A Suitable Marriage

by Muriel Bolger

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

The youngest daughter of Lord Kensley-Balfe, a wealthy landowner from the West of Ireland, Delia is privileged and beautiful. Cossetted by her parents, her older sister Mona and her brother Clement, she lives a sheltered life, her days punctuated by lessons with her governess and horse rides through the wild Irish countryside. But then an enigmatic American arrives in Ireland searching for his ancestral roots and all of a sudden, the path Delia once took as certain, seems less clear to her. As the family prepare for Mona's debut into London society and Clement returns from India with his fiancée Lady Elizabeth Stokes to prepare for his upcoming wedding, Delia has some decisions to make. Will she choose the love of a man she barely knows, risking disgrace and exclusion from her family? Only Delia can decide if she has the courage to become the woman she was meant to be. Moving from Mayo to London to New York and Newport, A Suitable Marriage is a sweeping tale of love, desire and family loyalty.

Release date: August 6, 2020

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 294

Sample

Mayo 1886

‘Il neigeait, nei-ge-ait – it’s soft,’ corrected Mademoiselle Corneille. ‘Nei-ge-ait, like the sound of the snow itself falling. There’s nothing sharp about it. Try it again, Delia.’

‘Il neigeait,’ Delia began and the governess nodded her approval.

‘Bon. Continuez.’

Outside it was snowing. Not anything on the scale of the blizzards that confounded Napoleon in Hugo’s poem that the sisters were studying, but enough to change the landscape that had greeted them that morning. They had woken up to a strangely silent and white world. From the upstairs windows all the sharp edges had been obliterated. An alien yet strangely familiar vista of muted shapes and curious curves spread out before them.

The schoolroom was warm, if they positioned themselves between the heavy tapestry screen and the fire. When they sat too close to it, Mademoiselle warned them about getting their faces burned and ruining their complexions forever. But despite the fire blazing in the hearth, the rest of the room was arctic and the tall sash windows let in draughts that whistled and groaned when the winds blew in from the Atlantic. And they were doing that with some force this morning.

‘Now it’s your turn, Mona. Continuez, s’il vous plait,’ Mademoiselle said, pulling her shawl tighter around her.

The older sister began. ‘Il neigeait. L’âpre hiver fondait en avalanche. Après la plaine blanche une autre plaine blanche.’

‘Non. Soft, I said, soft, Mona,’ Mademoiselle repeated. ‘Blanche – let it just fade off your tongue, b-l-a-n-c-h-e, the way Delia did it.’

‘I don’t see why I have to learn this.’

‘Because French is the language of the court and of educated young ladies, that’s why,’ their tutor answered.

‘I accept that, but sordid poetry about battles, and horses dying in the snow, and soldiers hiding in their dead bellies. They’re hardly topics I’ll be discussing at soirées and dinner parties in society drawing rooms,’ Mona protested.

‘You never know, sister dear. You might marry a military man and, if you do, then you’ll be able to impress his generals and superiors with such gems,’ Delia said, enjoying the chance to tease her sibling.

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Mona snapped, ‘and I certainly hope that my future holds a bit more excitement than those prospects.’

‘Miss Mona, should you end up being married to a general, you’ll thank me for making you persevere. If you applied yourself more, you would find it a little easier. Your sister is no brighter. She just gives her studies a little more attention. I can see your mind is wandering again, so let us finish this lesson by reading through “l’Expiation” from the beginning,’ Mademoiselle said. ‘And remember, we’ll revise the subjunctive clauses tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh joy!’ laughed Delia looking at her sister’s pained expression. A few seconds later the lunch gong sounded and she sighed. She would rather be hacking or hunting out of doors any day than being cooped up inside. She enjoyed nothing more than being free to go riding every morning with Mona.

