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at St. George’s Chapel in three weeks’ time. They concurred it would be best to send them on their wedding journey rather than await Mr. Dryden’s return some year or two later.
    “Neither of them is getting any younger and I wish to see grandchildren ere I reach my dotage,” said Mrs. Dryden, in which sentiment Mrs. Higham agreed, though both were far from such an age. The two women were satisfied they had brought about the entire match themselves, in which happy illusion their children had no wish to disabuse them.
     While she sat in the drawing room some hours later with her mother and aunt, Cecilia’s stomach grumbled. The dinner hour here was later than at home, and the food fashionably delicate, if plentiful. She stacked her letters to her papa, the Partridges, and her cousin Jane, ready to be posted, and glanced out the window. Grey skies above grey buildings, ironwork and fencing imprisoned her.
    “I hope you are done writing,” her mother said from her position on one of the room’s long sofas. She and Aunt Higham plied their needles, sharp as their tongues. “You shall end with ink spots as Amelia’s Mr. Dryden.”
    “He is a respectable man,” her aunt said. “Too scholarly, true, but well matched for Amelia, who is in all aspects like her father. Unlike my Fanny, do you not agree, Leticia?”
    “Fanny is the image of you, save her raven hair. And, like you, she has secured a wealthy, agreeable gentleman.”
    “Fanny’s Mr. Borden has not the family connections Mr. Higham had, but he will do for her. His London home is spacious, for what it is, and his family’s estate rivals Partridge Place.”
    “But not as large as Lionel Hall,” her mother said. Cecilia did not turn, but her attention peaked. Lionel Hall was Mr. Thornhill’s home. Some twenty miles south of Middleton House, Cecilia had heard of its grand vistas and pleasant situation on the Thames River. But, though her uncle Higham had been friends with the Thornhills, Cecilia’s family was not. Their circle extended to the east and north, to Reddington and Oxford.
    “I give you that, sister, but he has no home in London, preferring country life. His uncle, Lord Nefton, owns a house across the Square where he stays when in town. And Mr. Thornhill’s income rivals Fanny’s Mr. Borden, for the elder Mr. Thornhill was a careful man, and the younger also inherited the fortune of his aunt, Lady Greyton.”
    Cecilia shifted in her seat. Their words seemed stilted and said all for her benefit, though if they knew her well they would know she did not care about such matters. She studied her aunt’s collection of Jasperware on the rectangular table between the front windows. How she would like to transport herself home, where she might again run about as did the white figures on the plates and vases.
    “I have not seen him in many a year,” her mother said. “What sort of man is he?”
    “Handsome enough, certainly not as stylish as Mr. Borden, but Mr. Thornhill is a robust man, well able to hold his own against any whether in the hunting field or billiard room. All that is courteous as well. Our cousin Mr. Treacle finds him proud and many a young man has tried to twist the lion’s tail, as they say, but none are bold enough to challenge Mr. Thornhill outright.”
    Cecilia rose and walked to the front window, staring across the small park in the middle of Portman Square. The trees bent in the wind, birds struggled to return to their nests. She touched her cheek, warm, unlike the glass window pane. This Mr. Thornhill might be a rough sort, as many a country gentleman was, not truly gentlemen at all.
    “I hope you have not made up Cecilia much to him,” her mother said. “I prefer to wait and survey all her options.”
    “I believe I have given him a fair assessment of her. I did assume she would be more proprietous than she used to be. As long as she holds her tongue she shall have many a suitor, I’m sure.”
    Cecilia straightened