The short version? He was dead and she was glad. However there was so so much more to it than that. The Countess of Cranford mounted the carriage steps, swathed in black crepe and thankful for the full length black veil that served to hide her smile…
Her parents were many things: brilliant, driven, ingenious and now one of the wealthiest families in America. But there were many things they were not, chief among them being the “right” kind of people. Her parents were first generation immigrants, who had risen to power and wealth in one generation. They longed to legitimize their existence by gaining entreé into the upper echelons of society, but not being able to trace their family’s lineage any further back than a few decades meant they would never rise any higher on the social ladder. Ever enterprising, her father had devised an ingenious plan, and had packed she and her sisters off to London for the Season. What her father knew was that, with a Countess, Duchess or Marchioness as a daughter, American society would be forced to acknowledge them. And while the Earls, Dukes and Marquess of England had titles, many now had no money. House and land rich, cash poor. Her father was cash rich, and so to him, there was a bargain to be made.
At first, she’d been amendable to the idea. She could imagine a lovely blonde-haired, blue-eyed heir apparent who would sweep her off her feet and bestow on her a tiara and a title.
Instead, she’d been faced with geriatric lechers with bald heads and rheumy eyes. When they had taken her in their arms to waltz their breath had smelled of death, and bony hands had groped.
By the end of the season she’d been bought and sold, and was presented to the Queen as the new Countess. By fall, she was a widow. Funny how that can happen. Her family was ingenious, after all.
And now, she was forced into a year of deep mourning. She’d wear black crepe, no jewels, and veils at varying lengths. To anyone observing her, she’d be the perfect grieving widow. But underneath, she was rejoicing, and underneath her plain, black, somber attire she was wearing her joy. Each petticoat and pantalette trimmed in ribbons, bows and lace. Cutwork and embroidery, pintucks and flowers. An absolute explosion of joy, hidden away until the time was right. And until then, happiness hidden behind a veil…
The short version? He was dead and she was glad. However there was so so much more to it than that. The Countess of Cranford mounted the carriage steps, swathed in black crepe and thankful for the full length black veil that served to hide her smile…
Her parents were many things: brilliant, driven, ingenious and now one of the wealthiest families in America. But there were many things they were not, chief among them being the “right” kind of people. Her parents were first generation immigrants, who had risen to power and wealth in one generation. They longed to legitimize their existence by gaining entreé into the upper echelons of society, but not being able to trace their family’s lineage any further back than a few decades meant they would never rise any higher on the social ladder. Ever enterprising, her father had devised an ingenious plan, and had packed she and her sisters off to London for the Season. What her father knew was that, with a Countess, Duchess or Marchioness as a daughter, American society would be forced to acknowledge them. And while the Earls, Dukes and Marquess of England had titles, many now had no money. House and land rich, cash poor. Her father was cash rich, and so to him, there was a bargain to be made.
At first, she’d been amendable to the idea. She could imagine a lovely blonde-haired, blue-eyed heir apparent who would sweep her off her feet and bestow on her a tiara and a title.
Instead, she’d been faced with geriatric lechers with bald heads and rheumy eyes. When they had taken her in their arms to waltz their breath had smelled of death, and bony hands had groped.
By the end of the season she’d been bought and sold, and was presented to the Queen as the new Countess. By fall, she was a widow. Funny how that can happen. Her family was ingenious, after all.
And now, she was forced into a year of deep mourning. She’d wear black crepe, no jewels, and veils at varying lengths. To anyone observing her, she’d be the perfect grieving widow. But underneath, she was rejoicing, and underneath her plain, black, somber attire she was wearing her joy. Each petticoat and pantalette trimmed in ribbons, bows and lace. Cutwork and embroidery, pintucks and flowers. An absolute explosion of joy, hidden away until the time was right. And until then, happiness hidden behind a veil…
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