When he was in Ireland, their brother, Clement, often joined them. Delia envied him. He was currently serving in India with his cavalry regiment, and his letters home, infrequent as they were, made her envious. He painted images of unimaginable pageantry and colour, of exotic foods and strange customs, of animals whose names she had only read. The letters he sent to her and her sister didn’t dwell on the military operations or the brutality of the Burmese conflict. Instead, they focused on the society in which he mixed when not on duty. And it certainly seemed to be glittering.

His latest correspondence had assured them that he was still alive and uninjured, but it also contained some news that had sent them into a tizzy of speculation. He announced that he’d recently become engaged – to Lady Elizabeth Stokes, whose father was a high-ranking official, an advisor to the viceroy of India.

They’d have to wait until he returned on leave in a few months to meet the young lady, whom he described as ‘charming and cultured and very affable’. She would be accompanied by her mother and a distant cousin, who would chaperone Lady Elizabeth on the journey back to England.

‘And she has two unmarried older brothers, both serving in India too,’ their mother had informed them gleefully, when they first heard of the betrothal.

‘Perhaps I could marry one of those instead of doing the season as a debutante,’ Mona had said. ‘I’m nervous at the thought of all those balls and parties and the beaux! What if they don’t like me or take no notice of me?’

‘That won’t happen. You’ll turn heads anywhere you go,’ her mother said.

‘I wouldn’t worry about things like that,’ Delia told her.

‘Well, I do. I’m apprehensive at the thoughts of someone I don’t even know yet wanting to marry me before the year is out. He might turn out to be horrible, and I mightn’t even love him.’

‘Oh, Mona,’ her mother said. ‘Marriage is about more than a romantic ideal of love. You’ll see as you go through life. Love is a bonus – it’s not always guaranteed in marriage.’

‘But you love Papa, don’t you?’ Delia said.

‘Indeed I do. But that doesn’t solve everything. You have to work at relationships. Life isn’t always easy.’

‘Well, I hope you find somebody nice, Mona,’ Delia told her sister. ‘Somebody that I’ll like too.’

‘So do I,’ she had replied.

The Kensley-Balfe sisters were very beautiful. They had taken after their mother in stature – on the tall side, but not tall enough to look awkward or unfeminine. Mona was fair with grey eyes and a dusting of freckles on her nose. Delia’s auburn hair gleamed with highlights when caught by the sun. Her eyes were hazel, the sort that changed colour, appearing to be green at times, at others soft brown.

The girls lunched together in the morning room with Mademoiselle. They would join their parents for dinner in the evenings. When it was just the immediate family it was cosier to eat in there too, rather than in the cavernous dining room, which needed the warmth of more than the countless candles reflecting in the cut glass and silver to make it welcoming.

‘I was told to remind you that you have a fitting this afternoon, Miss Mona,’ Annie said when the soup had been served.

‘I’m not allowed to ride in case I get a chill, and now you’ve reminded me that the dressmaker is expected this afternoon and I’ll have to stand shivering for hours while she fits me.’

‘Sure, your mother had it all organised before the snow. She’s sending the carriage for her,’ Annie replied.

‘You know Mama,’ said Delia, ‘she’s only making sure your frocks and frills will be the envy of the other debutantes.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Mona said. ‘And there’s no need to gloat – you’ll be doing all this when it’s your turn next year. We’ll see how you like it then.’

Mona’s coming out was getting close – she’d turn eighteen in the spring, with Delia following just a year and a half behind. Lady Leonora Kensley-Balfe was already in a flurry. She had been making lists for months now. She knew her girls were handsome and engaging, and that they were growing up. She had ensured they were schooled and groomed to the standards required for them to be accepted in society as well-finished young ladies.

And now there was the added stress of making sure they’d create a good impression on their future daughter-in-law’s family when they arrived. The Stokes were high born, as were they.

She’d already engaged the services of dressmakers, one in Ireland, the other in London, who were both busy sewing gowns. When Delia had asked if she could have some new dresses too, she was told, ‘You’ll have your chance next year.’

Making sure her daughter would be properly attired to impress was only one element. Attracting a suitor for her, one who would be deemed suitable to all, was the other. It was a mission she undertook with the precision of planning a military operation. Her husband had teased that she’d have made a good army officer.

