‘Icarus,’ Cecily chipped in vaguely – whether in agreement or simply to lend some intellectual colour to the conversation, it was unclear.
‘Who are they?’ Kitty asked, still staring upward. The temptation to gossip quickly overcame Dorothy’s disapproval.
‘The de Lacys,’ she said, leaning in. ‘The Dowager Countess Lady Radcliffe and her two youngest, Mr Archibald de Lacy and the Lady Amelia de Lacy. The whole family is as rich as kings. Of course, it’s the eldest son, the Earl of Radcliffe, who has the lion’s share, but the two younger ones will receive a handsome fortune each, too – at least eight thousand a year, by my estimation. Expected to make fabulous matches, the lot of them.’
She leant back in her seat as the performance started, but even as the audience began to gasp and laugh, Kitty could not take her eyes from the de Lacys. What must it be like, to know from birth that your future was an assuredly safe and happy one? To tower over the rest of society, in that exclusive box? They looked as though they belonged there, Kitty could admit, high above. Could there ever have been a world in which she herself might have belonged up there with them? Her father had been born a gentleman, after all, and before his marriage would have mixed with lords and ladies such as them without thinking. Had events unravelled a little differently … Kitty felt a nonsensical pang of jealousy for this alternate version of herself, who might have shared a set with the golden de Lacy family. It was not until Aunt Dorothy nudged her with her elbow that Kitty finally looked away.
At the interval, Kitty and Cecily were kept busy by their aunt, who introduced them to all manner of men and women, wealthy merchants and their sons, daughters and wives, lawyers, military men dressed in dashing colours and the prettily dressed women on their arms. It was more people in one night than Kitty had met in her life to date, and she could not help but feel a little daunted – as if she were again a girl of fifteen, approaching the Linfield manor for her very first evening soirée and feeling terribly frightened of doing something wrong. She remembered her mother whispering reassurances into her ear that night, the scent of her rosewater perfume tickling her nose. Eyes and ears, my darling, she had said. Watch and listen and do as they do, it is not so hard.
Kitty took in a breath so deep that she fancied she could almost detect that rosewater scent upon the air, mustered her courage, and set herself out to impress. As one would mould a hat to suit a fashion, she moulded herself to suit her conversational partner: to the men who fancied themselves great wits, she provided a ready laugh, to the vain she was admiring, and to the shy she smiled often and spoke more. Dorothy was in transports on the return home.
‘Mr Melbury, now he’s one thousand a year,’ she relayed to them in the carriage, ‘Mr Wilcox looked quite taken with Cecily, and—’
‘And we agreed Cecily is not here to make a match,’ Kitty interjected. Beside her, Cecily’s shoulders relaxed once more.
‘Fine, fine.’ Aunt Dorothy waved a dismissive hand. ‘Mr Pears was a little harder to read, but he has a lovely shipping fortune of two thousand a year coming his way upon his father’s death. And Mr Cleaver—’
‘Are there any men of your acquaintance who value more than two thousand a year?’ Kitty interrupted again.
‘More than two thousand a year?’ her aunt asked. ‘What on earth were you expecting, my child?’
‘Mr Linfield had a fortune of four thousand a year,’ Kitty said, her brow wrinkling.
‘Four?’ her aunt repeated incredulously. ‘Goodness me, the Squire must have done very well for himself. But you cannot expect such a miracle to be repeated, my dears. One would be hard pressed to have such a fortune without land, my darling, and you won’t find many landed gentlemen in my circles.’
Kitty digested this unpleasant news. She had known Mr Linfield was wealthy, wealthy enough that paying off their considerable debts would be no issue – but she had assumed they would be able to find many more of his kind in London.
‘I should not expect to encounter men of equivalent fortune?’ Kitty clarified, stomach clenching unpleasantly.
‘Not in my set,’ Aunt Dorothy laughed.
Kitty felt hot and foolish. She yearned to be back at Wimpole Street again, so that she might have ink and paper to sit down with the numbers calmly. Would two thousand a year suit, when she had her sisters to support and eventually dower too? Was it enough?
‘How much debt do you have?’ Dorothy asked, shrewdly.