‘It was never anything more than a fool’s dream.’ Claire shrugged, valiantly acting as if it were indeed nothing of import. Compared to an unwed pregnancy, it wasn’t of any significance, but from the pitying expressions on their faces, she was not succeeding. They all knew she’d longed after the dashing Jonathon Lashley for years. As open secrets went, it didn’t get any more open. She’d been sweet on Jonathon since the summers they’d all run together in Sussex, four nine-year-old girls relentlessly chasing after May’s older brother and his visiting friend. Back then, Jonathon had gone out of his way to be kind to four nine-year-old girls. She’d fallen hard for those kindnesses. She was falling still and about to hit bottom. ‘Lashley hasn’t even looked twice at me in all the years I’ve been out.’ And now he never would. According to Preston’s rumour, any day, Jonathon would choose Cecilia Northam.
‘Maybe he should. Look twice, that is,’ Beatrice said staunchly. ‘You don’t give yourself a chance, Claire. You are lovely. Women would die for your hair, all those soft brown waves like a rich cup of coffee. You should let me do your hair one evening and Evie could fix up a dress or two for you.’
Claire shook her head at the compliment. ‘Yes, lovely brown hair. Too bad current fashion prefers blondes to brunettes and blue eyes to amber.’ But it was a preference that ran to more than just looks.
She was a pragmatist at heart. English society preferred not only a certain physical ideal, but a particular mental ideal as well—a blank-slated miss to one who could converse with a gentleman in four languages. Statistically speaking, four languages should have increased Claire’s odds. Socially speaking, it had not enhanced them. Her one failed attempt at making a match had proven that. Sir Rufus Sheriden, baronet, had made that quite clear. There would be no tolerance for female intelligence in their marriage. His clarity had been her point of retreat, the point at which her defences had gone up. She refused to yield her intelligence for any man. After a while, London had given up the siege. There were others more willing.
‘Why would Lashley look twice when he has Cecilia Northam to hand?’ It hurt to admit defeat, but that didn’t make it less true. What man would look at a wallflower when faced with a veritable garden of perfection: Cecilia of the pale-blonde locks, the bright blue eyes and the porcelain skin. Cecilia was everything an English gentleman wanted in a bride.
‘Because you’re so much better than she,’ Beatrice offered encouragingly, but that didn’t change facts. Cecilia was like salt in a wound. She was a darling of the ton. She’d debuted with them and become instantly popular where they had not. She might also have been out for three Seasons, but Cecilia’s experience was vastly different than theirs. She was looking to make a match this Season and finish her debut where they did not have such prospects.
Claire had long thought it was too bad men couldn’t see Cecilia Northam for what she really was. Or maybe it was just that Jonathon could not see her for what she was. Cecilia was beautiful, but beneath that beauty, she was conniving and she’d managed to draw about her a coterie of the ton’s loveliest, most devious young women—women just like her, all of them desiring to snare the ton’s most eligible men. Claire could have ignored that. She didn’t much care for those eligible men. Cecilia could have them. But now that Cecilia’s sights were set on Jonathon, it was much harder to ignore. Apparently, kindness would not carry the day no matter what fairy tales argued to the contrary.
Once upon a time, she would have fought back, she would have been brave. She wasn’t brave any more. There was no point to it. Bravery counted for nothing. Cecilia had seen to that. Rufus Sheriden had seen to that. London society had seen to that. She wasn’t sure when that had changed for her, only that it had.
‘No.’ Beatrice stood up and Claire froze. She recognised the stubborn tilt of Beatrice’s chin. Beatrice on a mission was a formidable creature.
‘No? What?’ Claire was afraid to ask.
‘No, as in we shall not stand for it. I may be ruined, but there is no reason the rest of you have to settle for futures not of your choosing.’
Claire opened her mouth to protest, but Beatrice overrode her dissent with quick words and plans. ‘We’ve been overlooked and forgotten. It’s not entirely our fault. But we have had some hand in the blame. We’ve let the ton treat us as if we accept we’re destined for nothing better than country marriages to dried-up vicars and poor third sons of baronets.’
‘It’s just how it is. What can we do about it?’ Evie ventured hesitantly.
‘We can use our special talents for our own betterment instead of detriment.’ Something stirred inside Claire. She liked that—betterment not detriment. It sounded like something the workers at Peterloo would have chanted. Beatrice began to pace and Claire could feel herself getting caught up in Beatrice’s fervour. ‘It’s so obvious. Why haven’t we seen it before? We have to go after what we want. It’s a simple principle of nature. A system dies when it has no new stimuli.’ Beatrice rounded on the group, gesturing to Evie. ‘We’ll need your skill with the needle to create eye-catching fashions for those who need to stand out. Claire, you can coach us on French phrases to drop into conversation since it’s coming back into vogue. May, you can help us research our quarry: where they’ll be, when they’ll be there, what they like. You can start with Lashley.’
Claire’s passion for Beatrice’s crusade came to a crashing halt. Why Lashley? Oh. Beatrice was starting straight at her, delivering her directive. ‘Time is of the essence. You shall be first.’
‘Me?’ Claire choked on her cider.
Beatrice offered her a consoling smile, but she would not relent.
‘Yes, you,’ Beatrice said sternly. ‘And it’s certainly time you forgot about that idiot Sheriden. You’ve let his opinion of you hold you back for far too long. And it’s time you forgot about Cecilia’s dress prank. I don’t think Lashley even noticed. It was years ago.’
Claire groaned. ‘That just proves my point. He didn’t even notice my most embarrassing moment.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Beatrice argued. ‘It’s time we all forget. We’ve been complacent too long. No more. It has taken this pregnancy for me to realise I don’t have to settle for the life society dictated for me. I don’t want my friends to endure a similar tragedy in order to realise it, too. Each of us can have the lives we want, but only if we stand up for them and for each other.’
She fixed Claire with her best stare. Claire felt something warm and forgotten start to come to life deep inside her, a flicker perhaps of who she was, who she was meant to be instead of whom she had become.
‘It starts with you, Claire. We are not going to let Cecilia Northam take Lashley, not without a fight, by God. She’s had her way far too long and for no good reason.’ Beatrice lifted her cup of cider in proclamation. ‘I hereby officially declare this the “Left-Behind Girls Club”, where, through acts of vigorous self-improvement, social courage and the protection of one another, we will change our circumstances by living life on our terms, not society’s. Because, ladies, nothing will change until we do.’
They had to be the ones to change. Beatrice’s words still echoed three nights later. They had to stop accepting and start fighting for the life they wanted. Claire did not take issue with the concept in theory. Beatrice’s speech had been rousing, inspiring even in a Henry the Fifth, ‘once more into the breach’ sort of way. But did she have to be first?
Claire pressed nervous hands against the flat of her stomach, repeatedly smoothing the silky material of her Evie-enhanced gown as she mounted the steps of the Worth town house behind her parents for dinner. Her friends should have started with someone they could succeed with. There was nothing like attempting the impossible to doom morale. She knew. She’d attempted it once. That’s what this mission was: the impossible, an experiment doomed to failure. Jonathon hadn’t noticed her for three years.