‘You’ve no idea what’s involved,’ she’d told him.

‘Perhaps not, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’

‘Mona will need a wardrobe for every eventuality – for day wear and evening wear, for the theatre and for horse riding, for carriage rides in the park and for the endless round of afternoon teas and tennis parties, where she’ll be vetted by prospective mothers-in-law as to her suitability to snare one of their sons.’

‘Did we do all that?’

‘Oh, Peter, you are impossible. Of course we did.’

And he just laughed.

Lord and Lady Kensley-Balfe didn’t keep a house in London any more. They rented one for the season each year, but because they had two girls to launch into society in the coming two years, they had taken a five-year lease on an elegant townhouse overlooking a park in one of London’s most fashionable neighbourhoods. One where they could be seen as they went about their pursuits of riding, strolling and driving, while allowing them to keep an eye on others doing the very same things.

Later, the girls were summoned to the study by Annie.

‘The study?’ asked Mona.

‘Yes, the study. It was the housekeeper’s idea. Mrs Murphy suggested to Her Ladyship that it would be warmer to do the fittings in there. Sure, you’d get your end from the cold standing in your chemise up here while Lizzie Coveney pins and tucks.’

‘Good old Mrs Murphy. She has the right idea.’

‘You don’t have to come,’ Mona told her sister.

‘But I want to,’ Delia said.

‘Please yourself,’ she replied.

Delia always enjoyed watching the process and marvelled at the speed with which a dress could be sewn. Odd-shaped pieces of fabric seemed to magically join together to create clothes designed to flatter or be functional as the need arose. From a very early age she had persevered with the needle. Mrs Murphy delighted in having such a willing helper, and she showed Delia how she meticulously darned snags and candle burns in the linen wear, making them disappear altogether. She also showed her how to sew on buttons and make clothes for her rag doll from scraps of material, while Mona concentrated on embroidering samplers.

‘Aren’t you even the tiniest bit excited about being presented to the queen?’ Delia asked. ‘Having the chance to wear all that fancy finery and to go dancing all night, and to be back in London again. Imagine having men fighting over you, maybe even having a duel for your hand. Wouldn’t that be romantic?’

‘Of course I am. And I am looking forward to being back in London. But I doubt if anyone would want to duel over me. I think that’s illegal now anyway. I just hate having to stand for hours while I’m being told to hold still or hold up my arm or turn around while the hem is pinned,’ she said. ‘But I suppose we couldn’t have gone riding in the snow anyway.’

‘Come on, let’s see what Lizzie Coveney has brought for you to try on today.’

Before they had come back to Ireland for Christmas the girls had accompanied their mother to the haberdasher’s in London. Lady Kensley-Balfe kept a keen eye on the latest fashions to arrive from Paris and had these copied or modified to suit her taste. And they were always accessorised with hats from a Parisian milliner and the softest kid or velvet gloves from Milan. Her shoes were bespoke too, crafted in London.

Usually she made these trips on her own, but on this occasion she had told her daughters, ‘It’s time you learned about these things too. I won’t always be around to advise you.’

An acquaintance of Lady Kensley-Balfe’s had recommended they visit a newly opened emporium that was causing a sensation among the ladies in the city. It was called Liberty. Apart from its intriguing array of luxury goods from India and Japan, it offered bundles and bolts of muslins from the Orient and luxurious fabrics with exotic-sounding names like Nagpur and tussore silk. Delia loved the distinctive smell of the newly milled fabrics. Her mother had chosen several to take back to Ireland with them. The others were left with the dressmaker in London. Now they were about to see how they looked and fitted.

The women crowded in to the study. When Mona tried on the turquoise silk that Lizzie Coveney had been working on, they all exclaimed at the way it draped and held the gathers, making it both demure and alluring at the same time.

‘You’ve turned that into a beautiful gown, Mrs Coveney.’

