Keeping the Castle - By Patrice Kindl Page 0,2
the occasion of my wedding, you’ll see,” I assured her. “Perhaps I should consider an elderly suitor,” I mused. “They are more easily managed, I believe. And they often have defective hearing, which might be quite an advantage.”
My mother was shaking her head, but I went on, unregarding.
“Then too, you know, if I chose a man of great age and infirmity I might become a wealthy widow quite soon after the wedding. And then we could have the drawbridge over the moat replaced immediately rather than having to wait for him to recover from the wedding expenses; it has become a bit infirm of late.”
“Oh, I believe it would be better not,” interrupted my mama, “not until we have no other options. Best to aim for a younger man. You see, dearest, there are certain aspects of marriage—” She bent her head as she helped Alexander to climb up upon her lap—“it is not proper for you to know about them yet, but you must trust me to know what I am speaking about—that make a young man much more pleasing.”
“Mama.” I took her hand and pressed it, speaking earnestly. “I well understand that the pursuit and acquisition of a wealthy husband is my lot in life, and that achieving that goal is our only chance of assuring ourselves a comfortable future. I shall not disappoint you, I promise.”
“Occasionally,” my mama said, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “I wonder if it would not be possible for a lady to make her way in the world without a husband or inherited fortune. I feel that you and I are nearly as clever as most of the men we know.”
“Oh, my dear madam! How you do go on!” I laughed and squeezed her hand. There were times when I felt as if I were her elder, wiser sister. Indeed, my life would have been a good deal easier in many respects if she had been a more worldly, realistic woman, but in spite of this failing, I loved her dearly. “You know quite well that it has been scientifically proven that a woman’s small brain is not capable of understanding much beyond matters of the household. Tho’ when I think of Mr. Godalming’s brain . . . But no, intelligence is not all that counts in life, but power as well, and a woman without money has none.” I gave her hand another squeeze. “I will find someone, do not fear.”
She smiled then, and laughed a little. “You are right, of course, as always. I am a lucky woman to have such a daughter. Both lovely and practical.”
“Only lucky to have a daughter like Althea? What about us, Stepmother dearest?” My stepsisters, Prudence and Charity, entered the corner of the great hall that stood duty with us for a drawing room. I sighed. I believe my mama did as well, but hers was a tiny, noiseless sigh in comparison with my gusty exhalation, which was powerful enough to flutter the lace on my bodice.
“You know I consider myself lucky to have all my daughters, Prudence,” she said.
“Yes, I should think you might, Madam,” said Charity, smiling unpleasantly. Prudence smirked.
These sneers at my mother referred to the fact that their incomes were essential to keeping the walls about us standing. If one or both married, the castle most likely would fall down around our ears. As things were, they were unwilling to open their purses or to authorize any purchases not for their own comfort or pleasure.
Quite providentially, my stepsisters were both disagreeable and incapable of disguising the fact. Whenever they went to call upon ladies with marriageable sons or brothers, the young men would turn pale and bolt out of doors even into a driving rain, claiming to be going out with the dogs. They knew, you see, how determined the Misses Winthrop were to marry and establish independent households. Of course, given the size of their dowries, they would no doubt succeed some day.
“I saw Godalming leaving,” observed Prudence. She was the elder, with a broad, flat face and figure, and few pretensions to beauty. Her favorite pastime was collecting quotations on the subject of death and mortality. She wrote them out in an elegant hand, decorated them with sketches of weeping willows and mourning urns, bound them up in an album labeled “Memento Mori,” and then gloated over them. “He seemed in a bit of a hurry. I trust you did not chase him away with that