Excerpt of A Most Unsuitable Bride by Gail Whitiker

"Oh, Diana, are you not thrilled at the prospect of being back in London?" asked Miss Phoebe Lowden, her green eyes bright with excitement as she gazed at the bustling streets visible through the carriage window. "I spent only two months at Narbeth Hall, but they were the longest two months of my life! However do you manage to live there and find any degree of contentment at all?"

Miss Diana Hepworth, the lady to whom the question was put, and aware of the fervour with which it was asked, tried not to smile as she likewise studied the passing scenery. "Which would you have me answer first, Phoebe? How I feel about returning to a city where social interaction is considered second only to breathing? Or how I have managed to survive in a place where good company must surely provide the only relief in an existence otherwise too boring to speak of?"

The younger girl had the grace to look embarrassed. "Forgive me, Diana, I did not mean to suggest that life in Whitley was totally without amusement. But neither does it offer the variety of entertainments, nor the type of people and conversation, you enjoy so much."

"What? You did not find Squire Hapston's musings on thirteenth-century farming methods enlightening? Or Mrs Dawson's views on the perils of educating females too much for fear of hindering their abilities to be dutiful wives and mothers illuminating? You surprise me, Phoebe. I have spent many a dull winter evening being entertained by such lively discourse," Diana said, trying not to smile.

"Now you are teasing me, and it is not deserved, for we both know that you are far too intelligent to be amused by such insipid dialogue," Phoebe retorted. "You have never been one for dull talk or stupid companions, admit it!"

A slow smile lifted the corners of Diana's mouth. "True, but not all of the residents of Whitley are dull or stupid, Phoebe. And, in case you've forgotten, Narbeth Hall is my home."

"Yes, but even Aunt Isabel says you should be spending part of the year in London," Phoebe said, refusing to be put off. "After all, you have already had the advantage of one London Season, yet you choose to remain buried in the depths of the country where you are forced to suffer the attention of gentlemen who would not even approach you in London. Why? Do you truly find life in town so distasteful?"

Comfortably settled against the squabs of the carriage, Diana paused to consider her answer. In truth, she was not terribly pleased about the prospect of returning to London. She had tried to affect an appearance of being so for Phoebe's sake, but as the city drew nearer and the memory of her reasons for having left it returned, Diana was finding it an increasingly difficult charade to maintain.

"I do not find all aspects of life in London distasteful," she said, deciding to be as tactful, but as honest as possible. "I enjoy many of the wonderful things it has to offer. Certainly our local productions cannot compare to the performances put on at Drury Lane, and our selection of shops is humble to say the least. But in other ways, I am content with country life. I have never cared for the congestion of town, and as tired as rural discourse may be, it is not always so inferior to what is to be had in London. You will find that out after spending a few tedious evenings in society. However, we are not here to talk about my reasons for wishing to remain in the country," Diana said, abruptly changing the topic of the conversation. "We are here to watch you take London by storm, and hopefully to see you engaged or married by the end of the Season."

"Oh, I would like that, Diana," Phoebe cried, clasping her hands together. "And to the most handsome gentleman in all London! But, in truth, I do not think I shall be taking anything or anyone by storm. There are so many beautiful ladies at court. All so accomplished and witty, and all so very good at flirting. I am sure I should stumble hopelessly over my words if a handsome gentleman were to approach me and try to engage me in conversation."

"Nonsense. It is no more difficult than talking to me. Besides, I doubt any gentleman will worry about what you say when you look at him with those beautiful green eyes. It's probably just as well you did not spend any more time at Narbeth Hall," Diana said. "Thomas Stanhope was looking rather smitten with you, and you would certainly have been wasted on him."

"But so are you, don't you see that? Oh, you must come about with me, Diana!" Phoebe cried in frustration. "I know you would enjoy yourself, and I would certainly have a much better time if you were with me."

"And I'm flattered you feel that way, dearest, but that is not what we agreed to when I said I would come to London. I made it quite clear that I was coming in the capacity of a companion."

"Tosh! Aunt Isabel won't hear of you being used in such a way. If anything, she is more likely to suggest that we both go out looking for husbands. Oh, I know you profess a disinterest in such things," Phoebe said as the familiar expression settled on Diana's face, "but Aunt Isabel is right. You are far too lovely to sit at home, and you are much more adept at socialising than I. Why should you not go out and enjoy what London has to offer? Did you not say you had friends in town you wished to see again?"

Diana sighed. She did indeed have friends, but how was she to know if any of them wished to see her? Worse, how was she to tell Phoebe why they did not without getting into a lengthy and somewhat embarrassing explanation as to what had happened four years earlier to make it so?

The arrival of the carriage at their aunt's house on George Street prevented Diana from having to come up with an answer, and in the flurry of activity that followed, the question was mercifully forgotten. Jiggins, their aunt's long-standing butler, greeted them at the door and saw to the removal of their trunks and travelling garments, and moments later, Diana heard the sound of her aunt's voice drifting down the stairs towards them.

"Diana, Phoebe, is that you? Gracious, girls! I thought you would never arrive."

Diana turned to greet her aunt, 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 un-ladylike 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.