‘Sure, it was a dream to work on. It’s much heavier than the silk from China,’ the dressmaker replied.

‘It does feel good and the colour’s perfect on you, with your grey eyes and blond tresses,’ her mother said, as Mona stood on a chair for the dressmaker to pin the hem.

Lizzie Coveney sighed with relief. Fittings didn’t always go so well and Lady Leonora was a demanding client when it came to detail.

‘Now let’s see the bronze-coloured one on you. It’s raw silk and if it sits as well as this one, I can have them both finished by Friday – if the snow doesn’t get any worse.’

Lady Kensley-Balfe said, ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t. We were hoping to go across to London early next week. There’s so much to be done.’

‘Will you be wanting me to come over with you this time?’ the housekeeper asked.

‘No, Mrs Murphy. You can stay here with Delia. We’ll only be gone for a week or so.’

‘Thank goodness for that. I really hate the mail-boat crossing, especially in weather like this,’ Delia said, remembering all the times she’d been seasick.

‘You can come with us at Easter,’ her mother promised.

There was a knock on door and, before Lady Kensley-Balfe could answer, Mrs Murphy shouted, ‘Wait a minute. Don’t come in. That’ll be Tommy,’ she explained. ‘He’ll not be expecting to see Miss Mona half-dressed like that.’ She shooed Mona out into the freezing adjoining room, thrusting the clothes she had been wearing into her arms. ‘And you, Lizzie, you’d better be going with Tommy or you’ll never make it back in this weather. And he won’t want to be late meeting the train with His Lordship on it.’

The icy winds blew and the snow stayed for the best part of a week before melting. By then everyone was suffering from cabin fever, as Lady Kensley-Balfe was determined that they would not fall victim to colds and chills and only sanctioned a short walk each day ‘to change the air’ in their lungs.

Nothing was going to get in the way of her elder girl’s coming out.

The house seemed very quiet when the family had decamped for London. Delia continued her routine of lessons each day with Mademoiselle Corneille and took her meals in the big kitchen with Cook, Mrs Murphy, Annie, Tommy and other members of the household.

She loved times like this, listening to the local gossip and the banter between the staff, some of whose families had lived on the land for generations. They knew everything that everyone was doing and they all seemed to be related to each other. This inevitably led to conversations about what had happened to people who had lived thereabouts.

‘Sure, if we didn’t lose our folk to hunger or famine fever, we lost them to America and Canada. Once those unfortunates left these shores, if they were lucky enough to survive the journey, they never came back again. And for so many there wasn’t anything to come back to. They were evicted to the side of the road, to be taken into the workhouses or to eat grass like common animals,’ Mrs Murphy told them.

‘I don’t understand why no one helped them?’

‘Many tried, but it was too much,’ Mrs Murphy explained. ‘As I often told you, there were some people, like your grandfather, set up soup kitchens and gave them work. Some imported cheap India meal to help feed them. But there were others, unscrupulous ones, who looked on the disaster as a way of clearing their lands of peasants.’

‘That’s shocking,’ Delia said.

‘You shouldn’t be filling the girl’s head with horror stories like that,’ Tommy told Mrs Murphy.

‘It’s life, and she’s old enough now to hear it.’

‘I’m not sure Her Ladyship would agree with you.’

‘Ignoring it won’t make it go away,’ Mrs Murphy answered. ‘It might be forty years, but the horror is still fresh in the memories of many.’ She sat staring at her plate, as though her mind was elsewhere. No one said anything for a bit.

Delia knew that Mrs Murphy’s whole family had perished in the local workhouse. She also knew that it was thanks to a Church of Ireland curate that she had survived and come to work at Kensley Park. Whenever she told this story to Mona and Delia, Mrs Murphy prefixed his name with ‘that sainted man’. And she’d add, ‘it didn’t matter to him whether we were Protestant or Catholic, we were all people who needed help.’

‘How old were you then?’ Delia asked.

