Autobiographical fiction; England -- Fiction; Feminist fiction; Governesses -- Fiction; Single women -- Fiction
The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between that and the
critical ball was little more than six weeks; but, with Rosalie’s
accomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might be done, even
within that period; especially as Sir Thomas spent most of the interim
in London; whither he went up, it was said, to settle affairs with his
lawyer, and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. He
endeavoured to supply the want of his presence by a pretty constant
fire of billets-doux; but these did not attract the neighbours’
attention, and open their eyes, as personal visits would have done; and
old Lady Ashby’s haughty, sour spirit of reserve withheld her from
spreading the news, while her indifferent health prevented her coming
to visit her future daughter-in-law; so that, altogether, this affair
was kept far closer than such things usually are.
Rosalie would sometimes show her lover’s epistles to me, to convince me
what a kind, devoted husband he would make. She showed me the letters
of another individual, too, the unfortunate Mr. Green, who had not the
courage, or, as she expressed it, the “spunk,” to plead his cause in
person, but whom one denial would not satisfy: he must write again and
again. He would not have done so if he could have seen the grimaces his
fair idol made over his moving appeals to her feelings, and heard her
scornful laughter, and the opprobrious epithets she heaped upon him for
his perseverance.
“Why don’t you tell him, at once, that you are engaged?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t want him to know that,” replied she. “If he knew it, his
sisters and everybody would know it, and then there would be an end of
my—ahem! And, besides, if I told him that, he would think my engagement
was the only obstacle, and that I would have him if I were free; which
I could not bear that any man should think, and he, of all others, at
least. Besides, I don’t care for his letters,” she added,
contemptuously; “he may write as often as he pleases, and look as great
a calf as he likes when I meet him; it only amuses me.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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