impressing them with these new rooms of his.”
Lady Ophelia said, “I believe I enjoy dancing as much as anyone, but I fear that many persons view these new assembly rooms as no more than a marriage market—a place to show off their young women in hopes of marrying them to the highest bidder—and I cannot approve of that. Much as our men would like us to believe otherwise, the married state does not benefit a woman but enslaves her. For a woman to be entirely dependent upon a man is quite unnatural.”
“Most women do have minds of their own, do they not?” Maggie said with a smile before deftly turning the subject to Mr. David Garrick’s recent performance as Hamlet at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.
Pinkie, although fascinated by Lady Ophelia and interested to hear anything else she might say, was nonetheless grateful for the change of subject. She knew that one reason Mary and Duncan had brought her to London was to introduce her to eligible gentlemen in the fond hope that she might find one suitable to marry. However, it was daunting to know that each man—and doubtless his family, as well—would want to judge whether she was worthy of him.
Gazing across the table, she wondered if the lovely Elizabeth Campbell would so quickly have offered them tickets to the new rooms had she known of Daft Geordie and Red Mag. Recalling that Lady Agnes had said Elizabeth’s mother was just someone’s housekeeper, she decided that perhaps her own antecedents would not matter as much as Chuff had feared they would. In any event, she was as certain as she could be that she would not find any man in London to suit her. As for Chuff, although he was two years her senior, he was still too young to think of marriage.
Michael had been in London less than an hour before he was ready to return to the Highlands, or to throttle his sister. Not only had their journey been a trial—with five adults crowded into his aunt’s coach—but the house in George Street, Westminster, was not what Bridget had expected a London house to be. In fairness, it was not what Lady Marsali had expected either. Her hitherto high opinion of her cousin, Mrs. Thatcher, had altered considerably upon their arrival.
They had made good time, reaching London the afternoon of the last day of April. When at last their coach drew up before the house, both ladies, and their maids, leaned forward to peer curiously at it through the coach window.
Bridget said with a frown, “It is quite narrow, is it not?”
“Aye, it is,” Lady Marsali agreed, “but surely it goes farther front to back than it does side to side.”
“Goodness me, I should hope it does,” Bridget exclaimed.
Michael, realizing at once that no manservant was going to emerge from the house, opened the coach door and kicked down the step. Getting out, he looked up and down the quiet street. The houses on both sides looked alike. Built of brown brick with simple stone bands and cornices, and wrought-iron railings to separate their belowground areaways from the raised flagway, their only individual traits were their entrances and their widths. The one before which their coach had stopped was tall—five stories—but only three bays wide, boasting one narrow window on each side of a simple entry, and three windows each on the upper floors.
When his man jumped down from the seat next to the coachman, Michael said, “See if anyone is at home, Chalmers. I’ll assist the women.”
“Michael, this is horrid,” Bridget said from the coach as he helped Lady Marsali to the flagway. “This cannot be the fashionable part of town.”
“I must say,” Lady Marsali said with a sigh, “it is not what I expected, either, but I am sure it will look much better inside. All of these houses along here appear to be much of a muchness, after all.”
“But not of a fashionable muchness, ma’am,” Bridget said bitterly, following her from the coach.
A maid in a simple blue dress, white apron, and mobcap
Lady Ophelia said, “I believe I enjoy dancing as much as anyone, but I fear that many persons view these new assembly rooms as no more than a marriage market—a place to show off their young women in hopes of marrying them to the highest bidder—and I cannot approve of that. Much as our men would like us to believe otherwise, the married state does not benefit a woman but enslaves her. For a woman to be entirely dependent upon a man is quite unnatural.”
“Most women do have minds of their own, do they not?” Maggie said with a smile before deftly turning the subject to Mr. David Garrick’s recent performance as Hamlet at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.
Pinkie, although fascinated by Lady Ophelia and interested to hear anything else she might say, was nonetheless grateful for the change of subject. She knew that one reason Mary and Duncan had brought her to London was to introduce her to eligible gentlemen in the fond hope that she might find one suitable to marry. However, it was daunting to know that each man—and doubtless his family, as well—would want to judge whether she was worthy of him.
Gazing across the table, she wondered if the lovely Elizabeth Campbell would so quickly have offered them tickets to the new rooms had she known of Daft Geordie and Red Mag. Recalling that Lady Agnes had said Elizabeth’s mother was just someone’s housekeeper, she decided that perhaps her own antecedents would not matter as much as Chuff had feared they would. In any event, she was as certain as she could be that she would not find any man in London to suit her. As for Chuff, although he was two years her senior, he was still too young to think of marriage.
Michael had been in London less than an hour before he was ready to return to the Highlands, or to throttle his sister. Not only had their journey been a trial—with five adults crowded into his aunt’s coach—but the house in George Street, Westminster, was not what Bridget had expected a London house to be. In fairness, it was not what Lady Marsali had expected either. Her hitherto high opinion of her cousin, Mrs. Thatcher, had altered considerably upon their arrival.
They had made good time, reaching London the afternoon of the last day of April. When at last their coach drew up before the house, both ladies, and their maids, leaned forward to peer curiously at it through the coach window.
Bridget said with a frown, “It is quite narrow, is it not?”
“Aye, it is,” Lady Marsali agreed, “but surely it goes farther front to back than it does side to side.”
“Goodness me, I should hope it does,” Bridget exclaimed.
Michael, realizing at once that no manservant was going to emerge from the house, opened the coach door and kicked down the step. Getting out, he looked up and down the quiet street. The houses on both sides looked alike. Built of brown brick with simple stone bands and cornices, and wrought-iron railings to separate their belowground areaways from the raised flagway, their only individual traits were their entrances and their widths. The one before which their coach had stopped was tall—five stories—but only three bays wide, boasting one narrow window on each side of a simple entry, and three windows each on the upper floors.
When his man jumped down from the seat next to the coachman, Michael said, “See if anyone is at home, Chalmers. I’ll assist the women.”
“Michael, this is horrid,” Bridget said from the coach as he helped Lady Marsali to the flagway. “This cannot be the fashionable part of town.”
“I must say,” Lady Marsali said with a sigh, “it is not what I expected, either, but I am sure it will look much better inside. All of these houses along here appear to be much of a muchness, after all.”
“But not of a fashionable muchness, ma’am,” Bridget said bitterly, following her from the coach.
A maid in a simple blue dress, white apron, and mobcap
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