‘I can’t be sure, nine or ten. Birthdays didn’t mean much to us and there was no one to tell me. I’m not even sure what month I was born in.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘No, Miss Delia, I’ll tell you what was terrible. What was terrible was the way some landlords treated their workers and tenants. You might have heard of Major Dennis Mahon,’ she said, not stopping for any comment. Tommy and Annie nodded in agreement. ‘He was a bad one, even though I shouldn’t be speaking ill of the dead. His estate was in Strokestown, in Roscommon, and it’s said he evicted about one thousand five hundred families off it, burning their cabins after them so that neither they, nor anyone else, could live there again.’

‘What happened to him?’ Delia asked.

‘His tenants revolted and, may God forgive me for saying it, and far be it from me to condone murder, but it was what he deserved. He got his comeuppance if you ask me.’

Delia was thinking of the derelict cottages just outside the boundary walls of Kensley Park. She and Mona had often played in them, pretending they were peasants and using twigs and their rag dolls to represent the large families they believed had once lived there. When their mother had found out where they had been, she chastised the governess and forbade them to go there again.

Now Delia wondered what had become of the cottages’ occupants.

The snow had melted completely, and the following morning she went riding alone, despite promising her mother that she wouldn’t do so. The grooms were busy and there was no sign of Tommy. Riding since she was about eight, she was very comfortable around horses and saddled the mount herself. She missed Mona and realised she’d have to get used to being on her own when her sister was launched into society.

She kept to the bridle paths and along the back road. It led by the ruins where she and Mona had played. This deserted cluster was one of several dotted at the edges of fields outside the family estate. What remained of the thatch was a sorry sight, sagging and sodden. The roofs had collapsed completely. The stone and lime walls had disintegrated in parts and fallen inwards too. The half-door and the timber from the tiny window frames had long been stripped and used for firewood. As she approached, two rocks came flying out of one of the window apertures, startling her and her horse. He whinnied loudly and reared up, unseating her and throwing her to the ground. A young man rushed out from the ruins.

‘Oh my God, are you hurt? I’m so sorry. I had no idea anyone would be using the path. Here, let me help you up.’

She was unsure of the man, but she knew she couldn’t do it on her own. She had felt something stretch as she fell and she could feel pain in her ankle.

‘Sit down here on the grass and I’ll get some help. You can’t get back on your horse like that.’

‘I could if you would help me back in the saddle. I live in the estate just behind that wall.’

‘I’m not sure about getting back on your horse. You could do yourself more harm.’

She went to loosen her riding boot but he stopped her. ‘Don’t do that. It’ll lend support until I get help.’ Kneeling down beside her, he said, ‘May I?’ before running his hand over her booted foot. ‘It feels swollen already. I think you’ll need the doctor to examine it – let me go and fetch him.’

‘Or you could ride my horse up to the house and ask the housekeeper or the groom to send the carriage down for me?’

‘That’s a much better idea. I’m Hugh Dunne,’ he said, extending his hand to her, ‘and I really am sorry for frightening you. It was never my intention.’

‘Miss Kensley-Balfe,’ she replied. ‘And just what do you think you were doing hurtling rocks about like that?’

‘I was having a look around the ruins to see if they could be restored,’ he said, in an accent that wasn’t familiar to her. It sounded Irish, yet there was something else there too. ‘My family used to live somewhere around here a long time ago. They’re gone now, but I grew up hearing about this place, and I made a promise to them that I’d come back one day and see it for myself.’

‘It looks pretty much past its best to me.’

‘I was thinking the same thing myself. Look, you’re shaking.’ He took off his greatcoat and put it over her knees. ‘I’m going to ride up to the house right away and get help. Will you be all right on your own here for a bit?’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you. It’s not far – there’s a disused gate and once you reach that you’ll see the back entrance to the estate further on.’

‘I don’t deserve thanks for causing your injury. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

She looked after him as he rode away. Who was he and where had he came from?

It was a little while before she heard the sound of hooves returning and saw him leading the posse. He was followed by one of the stable boys on horseback, with Tommy driving the carriage and Mrs Murphy’s head sticking out of the window.

