considerable feat given that the hound more closely resembled a small pony than he did a diminutive lap dog.

      ‘Down, Chaucer!’ Mrs Mitchell scolded as she opened the door and the great beast lunged forward. ‘Have you no manners at all? Go and sit in your place and wait to be introduced.’

      The chastised animal let go a muffled ‘whoof’, but wisely did as he was told.

      ‘That’s better. Now,’ Mrs Mitchell said to her nieces, ‘let me have a good look at you. My word, what elegant young ladies you have both become.’

      Phoebe rolled her eyes. ‘I am the one who has become elegant, Aunt Isabel. Diana was already that way the last time you saw her.’

      ‘So she was, Phoebe, so she was. And you are, indeed, a good deal taller and prettier than I remember,’ Mrs Mitchell said, closing the door to the cosy, if somewhat overfurnished, room. ‘Well, let me see what you have learned. Walk the length of the room and back, there’s a good girl.’

      Phoebe did as she was told, and duly earned her aunt’s nod of approval. ‘Excellent. I think your time at Mrs Harrison-Whyte’s Academy was exactly what you needed. Did you enjoy your studies there?’

      ‘I suppose, though I am very glad to be finished with schooling,” Phoebe said, sinking with an unladylike flounce into a deep rose armchair. ‘Most of the mistresses were exceedingly dour and we were kept to very strict schedules.’

      ‘Of course, dear, that is the nature of school. The question is, did you learn anything, since that was the reason for your being sent there in the first place.’

      ‘Mais, oui. Fait-il toujours aussi froid?’ the girl asked in perfectly accented French. ‘That means, is it usually this cold? As well, I am familiar with the teachings of the ancient Greek philosophers, and I can tell you without hesitation the location of Constantinople, the Cape of Good Hope, and many other equally exotic and intriguing places.’

      ‘Good Lord!’ Mrs Mitchell looked faintly shocked. ‘They’ve turned you into a bluestocking!’

      ‘Oh, no, never that, Aunt,’ Phoebe said, laughing. ‘Because I also learned how to paint and arrange flowers, how to manage a household, and how to engage in polite conversation with handsome young gentlemen, one of whom will hopefully wish to marry me.’

      ‘Well, I am relieved to hear that you do not intend to devote your life to bookish occupations,’ Mrs Mitchell said, sharing an amused glance with Diana. ‘But experiencing one’s first Season is always exciting, and you should plan on enjoying it to the fullest, since once you are married there will be all manner of other duties and obligations to which you will be forced to attend.’

      ‘And I shall enjoy every one of them because it means I shall also have a husband, and I am looking forward to that more than anything!’

      Settled in her comfortable chair by the fire, Diana smiled, marvelling that only a few short years separated Phoebe’s age from hers. At times it seemed a great many more. She, too, had come to London in the hopes of finding the man of her dreams, and with a belief in her heart that life was going to be wonderful. But reality had painted a very different picture, and when Diana had returned to the country only three short months after she’d left it, it was with far more than her childhood dreams shattered.

      She looked up to find her aunt’s watchful gaze upon her.

      ‘Phoebe, why don’t you run along to your room?’ Mrs Mitchell said quietly. ‘I’ve had it completely redone for you.’

      Phoebe’s face brightened. ‘You have?’

      ‘Of course. You are a young woman now and must be treated like one. Grimshaw will take you up,’ Mrs Mitchell said as the housekeeper appeared at the door.

      ‘Thank you, Aunt Isabel,’ Phoebe cried, getting up and impulsively throwing her arms around the older woman’s neck. ‘Oh, I am so pleased to be back in London! I know we’re going to have the most marvellous time, in spite of Diana’s reluctance to be here!’

      With that auspicious pronouncement, Phoebe turned and followed the housekeeper from the room. Mrs Mitchell watched her go, shaking her head as the sound of the girl’s chatter echoed all the way up the stairs. ‘Dear me, I’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be so young. I vow the child has energy enough for two.’

      ‘Indeed she has, Aunt,’ Diana replied in a dry voice. ‘She has made me feel quite old and staid these last two months.’

      Isabel Mitchell glanced at her favourite niece and her eyes softened. ‘There is nothing in the least staid about you, Diana, and at one and twenty, you are hardly old, but you do not look as cheery as I might have wished. Perhaps we can do something to put the sparkle back in your eyes, now that you are here again.’

      ‘Just spending time with you will do that,’ Diana said, smiling as she glanced around the room. ‘It seems such a long time since I was here.’

      ‘Four years is a long time when you’re young,’ her aunt agreed. ‘At my age, it is a mere blink of the eye. All right, Chaucer, you may go and make your greetings to Diana. But politely, mind.’

      The wolfhound, which had been whimpering ever since being told to go to his bed, rose to his feet and slowly headed for Diana. He knew better than to jump on her, but he did rest his great head on her knee, his liquid brown eyes staring up at her with adoration.

      Diana wondered how such a huge beast could be so daft.

      ‘Do you still spoil him outrageously?’ she said as she buried her fingers in the dog’s wiry hair.

      ‘Of course.’ Mrs Mitchell reached for the teapot. ‘We all deserve to be pampered in our twilight years. Tea?’

      ‘Yes, thank you, that would be lovely.’

      Mrs Mitchell poured out two cups of tea and set one on the table