The Husband Season. Mary Nichols

flying from all the public buildings and from some private houses, too, in honour of the birth of a princess to the Duchess of Kent on the twenty-fourth of May. In Sophie’s view that augured well for her visit. The city would be en fête. Mark sent his coachman on to his town house in South Audley Street and accompanied them into Lady Cartrose’s Mount Street home.

      Her ladyship, rounder than ever and deafer than ever, greeted them warmly. ‘Welcome, child,’ she said, taking both Sophie’s hands and holding her at arm’s length to regard her from top to toe. ‘My, you are a pretty one. We shall have no trouble firing you off.’

      Sophie giggled. ‘That sounds painful.’

      She was obliged to repeat what she had said twice more before it was heard, and by then the repartee had lost its wit.

      Emmeline turned to Teddy and subjected him to the same scrutiny. ‘I cannot remember the last time I saw you, young man. It must have been at your sisters’ weddings. What a happy occasion that was, to be sure. You are not affianced yet?’

      ‘No, Aunt.’

      ‘We shall have to see what we can do. I have many friends with beautiful daughters.’

      ‘I am not in town to find a bride, but to escort my sister,’ Teddy said, shouting into her ear.

      ‘Pshaw.’ She turned to Mark. ‘My lord, you are very welcome. How is my dear Jane? And little Harry? One day perhaps I shall have the pleasure of making his acquaintance. You will stay for supper, won’t you? Then you can tell me all about him.’

      Mark declined supper, but agreed to take tea and spent most of the time answering her ladyship’s questions about Jane and their son. Sophie was impatient to know what they would be doing while she was in London and, in a break in the conversation, ventured, ‘What have you planned for tomorrow, Aunt Emmeline?’

      ‘I thought you might be a little tired after your journey, so have arranged nothing of import,’ her aunt replied. ‘A carriage ride in Hyde Park in the afternoon if you should care for it, provided it is not too cold, and supper at home.’

      Sophie, who had expected a round of social engagements to begin as soon as she arrived, was cast down by this. It sounded as boring as being at home. Mark smiled at her. ‘Never mind, Sophie, you will be all the more ready to spring yourself upon the London scene the day after when you are fully rested. I have no doubt you will take the capital by storm.’

      ‘Storm,’ her ladyship repeated. ‘Oh, do not say there is to be a storm. We cannot go out in wet weather, it brings on my rheumatism.’

      Mark patiently explained to the lady what he had meant while Teddy and Sophie tried not to laugh.

      ‘Oh, I understand,’ the old lady said. ‘I did not perfectly hear you. To be sure Sophie will shine. My friend Mrs Malthouse has a daughter of Sophie’s age. Cassandra is a dear, sweet girl and is coming out this year, too. I am sure you will be great friends. She is to have a come-out ball later in the Season and I have no doubt you will be invited. In the meantime there is to be a dancing party at the Rowlands’ next week, which is a suitable occasion for a young lady not yet out to practise her steps and no doubt Augusta will procure an invitation for you if I ask her.’

      This sounded more like it, and Sophie thanked her aunt prettily and began mentally deciding what she would wear.

      At this point, having agreed to dine with them the following evening, Mark took his leave, and as the evening was yet young, Teddy decided he would go out. Left to the company of her aunt and Margaret Lister, her aunt’s companion, Sophie decided to write to her parents and Jane, as she had promised, to tell them of her safe arrival. After that she went to bed to dream of the pleasures to come.

      * * *

      A few years before, the arrival of Adam Trent, Viscount Kimberley, in town would have caused a stir among the young single ladies of society and some married ones, too. He had been reputed to be the most handsome, the most well set-up young man to grace the clubs and drawing rooms of the capital for many a year. His arrival had sent all the debutantes’ mamas into a twitter of anxiety and rivalry and their daughters sighing after him and dreaming of being the one finally to catch him.

      ‘Twenty-eight and still single. How have you managed to resist wedlock so long?’ his cousin Mark had asked him.

      ‘Easily. I have never met the woman I would want to spend the rest of my days with and, besides, I’m too busy.’ At that time he had recently inherited his father’s title and estate at Saddleworth in Yorkshire, which had undoubtedly enhanced his attraction.

      Then he had done the unpardonable thing in the eyes of the ton and married Anne Bamford, the daughter of a Saddleworth mill owner. Whether it was a love match or done to enhance his own wealth no one could be sure, but after that no one had much to say for him, thinking of him only as the one that got away.

      His father-in-law had died soon after the wedding, leaving him in possession of Bamford Mill, and in the following year tragically his wife had died in childbirth along with his baby son, and he was once again single. To try to overcome his loss, he had thrown himself into his work, both at the mill and on his estate, which was considerable. He was rarely seen in London.

      On this evening, he was striding down South Audley Street towards Piccadilly when he encountered his cousin. ‘Mark, by all that’s wonderful! Fancy meeting you.’

      Mark, who had been negotiating a muddy puddle, looked up at the sound of his name. ‘Adam, good heavens! What are you doing in town?’

      ‘Urgent business or I would not have bothered.’

      ‘I was sorry to hear of your wife’s passing.’

      ‘Yes, a very sad time. The only way I could go on was to throw myself into work.’ This was a gross understatement of how he had felt, but he was not one to display emotion. It was easier to pretend he did not feel at all.

      ‘All work and no play is not good, you know. And you are no longer in mourning.’

      ‘Mourning is not something you can put a time limit on, Mark.’

      ‘No, of course not, clumsy of me. I beg your pardon.’

      ‘Granted. I was on my way to White’s. Do you care to join me?’

      Mark agreed and they were soon seated over supper in that well-known establishment. ‘How is married life?’ Adam asked his cousin. ‘I am sorry I could not attend your wedding, but at the time I had only recently taken over the running of Bamford Mill and there was a great deal of resentment that had to be overcome. There was, and is, much unrest and I needed to persuade my people not to join the Blanketeers’ march.’

      The march to London from the industrial north, which had been organised by the Lancashire weavers two years before, had been for the purpose of petitioning the Prince Regent over the desperate state of the textile industry and to protest over the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, which meant any so-called troublemakers could be imprisoned without charge. They had carried blankets, not only as a sign of their trade, but because they expected to be several days on the march. It had been broken up by the militia and its leaders imprisoned. None of the marchers had reached his goal and the petition was never presented.

      ‘Did you succeed?’

      ‘Unfortunately, no. I am afraid nothing will really satisfy them but having a say in their own destiny. I fear some dreadful calamity if they are not listened to.’

      ‘Surely not your people? You have the reputation of being a benign employer.’

      ‘I do my best, but that will not stop some of the hotheads persuading the rest that to stand apart will bring down retribution on their heads.’

      ‘What can you do to prevent it?’

      ‘I don’t know. I pay them more than the usual wage for the work they do and provide them with a good dinner, but that has brought censure from my peers that I am setting a bad example and will ruin all our