Swapping Bitter for Sweet: Miss Gilmore Learns How to Charm a Widower

March 8, 1810, Buckinghamshire, Village of Harwood

Mary is heartbroken that she will not be joining me in London, for all she’s done up my hair and dressed me for years. A Frenchwoman arrives any day to attend me as a proper lady’s maid, and my measurements have been sent off to Angeline’s preferred modiste in London to have my gowns made up. The expense of Worth’s was out of the question, of course, but we are adamantly assured that I shall be every bit as fashionable as my wealthier rivals. I take that to mean I won’t be laughed out of anywhere respectable, at least. Lord.

Mama has loaned me her finest baubles and Papa has gifted me an emerald the size of my thumbnail, set in a gold ring. As for the rest of my form—Angeline has attempted to puff me up with flattery, saying that I’m a full sight prettier than she had been at her coming out and she’d drawn more proposals than anyone she’d ever heard of. (Her fortune of twenty thousand pounds certainly had nothing to do with it. It was enough at least to catch the barrister second son of some old landed family.)

However, yesterday morning, while taking tea at Bell Hall, an old place not four miles from Ludley, the dowager widow Mrs. Bell called my complexion not-too-brown and my figure suitable, so, as you can imagine, I am quite bursting with confidence, Cousin. Though she advises I eat more cake at table. She also advises I ride less, for tall as I am, I should at least strive to fill out my figure softly, and everyone knows the avid horsewoman sees a deal too much exercise.

She is trying to find a bride for her nephew. A new bride, I should say, for it’s only a six-month since his old one died in confinement and Mrs. Bell has taken up the charge of cheering him with a new companion and heir as soon as may be. The child, you see, had the decency not to die alongside its mother, yet rather lacked the kindness to be born a boy. It would have eased the pain of the loss ever so much, I imagine, and now the poor man must trouble himself with procuring another brood mare—forgive me—wife. The ever-useful Mrs. Bell, however, is determined that her nephew will not be troubled more than necessary, regardless of the fact that the dead woman was her own daughter.

Mrs. Bell was all in black but rather too cheery by half at tea, but when I mentioned as much to Mama afterward, she insisted it was only the poor woman’s way to laugh through her grief. Mrs. Bell fancies herself the soul of practicality. When what is done cannot be changed, lamentation and regret only prolong pain. A pretty philosophy indeed, though decidedly heartless, I say.

I have known Mrs. Bell all my life of course, but her daughters were too old to have anything to do with me, and I certainly don’t remember the youngest, Clara. Mrs. Bell went to her in Derbyshire for her laying in six months ago and when we got word that Clara had died, it was certainly never a consideration to set our eyes on her newly bereft husband as a possible connection—or if it was, Mama had the decency not to mention such a scheme to me. Yet, after Mrs. Bell returned to Bell Hall not three days ago, she sent a note to Ludley inviting my mother and me to tea and quibbled not in telling Mama that she had great hopes of my being just the thing to “uncloud” her nephew’s eye.

I am to imagine myself fortunate indeed. Mother and Father certainly think as much for our family. Mrs. Bell is a treasure and all this good luck before I am even in London? Lord.

His name is Mr. Eldridge and he is a sort of nephew to her through her husband, Mr. Bell, and the grandson of an earl on his mother’s side. I have been led to believe him quite fastidious, Cousin, in his idea of a proper lady. Mrs. Bell describes him as an admirer of “sweetness,” which I suppose must mean the classical plumpness of a cherub and a fondness for cake.

“You’ve grown into quite the Amazon, I see,” said the good woman at tea. Her tone was just short of bald disapproval as she peered at me through her quizzing glass.

To appease her and please myself, I’d taken a second helping of apple-tart and could not immediately reply around a mouthful of crumbs.

“We must credit the Gilmore constitution there,” said my mother in good humour. “Adriana is never ill, though my sweet Rowley is prone to a cough.”

“Oh, a trifling cough, I daresay,” cried Mrs. Bell. “I declare he’ll be as fine and strong a man as his dear papa. There is no shame in coming from healthy stock, is there, Lillia? Whatever others may say of the matter. The self-made man must come from good blood, mustn’t he, to have earned his place as Mr. Gilmore has. Yes, indeed.”