A few hours later, after the family physician, Doctor Canavan, had come from the village and confirmed that her ankle was not broken but badly sprained, she was sitting in the warmth of the kitchen with her bandaged foot elevated on a stool. She hadn’t noticed Mr Dunne disappear in all the fuss.

Mrs Murphy had reigned supreme over the kitchen, and when the copper pots and large joints became too heavy for her to lift, Cook had been engaged. She still made jams and bread and cooked when the family was away, and to everyone this space remained ‘Mrs Murphy’s kitchen’.

‘Your mother will kill me when she hears about this,’ she said, putting a cup of tea down beside Delia, ‘and you out there on your own with a total stranger. God knows what could have happened.’

‘Oh, Mrs Murphy, no harm came to me, and he was really kind and considerate.’

‘He was, but you shouldn’t have been out riding in the first place. Just imagine what might have occurred had he not been there.’

Delia didn’t tell her that if he hadn’t been there her horse wouldn’t have bolted.

He’d said he’d made a promise that he’d come back – but back from where? Was he an American? She hadn’t asked. And who did he promise? The chance to ask the stranger with the kind eyes and the gentle touch any questions had gone. And the more she pondered these things, the more she regretted not finding out more.

‘He said his family were from hereabouts once. Their name is Dunne. Would you have known them?’ She asked Mrs Murphy.

‘Sure child, every second family is Dunne around here and that’s a long time ago.’ She replied. Normally she’d have have been the one ferreting all that information from the unsuspecting man, without his even being aware of it, but she had been in such a state over allowing her charge to go off on her own, never mind possibly having a broken ankle, that it hadn’t occurred to her to be curious about him.

In London, Lord and Lady Kensley-Balfe were in demand, attending race meetings, balls and theatre events. Although the season began in January, the debutantes usually made their first appearance ‘out’ in society around Easter or at Queen Charlotte’s birthday ball, a tradition that had gone on for years. Mona was becoming more excited at the thoughts of being presented to Queen Victoria and other members of society.

It was commonly acknowledged that this was the golden moment to make an impression. Anxious mamas would look on, hoping their girls would attract the right sort of suitor. That usually meant one with adequate means, enough to support a sizeable estate and keep a decent stable. A title was considered an added advantage, as was being the first-born male, as he’d inherit the family fortune.

Lady Kensley-Balfe was well versed in who fitted into each and all of these categories. She had done her own investigations and, secure in the knowledge that Mona was going to make a favourable impression, had earmarked a few ‘possibles’ to head the guest list when they gave their own ball. Calling and At Home cards had been printed with their London address, and the wording for their invitations to various events decided upon, before she and her husband returned to Kensley Park with their daughter.

No one had informed them of Delia’s mishap, and when they returned the ankle was much improved, although Delia was still ordered to keep it up and strapped.

‘I needn’t have fretted so much,’ she told Mrs Murphy that evening. ‘I don’t think Mama realised I had broken my promise and that I had gone out alone. She’s too focused on the business of Mona’s season to think of anything else. She just asked if it was still sore and told me to rest it. Papa was more concerned and said he was going to instruct Tommy that one of the grooms will have to go along with me in future.’

‘You were lucky then, missy. But let’s not have any repeat performances, or you’ll have me to deal with,’ Mrs Murphy said, wagging her finger at her.

‘I promise.’

That night Delia told Mona what had happened, mentioning the mysterious Mr Hugh Dunne.

‘You are such a dreamer,’ Mona replied. ‘Only you could make a chance encounter like that sound romantic. It’s like something in the penny dreadfuls that Annie reads, where you have to wait for a week to find out what happens next. “And then he vanished, never to be seen again. To be continued …” And don’t tell Mama I’ve been reading those. You know how she feels about that sort of thing.’

Delia laughed. Mona was right. It was like something that would happen in a story. If she hadn’t seen the evidence with her own eyes, she could think she’d imagined the whole epis. . .