according to their wishes, Richard had found a well-born family to raise her during holidays and guide her successfully through her debut.
And she had succeeded. She had! For her parents’ sake as much as her own, she had tried her best and triumphed in every way.
Every way but one.
A choked laugh escaped her. Only one matter remained outside of her control. And Thomas had seemed such a safe choice for it! So gentlemanly, so reliable, so . . . desperate. Oh, the monster! The sight of him bounding away from the altar was stuck in her head; in her half-sleep, it had unfolded over and over, as taunting as a snippet from some irksome song. He loved her, did he? She’d prayed it to be true, but had feared that he loved her fortune better. And in the end—how odd!—neither idea had proved right.
Three million pounds he had left at that altar! It was beyond a fortune. And he was dead broke ! What else could he want from a woman?
It was very difficult not to believe that something was wrong with her.
Some flicker of movement caught her attention. She realized it had been her own reflection in the looking glass, as she’d shoved her fist against her mouth. Why, she looked like a madwoman—chignon collapsing, eyes wide and crazed, her simple green morning dress rumpled beyond repair.
She lowered her fist, exhaled, and forced her attention back to the letter.
Of course, I do not need to mention your kindness. Your benevolence to the orphanages is legendary; you are a bosom friend to all who have the good fortune to know you. The entire town praises your chaste, moral rectitude and your unshakable good temper. Even the wicked columnists in the newspapers can find no wrong in you.
A wild feeling tightened her throat. Yes, any number of anonymous journalists had testified in print that she was a paragon. How would they describe her now? Not only “dreadfully disappointed by the treacherous Lord T——,” but also “abominably abused by the perfidious Lord P——.” They would run out of ink for her, maybe. Or adjectives.
But no, of course they wouldn’t. Pitiable : that was the word they would use. It was the next step up from beleaguered; it conjured a more permanent condition. One broken engagement was shocking. Two spelled damaged goods.
She pushed the letter to the floor. Anonymously penned—what did it signify? It was only another piece of cowardice from another penniless blackguard.
Men! All of them, spineless.
Springing to her feet, she began to pace. Well, she had no use for spineless curs. In fact, she pitied the poor girl who purchased Thomas. That girl would not get value for her money! When Gwen thought of all the objections she had swallowed during their courtship—his habit of leering at ladies’ bosoms, which Elma had persuaded her was natural for a man; his execrable fondness for bad puns, which she’d told herself she found charming; his taste for gambling, although the roof on his country estate had fallen in for lack of funds to repair it; his snobbery toward the lower classes, as if her parents hadn’t once belonged to them—why, she felt quite lucky that he’d jilted her!
She came to a stop. How astonished he would be to learn that. He probably imagined her prostrate with grief, wailing and rending her hair. As if he were such a prize to lose! A man who bolted from church like a rat from the light!
Perhaps she should inform him of this. Yes, what a brilliant idea! She could write him this very instant, chronicling the many reasons she was so glad not to be wed to him.
She threw herself down at the writing table.
You fancied yourself a fine dancer, but you stepped on my feet at every turn.
The scratch of pen across the paper sounded pleasingly violent.
Your breath so often reeked of onions that I wondered if you ate aught else.
She did not think her handwriting had ever slanted so boldly!
I nearly gagged every time you kissed me. In fact, I think you the worst kisser I have ever
Constance Fenimore Woolson