Mama raised her tea and drank, though I knew what she must think of the comment. Mrs. Bell was proud of her liberality of mind and must be allowed to gratify herself with such speeches as often as she should like to make them. After all, it was just this liberality of mind that had put the notion into the dowager’s head that Mr. Eldridge and I must be thrown together while in London, if only to see what may come of it.

“Though no one ever thought my daughters delicate, mind you,” added Mrs. Bell. “And the elder two decidedly not—you know Augusta has just laid in with her sixth?”

“Has she? How wonderful!” said Mama.

“And Deidre had her four in almost as many years, you know—but poor Clara,” said Mrs. Bell, shaking her head and calling attention to the black lace shawl about her shoulders, which I suspect she has not taken off since her own husband’s death not long after we came into the neighborhood twenty years ago. “Sweet girl! My youngest, you know, taken away to God at eight and twenty!”

“A shocking loss, Mrs. Bell,” said Mama. She put a hand on the dowager’s, patting it. “How does your son-in-law?”

“Oh poorly, though the child is a pretty little thing, and rosy—the delight of her cousins! writes Deidre. She’ll be as sweet as her mother. We were all very happy little Clara did not perish along with my daughter, but of course my nephew had wanted a son.”

“Naturally,” said my mother. “I hope a few weeks’ diversion in town will do him good. I daresay, he deserves a bit of cheering. You say the child lives with Deidre now?”

“Oh, yes. Deidre insists it is no trouble, you see, and has such a way with children, it is most becoming. She keeps a nurse, of course, but a more attentive mother was never seen.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Bell, I daresay you set a most proper example on that score.”

“Lillia, you flatter me,” said Mrs. Bell, puffing up. “And there is no need for I am already determined to be of service to you. When my nephew arrives in town, it will be with a purpose to meet your daughter, you may be sure of it.”

Here, she turned to me and said, “I know the way of young minds, Miss Gilmore, and let yours not make the mistake of calling a widower too old for notice, girl, however old the word may ring to you.”

“No, indeed, mum,” I answered. “I have heard of men losing their wives at one and twenty.”

“Yes,” said she, with hesitation. “Yet a man who suffers such a blow at five and forty may still be called young.”

Five and forty! I may have winced, Cousin, but I inclined my head all the same, accepting my fate.

“Oh, be comforted, my girl,” laughed Mrs. Bell. “For my nephew was always a favorite with the ladies. Upon my word, I had quite the ordeal securing him for Clara, for all my sweet girl’s winsome ways. He has the very soul of a gentleman, though I say so myself, and not a compliment in his favor has reached my ears that has not included the word ‘elegant.’ Your squeamish qualms may be put to rest.”

“Does he ride?” I asked hopefully.

“He reads a good deal,” said Mrs. Bell, perhaps remembering my fondness for the same. “And hunts. But more to the point, Bell Hall is entailed to him, with all its two thousand pounds a year. I live here at his pleasure. His seat in Derbyshire, Kingsman Place, has six thousand pounds. It’s where he lived as a boy and lives still, with quite the expanse of wilderness. He married late in life, my dear, because he could afford to do so, and his expectations for Clara to have provided him with an heir straight off may not be called unreasonable. No, indeed, the poor man. Her elder sisters had done so for their husbands, to be sure, within their first years of marriage. But it was a full seven years before she laid in with little Clara.” Mrs. Bell gave me a measuring look. “I will say your looks are nothing like my Clara’s, though beauty comes in all forms, I daresay. Does it not, Lillia?”

“I daresay it does, Mrs. Bell,” agreed Mama at once, blushing as I took up another tart and put it straight away into my mouth before I could be called on for an opinion of my looks as well. She hardly needed my assistance, however, and with the aid of her quizzing glass went on to convince herself that I was not at all disagreeable to look at. In fact, an active, sensible man could be persuaded to think me quite lovely despite the general lack of “softness” about me. The flush of my cheek was rather becoming and my eyes lively enough, and with my not-too-brown complexion and suitable figure, well! Yes indeed, she could daresay again that Mr. Eldridge would find me interesting at the very least, if entirely unlike anything she’d ever known him to admire.

I take such a declaration to mean that while I am not “sweet,” Cousin, I am just the sort of bitter that can be worked with. Personally, I’ve yet to meet a soul with an aversion to lemon.