Nicola Cornick: Undoing of a Lady

MISS FLORA MINCHIN stood in the drawing room of her parents’ elegant home in the village of Fortune’s Folly—new, shiny, spacious, everything that money could buy, no converted medieval building for them—and studied the Earl of Waterhouse, who was standing on the Turkish carpet in front of the fireplace in the exact same spot as when he had proposed marriage to her four months before. Four months had been the engagement period prescribed by Mrs. Minchin as the shortest possible time in which to assemble Flora’s perfect trousseau. That self-same trousseau was now packed and ready for the wedding trip—Windermere and the Lake District, so pretty, so fashionable—and for the removal after that to Water House, the Earl’s ramshackle family estate near York, which was to be restored with Flora’s lovely money.

It was not yet past breakfast and they had in fact been roused from the table by the butler disapprovingly imparting the news of the Earl’s arrival. It was a shockingly early hour at which to call. It was also the morning of the wedding and Mrs. Minchin had therefore been even less disposed to let Flora see her betrothed.

“Flora, I forbid it,” she had snapped, even as her daughter had put down her napkin and allowed the footman to draw back the chair so that she could rise. “It is quite inappropriate and dreadfully bad luck. Humphrey—” She had appealed to Mr. Minchin, who was reading the Leeds Courier at the breakfast table. “Tell Flora that she must not speak to Lord Waterhouse until after the vows are made. Whatever he has to say cannot be so important that it cannot wait.”

“I rather think it is, Mama,” Flora had said.

She had been surprised to find that her heart was beating quite fast. Sitting there, sipping her hot chocolate and nibbling on her toast, she had had a moment of quite frightening prophecy. She had known that Nat Waterhouse was there to break their engagement. And she had felt nothing but the most enormous relief.

Now she glanced at the clock. At least the wedding was not until two in the afternoon. That should give her enough time to inform everyone that it was not taking place after all. She would have to do so herself, as her mother was likely to fall into the vapors and be of no use to anyone.

She looked at Nat. He was looking exceptionally well dressed that morning, almost as elegant as on the day that he had proposed, almost as elegant as he would have looked in church when they came together for their marriage. She was not sure how she felt about him taking so much trouble with his appearance when his purpose was to break rather than make a commitment to her. His boots had a high polish, his cravat was immaculately tied and he was wearing a jacket of green superfine that fitted without a wrinkle. He was not, Flora thought, a good-looking man in the conventional sense, for his features were too irregular to be considered handsome. His nose was slightly bent as though it had sustained a sporting injury and his chin had a cleft to it that lent his face both authority and obstinacy. But even though he was not classically handsome, he had something else, something about him that many women might consider strikingly attractive. He was taller than average and filled his clothes well without the need to resort to the padding and buckram so many men used. His face was lean and there was a hard, watchful look in his dark eyes that had made more than one young lady of Flora’s acquaintance shiver soulfully as she commented that did not Lord Waterhouse appear just a tiny bit dangerous? Ruthless perhaps, durable most definitely…Tough in adversity, Flora thought suddenly. That was Nat Waterhouse. He was very strong. She would not care to pit her will against his and she knew of only one woman who ever had done…

She looked at him and her heart did not miss a single beat. She had once thought it unfortunate that Nat did not move her when she had been going to marry him. She had wondered idly if she was missing out on something important, consigning herself to a passionless life. Now she merely felt thankful that she had never loved him and so was spared the pain of loss. And she felt an extraordinary relief that somehow she was going to escape the dutiful marriage that she had been bred to accept.

“I should have been braver from the start,” Flora thought. “I should have acknowledged that I did not want to do as my parents wished. But now I have been given a second chance…”

Suddenly she felt very brave.

“Lord Waterhouse.” He had not spoken, so it seemed it was down to her to move matters along and make things easy for him. Flora sighed, wishing she were not quite so generous by nature. If he wanted to end their engagement it seemed only fair he should suffer a little.

“Flora.” He took her hands in his and drew her to sit beside him on the love seat. “I have something that I must ask you.” He hesitated, frowning. The expression in his eyes was so painful, so at odds with his immaculate outward appearance, that Flora felt quite shaken to see it. She had never, ever seen Nat Waterhouse display strong emotion but now he looked grim and unhappy.

She knew exactly what she had to do.

“You wish me to release you from our engagement,” she said.

Shock flared in his eyes. “How did you know?”

She freed herself from his grasp. What was she to say now? It could not be anything that remotely resembled the truth. The truth was too personal and they had never spoken of intimate things. Their relationship had been entirely superficial.

What she wanted to say was:

“ I know we cannot marry because I have always been aware that there is something between you and Lady Elizabeth Scarlet that is too powerful to be ignored, and I do not wish to play second fiddle to it for the rest of my life. I am sure she is in love with you and that you desire her in a way you never desired me…”

No indeed, the perfectly judged, beautifully behaved Miss Flora Minchin could never utter such words to her betrothed, no matter how much she knew them to be true.

“I think that we would not suit.” She smiled brightly at him. “I have thought it for a little while.”

He was looking at her as though she had taken leave of her senses, which in all probability it must seem she had. Not suit? How could they not suit when there was not sufficient emotion in their relationship for them ever to disagree on anything? How could they be anything other than perfectly matched when he had the title and she the money? He was a fortune hunter and she an heiress looking to be a countess. She knew that marriage was a business arrangement, or so her parents had told her, with their banking fortune that had bought everything they had ever wanted except, it seemed, an Earl as a son-inlaw and the prospect of a dukedom, almost the highest estate imaginable, once Nat’s father died.

Flora got to her feet and moved away from him, smoothing her immaculate skirts as she walked across the room.

“It is fortunate that you called this morning,” she said, “and that we have had the opportunity to resolve this before it was too late.”

Nat was shaking his head. He raked his hand through his hair. “I ought to explain to you—”

Flora raised a hand to stop him. This would never do. The last thing she wanted from him was that he should explain. “Please do not,” she said.

“But I cannot let you take the sole responsibility for this.” Nat sounded anguished. “It isn’t right that you should bear that.”

It was Nat Waterhouse’s tragedy, Flora thought, that he was too honorable a man to do what many other men would do in his position and cravenly accept the lifeline she was throwing him. Many a man, she was aware, would have crept out by now, abjectly grateful that she had absolved him of all responsibility.