Page 27 of Memories Made At Midnight

Ten

Highbury House drawing room

THREE DAYS LATER ~ AFTER A VERY AWKWARD SUPPER

Averting her face from the middling-aged, beefy man sitting far too near on the settee, Beatrice took shallow breaths in an ineffective effort to not inhale his stomach-churning stench. What cruel irony that Pemberton Dungworth’s breath smelled similar to fresh horse manure.

Sweat beaded his broad brow, balding pate, and thick upper lip, and dampened the armpits of his hideous chartreuse jacket. His fetid breath coming in wheezing pants, he repeatedly dabbed at the moisture with a soggy handkerchief.

“One would expect the temperature to be less stifling with the shore breezes,” he complained to no one in particular.

“This is an unusually hot August, and the humidity makes it seem even warmer.” Uncle Cedric slid his smug, assessing gaze from Mr. Dungworth to Beatrice and back again. “I trust the weather in Rotherham is more temperate?”

Mr. Dungworth was a partial owner of a successful tannery in Rotherham and now that he’d achieved wealth, he sought a blue-blooded wife to elevate his social status. Only no noblewoman born on the right side of the blanket would consider his suit.

They probably took one whiff and ran hell-bent for nothing in the other direction.

Hence, when he and Uncle Cedric had struck up a conversation at The Old Ship Hotel the other night—highly odd that Uncle would deem to lower himself to speak to such a person as Mr. Dungworth—the conversation had drifted toward matrimony.

Or had Uncle steered the discussion in that direction deliberately?

How could he believe Beatrice would ever agree to a match with this odious person?

Every instinct told her that her uncle only considered Mr. Dungworth’s suit for her hand in marriage precisely because the man was so abhorrent.

Was there no end to Uncle Cedric’s acrimony?

“However do you manage to appear cool in this oppressive heat, Miss Fairfax?” Daisy, Mr. Dungworth’s mother, asked. But before Beatrice could summon a polite response, Mrs. Dungworth wiggled a pudgy finger toward her. “It’s the lack of flesh on your bones. Skinny women never understand what we curvaceous women suffer.”

Curvaceous?

Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek to prevent her jaw from dropping open.

Neither Mrs. Dungworth’s stays nor her son’s corset—obvious beneath his jacket—could contain the mother’s and son’s excess flesh.

As equally corpulent as her offspring, Mrs. Dungworth briskly waved her fan with the vengeance of one attempting to sail a schooner across a windless ocean. Her cheeks heat-reddened, she pulled a face, causing her many chins to fold into one another. “I came to Brighton for the health benefits of sea bathing. However, I can tell you, neither my gout nor arthritis are improved in the least. I also continue to suffer from digestive disorders.”

An indiscreet, loud passage of wind followed her complaint, but Mrs. Dungworth continued waving her fan without interruption or apology, as if flatulence in drawing rooms was commonplace.

Perhaps for her, it was.

“The cold water makes my joints ache,” she said, her tone taking on a whining pitch. “And I vow the breeze is detrimental to my delicate constitution and shall no doubt bring on the ague.”

Beatrice would bet a draft horse’s constitution was less robust than the matron’s.

The hypochondriac hadn’t stopped her monologue of pains and illnesses since plopping her broad posterior at the dining table and consuming more rich food than Beatrice had ever witnessed a woman eat.

No wonder she had digestive issues.

“You are sorely tested, to be sure, Mother.” Mr. Dungworth gave his mother an indulgent smile. “When I wed, my wife shall tend to your every need. I know how much you look forward to your feet and legs being rubbed each evening to ease the pain from your bunions and gout. You’ll no longer have to rely upon a servant to do so. My wife shall do the honors.”

Leaning forward, the bull of a man gave Beatrice a speaking glance.

Egads. He cannot be serious.

He expected his wife to rub his mother’s feet?

Every night?