Page 5 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess
Chapter Two
Marshville Manor, The Quiet Hour After Luncheon
Patrina’s fingers hovered over the pianoforte keys. One might have assumed that her parents, arguing in the next room, would have heard the music desist, but apparently not. At times like this, they departed into their own worlds.
Really, she had no time to waste. She ought to be practising, and committing the piece to memory, before time ran out altogether. The composition—a light, fashionable air that every salon desired to grace their drawing rooms for a season or two before it became tiresome—was on loan to her for but two more days. Afterward, it was to be returned to Miss Butterfield, who would then pass it on to her married sister, and thence to another, and another. Should she wish to borrow it again, she would be obliged to await its turn in the queue of those eager to possess it.
Music sheets were, after all, expensive. Not everybody had the luxury of a proper music room, and therefore did not have space to store piles of music sheets, even if theycouldafford them. Patrina did not have the money or the leisure to spend too much time in learning it. The quicker she committed it to memory, the better. There were plenty of Society ladies in the same predicament.
Besides, it always looked more impressive if a lady could recollect an entire song, rather than hunching over her music sheets at somebody else’s pianoforte.
In the next room, Lady Marshville’s famously shrill voice pitched a little higher.
“What exactly do you mean, George, when you say that we cannot pay the butcher? What are we meant to eat? Grass?”
It was not usual for the family to hear their father’s voice raised in anger, but Patrina heard it then.
“I mean what I say. The bill has been allowed to climb and climb, and now we do not have money to cover it. The butcher, who has already displayed an excessive degree of forbearance toward us, shall not be trifled with by a partial settlement of the account. He demands the entirety of his due in one sum, and I must confess I cannot fault him for this.”
“Oh, George, how could you have let this happen? What are we to do? This is your fault!”
“And what is it that you wish me to do? You spent a small fortune on the girls’ dresses, which we cannot afford to pay, and now I am forced to dismiss more members of our household.”
“You must be jesting, surely. Do you expect me and the girls to slave in the kitchen, perhaps? Oh, how amusing that would be. Lady Marshville and her three daughters, sweating over a vat of soup.”
“Pray cease, Mary; I implore you to desist.”
There was a tiredness in her father’s voice now, powerful enough to make Patrina’s heart ache. She imagined him slumped down in a chair, exhausted and miserable. She knew that they were lucky to have parents who cared so intensely about each other. Most couples in Society tolerated each other at best and loathed each other at worst. For all the airy ideas and novel plots about marrying for love, it seemed that people only ever married for two reasons – money, and power.
“Of course I had to buy the girls new dresses,” Lady Marshville snapped, an edge of defensiveness in her voice. “It is only Agnes’ second season, and Gillian’s come-out is this year. All of the girls have to marry, we both know that. If they do not marry, they will not have a life. And if only one marries, she will have the burden of caring for her sisters when you are gone, sowe need to getallof them married. It is essential, and you know this. Where has the money gone, George? Answer me, George!”
There was a long period of silence. Holding her breath, Patrina strained to listen, heart hammering in her chest.
She could imagine her mother, tired out by her own anger and panic, sinking onto a sofa. Her father, anger all gone, would hurry over to her, concerned.
Patrina did not hear anything more, beyond muted whispers and the murmur of voices through the wall. She let her hands slip away from the pianoforte. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she never finished memorizing that piece. Either way, she had half of it in her head already.
Rising to her feet, Patrina crossed the room, pausing before the door which led into her parents’ private parlour.
Perhaps I should leave them alone.
However, Patrina had never been known for making tactful decisions, and did not intend to begin now. She knocked firmly and waited.
“Come in, Patrina,” came George’s tired voice.
She eased open the door and peered inside. As expected, Mary and George sat together on the sofa, hands entwined.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
Her father smiled wryly. “Because Agnes lives in her own world, and Gillian is entirely too wrapped up in gowns and parties to think about eavesdropping.”
Patrina flushed. “I wasn’teavesdropping. You were both just very loud.”
“Mm-hm. Come in, my dear, sit down. I suppose you deserve to hear this, too.”
A tremor of apprehension began to stir in Patrina's abdomen. She made her way to an armchair opposite – hopelessly threadbare, it had needed unholstering for several years now – and sat, folding her arms in her lap.
She remembered enough of her finishing school lessons to know that ladies were meant to sit and move in certain ways. Frankly, the lessons had been wasted, and she had only cared about the music lessons.
