Hattie looked at Flora with surprise. Yes, her mother had an unreasonable affinity for cats, but she had explained that to him. “He said he liked cats! He said he didn’t know what he would do in his shop without Bobo.”
Flora gave her that sympathetic smile again. “But I think it is not the same to have one cat and... How many are there now?”
Hattie swallowed. “Eight.” Or maybe...ten? Frankly, she’d lost count. And Rupert had seemed a little taken aback when he’d entered the foyer and the cats had all come running at once, collectively expecting a treat.
“There’s a bit more,” Flora said.
It turned out that Rupert also found her mother’s collection of tea services disagreeable. And the grandfather clocks. And the dress forms. Granted there were probably more than one hundred tea services, which probably wouldn’t have been quite so noticeable had it not been for the clocks and dress forms. All right, it was the truth—Theodora Woodchurch was overly enthusiastic in her collecting, and a large residence such as the Woodchurch house could be made to look small when cluttered with so many collections.
Her mother’s habits were a source of constant squabbling between her parents, because while her mother was a spendthrift, her father was a miserly king.
And apparently, though Hattie had been so pleased that her father had not asked how little Mr. Masterson would accept in a dowry, she’d missed what terrible taste it was that her father should ask how much profit Mr. Masterson turned every month. According to Flora, Mr. Masterson had been dismayed by it, had thought perhaps such conversations were better had between men in the privacy of a study. Not at the dinner table.
In Hattie’s family, no topic was considered impolite at the dining table. None.
Her sudden heartbreak began to turn to sudden anger. She and Rupert had never shared a cross word—she had no idea he felt so strongly about such things. She knew her family was unusual, but she’d explained it to him, and he’d assured her that eccentricity in families made life more interesting.
Furthermore, she was humiliated that he had shared all these opinions with Flora. Flora was her friend! Even worse, Flora had clearly shared his opinions with Queenie.
Hattie squared her shoulders in search of a tiny bit of dignity. “Is there more? Or is the fact that my mother has too many cats and teapots—”
“He did mention your brothers,” Flora interjected.
Oh no. “Which ones?”
Flora blinked. “All of them,” she said, as if that could even be a question.
Hattie’s heart sank. That was it, then.
“He said the younger ones argued loudly about a particular cut of meat at the dining table.” Her brows rose, as if she couldn’t believe this was possibly true.
It was not only possible, it was a regular occurrence. The twins, Peter and Perry, ten years younger than Hattie, were, for lack of a better word, uncivilized. They thought nothing of wrestling in the main salon or using their cricket sticks to chase each other about. “Leave your brothers be,” her mother had said when Hattie complained about their rambunctiousness. “They’re children yet.” But they were nearly fourteen years old, certainly old enough to exhibit proper manners. Certainly old enough not to argue over a turkey leg like two medieval warlords.
The heat was spreading to her cheeks.
“And your brother Mr. Daniel Woodchurch.” Flora glanced uneasily toward Queenie, who was standing to the side, under a tree, patiently waiting. She whispered quickly, “I wouldn’t say it if you weren’t my dearest friend in all the world, you know I wouldn’t, but his rakish reputation precedes him! Mr. Masterson said he sauntered in quite late to dinner, and who could say where he’d been, but that he smelled like perfume and whisky, and then your brother went on to say he couldn’t imagine the hours one must devote to the operation of a dry goods store and didn’t see why one would want to do it.”
Hattie was feeling a little nauseated. Her brothers were ridiculous, she would not deny it. But she was beginning to wonder if Rupert wasn’t even more ridiculous. He didn’t have the courage to say these things to her face.
She knew better than anyone that her family was hard to understand. But she’d been very honest with Rupert about them. She’d told him the twins were wild, and Daniel wilder in a different sort of way. She’d told him that her mother had a habit of collecting things and her father was very tight with his purse. And really, wasn’t the important thing that she wasn’t any of those things?
“Are you all right?” Flora asked. “You’ve lost all your color and look as if you might be ill.”
“I feel as if I might,” Hattie weakly agreed. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d already planned her trousseau.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, and I said to Mr. Masterson that surely there was a way he could convey this to you himself, but he insisted he’d not give even the slightest illusion of scandal where you were concerned, as he holds you in the highest esteem.”
Hattie choked on a sob.
“We really should be going,” Queenie called from her place beneath the tree.
Flora smiled sadly at Hattie. “When you’ve had a moment to think, you’ll see that this isn’t really such a loss. I know that Mr. Masterson has been very attentive to you. But he is a merchant, darling.”
Hattie choked on another sob. She didn’t care what he was. She esteemed him, and she was not in a position in life to demand that a gentleman have a certain occupation. She wasn’t pretty like Flora, or rich like Queenie, or accomplished or well-connected. She considered herself lucky that Rupert had even noticed her the day she’d entered his shop.
“What I mean is, you’re too good for a merchant. You should marry a duke!”
“Flora—”
“Come on, now,” Flora said, sounding a bit impatient. “You’ll write your letter crying off the engagement, then buy a new frock or two for the Season.”
A new frock? Surely Flora had noticed she wore the same gowns over and over.
“Shouldn’t we carry on now?” Queenie asked impatiently.
“Buck up, love,” Flora said to Hattie and smiled. “We’ll attend all the Season’s parties and have a look at the Santiavan duke. Won’t that cheer you up?”
“No,” Hattie said, appalled at how easily Flora could brush off the end of her engagement.
And what did she have to do with a Santiavan duke, anyway?
CHAPTER TWO
THERE WERE TOO many people in London.
There were too many people in his house.